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Friday, April 04, 2003

Do you know what a skizzler is?

Me neither.

But Ralph Kiner knows, and that's why Ralph is one of my heroes. I was privileged to be watching the Mets broadcast the day Ralph introduced "skizzler" to the English language, a language he loved to death.

"Here's the 2-1 pitch, swung on and there's a uh, uh ... skizzler!"

I sat bolt upright in the love seat.

A skizzler?! What is it?!

Looked to me like a cross between a squibber and a sizzler, although I'd thought the two were mutually exclusive. A squibber generally comes off the end of the bat the opposite way, often on the ground. A sizzler is mostly hit square, often just inside the bag and into the corner for a stand-up double.

Was it Ralph who said, "... and he slides into second with a stand-up double"? He or Jerry Coleman.

I presumed to conclude a skizzler was a squibber that Ralph was surprised to see move so quickly. I believe my brothers and I immediately went to the back yard with our Whiffle Ball bats to see who could be the first to hit a skizzler at beautiful Collier Stadium.

On Monday, when the Pirates open their home season, they will honor Ralph Kiner in pregame ceremonies, an idea so superior to bobbleheads it's not worth underlining. Kiner is 80 now, a Hall of Famer, and the long ago architect of virtually unparalleled power-hitting prowess for awful Pirates teams. He led or shared the National League home run title in his first seven seasons (1946-52), all with the Pirates, something that has never been matched.

He averaged a homer every 7.1 at bats. Only Babe Ruth and Mark McGwire were more prolific.

If for nothing else, the Pirates should honor Kiner as perhaps the one athlete in the city's history who could keep the citizenry from leaving early. You didn't dare leave Forbes Field until Kiner's last at bat. So it is told. The Gospel of the Forbes.

My Uncle Charlie, often after several refreshing beverages, had the best Kiner story I'd ever heard until I met Brian O'Neill, one of American's great columnists. Charlie's story went like this:

"We were at Wrigley Field, sitting on the third-base side, and Kiner hits one. And by the time you could turn your head to see where it went, it was coming back out of the ivy; it got to the wall that fast!"

Oh, come on! You're shut off.

O'Neill's is a loving recap of a 30-year-old Kiner's Korner, the postgame show that was the source of innumerably memorable interviews with sweaty Mets or their generally victorious opponents, including the famous Choo Choo Coleman episode which ended with Ralph saying, "What's your wife's name Choo Choo?" and Coleman replying, "Uh, Mrs. Coleman."

In O'Neill's tale, Willie Mays is Ralph's guest. It is near the end of Mays' career, moments after he'd homered in a Mets victory. Ralph shows a replay of Willie crushing one and says, "Willie that's a beautiful swing; you looked like Arky Vaughan on that one."

Mays sat bolt upright in his love seat.

"Aw-kay Vaughan?! Aw-kay Vaughan?! Oh my God, Ralph, please ... I've hit 600 and some home runs. Don't be givin' me no Aw-kay Vaughan, please!"

I never got to see Ralph play, but growing up equidistant from Philadelphia and New York, the nine baseball broadcasters in my immediate sphere -- Byrum Saam, Richie Ashburn and Bill Campell with the Phillies, Ralph Kinder, Lindsey Nelson and Bob Murphy with Mets, Phil Rizzuto, Bill White and Andy Messer with the Yankees -- all held high places among the most influential people in my life. Sick? Oh yeah. Explains a lot though, doesn't it?

Of all of them, none was as consistently fun to be with (as in "glad to have you with us") as Kiner, whose insights not only during but on either side of a ballgame were just wonderful. He might open a telecast by saying, "Hi everybody, welcome to Shea Stadium where this afternoon, a coupla left-handers will be going to the, uh, well, actually a lefty and a right, well no, two right-handers today."

Saam, Rizzuto, and Ashburn were equally unpredictable, but Kiner represents, as did a perfect strain of broadcasters that included Bob Prince and Haray Caray, a lost charm that once attached itself to the game. There's more to that broadcast role than being precise and congenial and analytical. If you're fun to be "with," you can say anything and be flat-out loved for saying it. I loved Ralph because he could be goofy and eloquent ("Cadillacs are down at the end of the bat.") during the same at bat.

Today, six years after he left the broadcast booth, Kinerisms are still sprinkled throughout cyberspace. A Kiner sampler:

"The Mets have gotten their leadoff hitter on only once this inning."

"All of his saves this season have come in relief appearances."

"Kevin McReynolds stops at third, and he scores."

"On Fathers Day, we again wish you all happy birthday."

"The Hall of Fame ceremonies are on the thirty-first and thirty-second of July."

"Tony Gwynn has been named player of the year for April."

"Half of Jeff King's extra base hits last year went for extra bases."

"Hello everybody, welcome to Kiner's Korner, I'm Ron Kiner."

"Hello everybody, welcome to Kiner's Korner, I'm Ralph Korner."

"Hello everybody, welcome to Kiner's Korner, This is, uh, I'm, uh."

Ralph, thanks for being with us. Really.