“How Can These Guys Lay Off Pitches That Close?”

“Here's the pitch. Ball four, and he walked him.
That's going to bring the tying run to the plate for the Toronto Blue Jays. A little excitement here at the end.
I know I wouldn't have it any other way,
and I'm sure you folks feel the same.”

Faithful Bloglodytes of Heroes need not be reminded of the narrator’s physical ineptitude. To call me athletic would be akin to calling Kim Kardashian talented. Oh, I played the occasional game of kickball or what was referred to as “squash”—same as the former, only the man up hit the oversized rubber ball from their own mitts before running the bases—in grade school. I was never a powerful hitter or booter, but I was small and quick, which helped in getting on base and served me well when escaping the clutches of class bullies.

I was one of the smarter kids, though the blue ribbon would probably have gone to Maryann Wojner, she of the shoulder-length dirty-blond curls and iridescent blue eyes… not that I (ahem) noticed. Of course, being tops in school is like being public enemy number one: you’re everybody’s target. Living apart from my classmates only exacerbated the situation. I grew up in a house on the main commercial street of town—between an Oldsmobile dealership and a funeral parlor and across from a gas station, long-forgotten cemetery and supermarket—too far for a young boy to walk to play with his peers. Thus, I didn’t have the after-school interactivity of my classmates, which contributed to my alienation and shyness.

My dad was never around much before he and my mom split—when I was eight—and less so thereafter. He was always quick to criticize me, though, with the length of my hair being a particular favorite point of contention. Then there was his keen interest in my athletic activities, or rather, my lack thereof. “Why don’t you play (insert sport here),” was a typical refrain following the opening verse on the measure of my mane. The remarks were made with such vehemence as to be more of a shakedown than an absentee father’s interest in his son’s life. All that was missing was the fizzling bare light bulb above my head. It’s as if I’d somehow offended him.

Not once did he play catch with me, show me the proper way to hold a football or take me to a game. He actually gave me a football, helmet and shoulder pads for Christmas one year, as if the mere ownership of the proper equipment was all that was required to induce a person to participate in a sport. I’m sure Mario Batali’s career as a chef began when his father dumped a couple bags of groceries on his lap one day before leaving the house.

Shunning baseball was harder. The car dealership’s lot may have wrapped behind our backyard, but just beyond that was the park where the area’s yearly Little League tryouts were held. The weeks leading up to them I was pelted, prodded and verbally assaulted by my dad to partake in America’s pastime. Did he offer to take me over to the fields himself? What, and elevate his status from sperm donor to father?!! Hell, no!

It wasn’t until a few years later that I picked up a bat for the first time. By then fate had decided that the one ray of hope I had growing up—my skinniness and speed—had expired. I’d ballooned to two hundred pounds, though my height remained constant: a scant 5' 7".

My mother blamed the Prednisone that I was put on after suffering a bout of Bell’s Palsy in sixth grade. True, one of the side effects of the drug is weight gain, but that just happened to also be one of the unfortunate genetic underpinnings of being a Vrattos. “Difficulty in controlling emotion,” “depression,” “mania” and “psychosis” are also listed as possible results of using Prednisone, but you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference in my level of mental instability before using the drug and after!

Thankfully the partial paralysis of my face that resulted from the affliction went away—like I needed another obstacle in my treacherous climb toward adulthood—but the additional girth in my midriff remained. Gone was the elusiveness that had saved my life more than a few times in elementary school, just in time to have organized sports foisted upon me.

The private all-boys school my parents enrolled me in, and to which I was accepted and studied from seventh to twelfth grades, had a strict policy of every boy participating in sports the fall and spring seasons of the school year—the winter season was optional. One’s choices in the spring were tennis (Sh’yeah, right!), Lacrosse (Isn’t that what they nailed Joan d’Arc to?) or baseball. Unsurprisingly, I picked the latter.

There was such a turnout for America’s pastime in my sixie year—newbies who faced half a dozen years ’til graduation—that two teams were established, the “adepts” and the “inepts.” Guess which category I fell into? I didn’t mind. The thought of displaying my total lack of athleticism in front of anyone, never mind my peers, terrified me. Having to do so in front of my class’s baseball elite would only have heightened my failings.

 I took up position in right field, perennial home of untalented ball players. The few times the coach hit to me in practice, I zigzagged the field like I was being shot at, only to arrive too late to catch the ball… if I was near it at all. I wouldn’t have made the roster of the Bad News Bears. My right-field play made Lupus look like a Gold Glover.

As for hitting, they changed the name to missing when it was my turn at batting practice. I don’t think I could’ve hit a T-ball, if that were even an option. My “talents” were only put to the test one time: the final game of the season. I think the coach was obligated to play everyone at least once. Fortunately, the season-ender wasn’t a nail-biter. I swear I heard him sigh in relief as the opposing team increased the lead to the point where it would’ve taken Murderer’s Row for us to have any hope of a comeback. At least he could utilize me safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t lose the game.

I made a single plate appearance and struck out in three pitches. I take solace in knowing that I only swung at the third one. At least my opponent had to earn the first two strikes himself. Thus endeth my baseball career. All of which made throwing out the first pitch at a Major League Baseball game so-o-o-o-o-o sweet.

I’d barely defrosted from my trip across Canada for the countrywide kickoff press tour for the Canadian Association of Chiefs of Police’s custom Spider-Man comic book program (see “Northern Exposure, Parts I and II”), when the second book in the series was released. “Double Trouble” sported both cover and interior art by Herb Trimpe and was written by Dwayne McDuffie.

Continuing the anti-drug theme of the inaugural book—“Skating on Thin Ice”—the Chameleon infiltrates a science fair in Fredericton, Ontario, interested in one of the students’ projects, one that he believes could lead to untold fortunes. To get closer to the object of his desire, he takes on the aspect of a student, one dabbling in drugs. As luck would have it, Daily Bugle photographer, Peter Parker, is sent to Canada to take pix at the fair. What are the chances? Our Web-tastic Web-Slinger exposes the culprit and foils his nefarious plans, serving up a few lessons about the evils of drugs in the process.

Even given the tighter scripting and storytelling of the era—as opposed to many of today’s comics penned in the “decompressed” style, which would tell the same tale over the course of twelve issues, each of which could be read in five minutes—one would be hard-pressed to have finished “Double Trouble” before the initial triumvirate of Canadian PSAs was completed with the release of “Hit and Run.”

Steering away from the serious subject of drug abuse, the Toronto-set tertiary tome presents the issue of bicycle safety as the subtext to its Spider-Man adventure. To replace the excitement that may have been lost by switching from the creepiness of drugs to the less sensational, yet no less important, topic of bike safety, scribe Dwayne McDuffie includes Ghost Rider in the mix. The scene when the flaming-skull–benoggined motorcycle-riding demon warns a group of youngsters to “wear your helmets… Or you will see me again” is all-at-once unsettling and funny. After all, the Harley Hellion never dons one himself. True, it could be argued that he’s already dead—what’s the worst that could happen—but there’s still the point of his threatening the children. Heck, I’d be wearing a helmet 24/7 after that!

As with the first two books in the series, “Hit and Run” is peppered with Canadian personalities and Spidey’s signature web-slinging takes him swinging by, over and from the landmarks of the city, including a nice shot of the Wall-Crawler swinging from the city’s preeminent skyline feature, the CN? Tower. No surprise, since the brunt of the adventure is set within the Skydome—now Rogers Centre—home of the twice champion Blue Jays, located at the base of the towering edifice.

All but forgotten Canadian comic-book artist Jim Craig, who had seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth—certainly the face of the funny book industry—was rediscovered by oft-mentioned Eric Conroy (see “Northern Exposure, Parts I and II”), the marketing brains behind the program. Craig's limited funny-book resume includes the interior penciling chores for Marvel’s What If... #1: “What If Spider-Man Had Joined the Fantastic Four?” He took over the art chores for the series with issue three and his dynamic, quirky style—reminiscent of Todd McFarlane and Bernie Wrightson—makes one wonder why he ever left the 4-color world.

After the relatively subdued release of “Double Trouble”—a WaWa signing here, a Tim Horton appearance there—the third issue was heralded in spectacular fashion: Spider-Man throwing out the first pitch at a Toronto Blue Jays game! And the honor of donning the red-and-blue befell to Eric’s favorite man in tights: me, the anti-Mr. Baseball. Fortunately, I wasn’t expected to hit the ball or field. Otherwise, it would’ve been a long night indeed, though a fitting punishment, emphasis on the pun.

Y’see, I frequently quipped with those young charges at gigs who were obviously fans of America’s favorite pastime—whether it be apparent from a hat or T-shirt they wore—about what a good ballplayer I was. Before they could respond I’d mention how exceptional I was at fielding because I was great at catching flies. Get it? Spider…? Catching flies…? I keep lobbing them to ya, son, and you keep missing them. Boy’s as sharp as a bag full of wet mice. Anyway, The kids would stare while their parents simultaneously groaned and chuckled. T’would serve me right to be to have to prove it!

Despite my dismal credentials, it wasn’t like I couldn’t throw a baseball. I enjoyed the occasional game of Pickle (aka Squeeze) and participated in softball games. It also helped that my oldest sister was the athlete that I wasn’t, so we engaged in a game of catch now and again, in between our one-on-one street hockey matches in the backyard.

Still, though the inaugural throw of a ballgame is more of a ceremonial toss to the catcher than anything resembling a pitch, there is the onus of having one and only one shot at it. Oh, yeah, and thousands of people are watching you from the stands with millions more across the continent. There was also the certainty of making the highlight reel—not in a good way—of ESPN, never mind the various local sports telecasts, if I pulled an “epic fail.” If the pressure of the situation weren’t enough on its own, I had to contend with a skintight spandex outfit, which afforded skewed depth perception and zero tactility in my fingers.

So the last thing on my mind was throwing a strike; my main concern was simply getting the ball to the catcher without his having to perform some gymnastic maneuver to keep it from flying into the stands. I could always play a soft lob as me just being careful not to use my Spidey strength for fear of hurting the catcher, if so questioned by the reporters splayed out behind home plate and along the first and third baselines, with their shutterbug and camera man entourages, all there to get a good view of Spider-Man’s historic throw. But missing the target completely was out of the question. I was a superhero, after all, with powers and abilities far beyond those of the hoi polloi; not some octogenarian political figure or long-retired local sports hero. They could be forgiven; Spider-Man would not.

Is it any wonder my memories of the event are foggy at best. I have no recollection of donning the red-and-blue, although I must have at some point and somewhere within the Skydome facility. It may very well have been a janitor’s closet in the access corridors, which surround the field under the bleachers. I was escorted directly from the dressing room to my entrance point. Along the line I put on a Jays baseball hat. There was barely enough time for me to be nervous, never mind practice my pitch, though I recall being terrified as I waited in the wings for the PA announcer to introduce me to the thousands of fans, which filled the arena.

Somehow I got onto the field. I didn’t screw around; just trotted to the mound, as I would were I relieving the starter. My body was a tingle, and I felt as exposed as those dreams where you enter the classroom without any clothes on. “All we need is one pin, Rodney,” a quote from the successful Lite Beer commercials of the 70–80s, looped in my mind. The Rodney in question was Dangerfield and he indeed missed hitting a single bowling pin in the classic ad. I ignored the voices in my head and concentrated on the Blue Jays catcher, Pat Borders.



Thank God for the Jays cap. One thing I hadn’t counted on was the stadium lighting, which had the affect on me of snow blindness when I raised my head to any degree. The hat’s brim shielded those unforgiving beams as long as I tilted my head down, like former Red Sox reliever John Papelbon trying to garner a save. I “stared down” Borders to get a bead on where he was and affected a wind-up. Again, I wasn’t trying to impress anyone; I just didn’t want to make a fool of myself.

I released the ball and prayed that I judged the distance correctly. The ball did indeed arc toward the plate, but I hit the mark with little more than Borders having to adjust his mitt about a foot higher than its starting point. I needn’t be told what to do next: I jogged to home plate where Borders met me with a hearty handshake and praise for a ball well thrown. I apologized if it was a little hard, citing the excitement of the moment making me forget to ease up on using my powers. He seemed tickled by the exchange.

But now what do I do. I felt like Rudy after he’s finally allowed into the last Notre Dame game of the season. No one directed me off the field so I joined the players in the singing of both the Canadian and American national anthems. As is their wont, the fans cheered during the final measure and the game was afoot. As the home team, the Blue Jays would be hitting last, so they trotted out to the field, while their opponent, the Kansas City Royals prepared to bat. I kept expecting the umpire or other baseball Nabob to direct me off the field, but no such person materialized.

Of all the dugouts in all the ballparks in all the world, he has to be seated in mine!

 
So naturally I headed for the Blue Jays dugout where I’m greeted by Mookie Wilson, former New York Met and beloved Red Sox nemesis, whose infamous game-winning hit trickled through Bill Buckner’s legs in legendary Game Six of the 1986 World Series. Portraying the idol of the Big Apple, I betrayed not a wit of my Beantown roots. On the contrary, I was beside myself with effusiveness, heartily praising my “hometown” hero and perching next to him on the bench.

Next thing you know, Mookie and I are up on the stadium jumbo-tron, the fans screaming in delight as I playfully struck a pose and Wilson joined in with his own Spider-Man maneuver.

 Our antics proved too much of a distraction, however—apparently there was a ball game going on—and the aforementioned arena henchman appeared to ask that I accompany him from the park. I waved and bowed, relishing my remaining moments in the Big Show, as I headed for the exit. The Blue Jays went on to beat the Royals 4–2 on their way to the best record in the American League Eastern Division. They would eventually lose in the playoffs, but win back-to-back Major League Championships in ’92 and ’93. Coincidentally, future New York Yankees pitcher, David Wells, got the win, inspired no doubt by sharing the mound with Spider-Man!

1991: A Spider Oddity

“Good morning, Toronto!”

I received an unexpected email from my buddy Eric Conroy this week which serves as further proof that as the internet has expanded mankind’s horizons around the world, so too has it proven how small the planet actually is. Eric, as My Faithful Bloglodytes may recall, was the evil marketing genius—said with equal parts adoration and jealousy—that concocted the successful custom Spider-Man comic campaign that infiltrated Canada in the 90s.

I loyally served as his Web-Swinger du jour on many appearances—recounted in past postings and many to come—across the Great White North during that time and came to appreciate how downright balmy my hometown of Boston, Massachusetts, was in comparison. I was the Igor to his Baron von Frankenstein, the Minion to his Megamind.

“Okay, Minion, you were right, and I was... less right!”

Recently, his eldest, Ed Conroy, founded Retrontario.com after amassing a collection of used videotapes from the 80s and 90s. The site’s mission, “to celebrate the neglected corners of Ontario’s rich televisual history; to put back into circulation material which rightly or wrongly had fallen into a black hole and was for all intents and purposes, lost,” does so by converting these lost gems of esoteric Canuck visual ephemera to the web and making them available for all to enjoy.

Retrontario.com’s founder with his find

Local ads, show teasers, network promos—the sort of material most would have taped over or edited out—have been mined from obscurity, including those fade-in and fade-outs ubiquitous to morning TV. You recognize the type: area wake-up talk-fest host ends segment, then hints to what’s to come with a shot of the particular guest awaiting their fifteen minutes of fame on the studio couch. “When we come back, a girl who juggles kittens…” Cue shot of girl, waving to viewers with an armful of tabbies, as the show fades to commercial.

I appeared on Toronto’s City-TV morning show as part of the kick-off for the Canadian Spider-Man comics. I’d long forgotten the instance, now deeply buried among the detritus of my mind, which at this point resembles one of the homes on Hoarders. This brief segment, though, roused the memory of the gig like the Kraken of Greek myth.

As with any spot on a live telecast, guests are instructed to arrive at the studio hours ahead of time. The producers have a general idea when each segment will run—top of the second hour; bottom of the first, etc.—but bits get shuffled as other stories play out, breaking news comes in or celebrity guests run late, early or cancel at the last second. There’s also the issue of makeup, which the studio hustles people into as soon as they arrive, so they’ll be ready whenever, if ever, their spot happens. I needn’t have been there as early as I was if for no other reason than the fact that I didn’t need makeup!

City-TV’s Toronto studio was located in a hip commercial area just outside the major metropolitan district of the city. It was fronted by a large window, which allowed passers-by to watch the telecasts live. Of course, I entered in my civvies, the red-and-blue in a small over-the-shoulder gym bag.

“You really ought to get those bicuspids checked!”

“You don’t look like Spider-Man,” the producer remarked when I was presented to him by the show runner. And he wasn’t trying to be funny. Certainly not the first time I’d received that reaction, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Well, I don’t have the suit on, yet,” I’d reply, good-naturedly. At least I attempted to be good-natured, but given the hour I had to wake up in order to arrive at the studio at the requested time, my level of social graces was dangerously low. Fortunately, the sarcastic tone of my voice went unnoticed, and I was quickly escorted to my dressing room, i.e. the bathroom, and told to change tout de suite.

When I bounded from the loo—not to be confused with skipping to my loo—I was greeted with smiles and laughter. How’s my appearance now Mr. Producer?! Obviously, he, too, liked what he saw. He directed me to the set and explained how the show needed to first present the local news, after which came a station-identification and sponsor break. Upon return I would be introduced to speak with the hosts about the Canadian custom-comic campaign. They wanted Spidey, however, in the background during the fade to commercial.

“We’ll have you sitting on the couch,” the producer explained, pointing in the general direction of the furnishings by the makeshift kitchenette.

I then hopped onto the set and leapt upon the counter. “I feel more comfortable up here. Gives me a chance to be at my most spidery,” I suggested, knowing full well how cool I looked and how much better a shot it would be for the viewers.

“I’m ready for my close-up!”

Lo and behold, he agreed, and I remained crouched in position while he changed the staging, moving the hosts from the couch to bar stools sidled up by moi. And it was there I stayed for another half hour, while one thing after another pushed my segment further back in the rotation. I believe my smart idea backfired on me, as the producer was milking his Spider-Man set-dressing as long as possible, Finally, the news was reported and the show faded to commercial, the scene discovered by Ed/Retrontario.com and presented here.

Whether the actual interview still awaits unearthing or is lost forever remains to be seen, but after the teaser was posted, the sudden appearance of Spider-Man partaking in a coffee Klatch with the Matt Lauer and Katie Couric of Canada as the cameras went to sponsors, prompted the question “Why was Spider-Man on CITY-TV in 1991?” on Evan Anett’s Canuck superhero blog, And One Shall Surely Die!

And One Shall Surely Die!

Ed, responding to the strand of spaghetti that stuck to the wall, i.e. one of the multitude of rare taped tidbits he’s uploaded that sparked feedback, notified his dad, who in turn told me. I, as I’m sure most of the people who view Ed’s stash of uncommon video goodness, was tickled red-and-blue to discover this televised pearl of one of my performances and straightaway resolved the mystery for Evan and his Followers in the comments section of the posting.

Enjoy!