fscobe144 | Frank Scoblete

Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge

The South Shore Audubon Society has Sunday birding walks at various locations on Long Island and Queens.

One of my favorite places is The Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge at 175-10 Cross Bay Blvd, Broad Channel, NY 11693.

This place is beautiful. There are woods in some areas and a 1.5 mile path around a lake and next to the Bay – lake on one side of the path; bay on the other. It is spectacular walking that path.

Off in the distance you can see the wonderful skyline of Manhattan; on the other side in the distance are the beach-front buildings of Long Beach. It is nature and civilization juxtaposed.

Even if you are not a birder, the walk alone is excellent. You will, of course, see many different types of birds flitting about from branch to branch and the great predators soaring into the skies. The “soarers” are usually hawks and falcons, the rulers of the air. Little birds fly in the air; the predators (known as raptors) own the air.

Last Sunday we saw a beautiful peregrine falcon sitting in a tree, near her nest. This falcon can fly up to (hold your breath) 200 miles-per-hour as it makes its descent to kill its prey. I saw this once at Jones Beach. It was dazzling, jaw dropping. Think of driving 65 miles-per-hour and having this bird pass you as if you are parked.

The park is easy to find. Just take exit 17S off the Belt Parkway and go about two miles. The park will be on your right. Here is the website of the New York Audubon Society: http://www.nycaudubon.org/queens-birding/jamaica-bay-wildlife-refuge.

Frank’s latest books are Confessions of a Wayward Catholic; I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps, and I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack. Available from Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.

Mary Louise Roncallo and First Holy Communion

In second grade, I felt sorry for the poor Protestants who had no idea of what our Holy Communion was all about. Father McCain explained it perfectly. “Boys and girls, only the Catholic Church has the Truth with a capital ‘T.’ Our Holy Communion is a sacrament where the real Jesus Christ exists in the bread that you receive in the Holy Eucharist, which is another name for Holy Communion.”

Since we were going to make our First Holy Communion next week, Father McCain had come to the second grade classes to make sure we knew what this sacred event was all about.

“Those poor Protestants think that the giving of the bread and wine is just a symbol, which means it isn’t real. No, my young Catholic men and women, the transubstantiation which as you all know means that the bread and wine are really changed into the actual body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ is real. Jesus Christ is fully in each and every Host [bread wafer] that you consume. You are taking Christ into your body to cleanse you and to make you strong spiritual Catholics so if the atheist Communists conquer the world you will have the strength to never deny your religion even if they torture you to death by putting burning spits on your skin, poking out your eyes and cutting off your heads and doing even worse things. Remember that the Communists are the most murderous people on earth.”

How could those Communists make their spit burning hot? How did they do such a thing? Did they spit in a pot and boil it and then throw it on your exposed skin? What animals those atheists were!

And those poor Protestants, too; they had no idea of the Truth with a capital “T.”

“The Communists and the Protestants are all going to Hell,” reminded Sister Elise Martin in her stern voice.

“Sister,” said Father McCain, and then he broke with the Catholic tradition of that time by saying, “there are some very good Protestants who just don’t know any better. God is all merciful and I think some will be saved.”

“But all the Communists are going to Hell,” scolded the sister. Disagree with that was her tone.

To forestall a theological argument in front of impressionable minds, Father McCain said, “Oh, yes, all the Communists are going to Hell.”

“And most Protestants,” added sister forcefully. Father McCain gave her a look out of the side of his face but he didn’t say anything. This nun always wanted the last word and she always got it.

“Father?” asked Joel, one of the two Jewish kids – yes, some Jewish kids were in our school. “If this bread is the body and blood of Jesus when you bite into it does it bleed?”

“No,” said Father McCain. “The miracle is that the bread stays bread but is transformed on a real and spiritual level into the body and blood of Christ.”

“If you examine the bread then it is still bread?” asked Joel.

“Yes and that is where faith comes in,” said the priest.

“The true faith Joel, the true faith, not like some others,” added Sister Elise Martin.

With these big questions of Jesus Christ in the bread and wine; with Hell dangling over the heads of most people on earth (and on Catholics who sinned), with atheists who could put burning spit on you, many of the girls had religious questions.

“Father,” asked the love of my young life, Mary Sissallo, “if we are eating the real body and blood of Jesus Christ does that mean there will only be two people in the Blessed Trinity instead of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost since Jesus is being eaten piece by piece?”

“God’s ways are not man’s ways,” stated the sister.

Mary Sissallo looked confused.

“Sister,” said Father McCain, “let me answer the questions, please, as that is my job as a priest.”

Sister Elise Martin’s face turned tight and she nodded slightly. Most of the boys were delighted that Father McCain had slapped her down. This nun favored the girls. She always told the class that the girls had the fast route to heaven because the mother of Christ was a woman and even though Christ was a man, he was also God which meant that other men were inferior because they were not God. This made sense to her but I had no idea what she was talking about – except I understood that girls had a better chance of going to heaven and boys were in trouble.

“Mary Sissallo,” said Father McCain who knew all of our names, “that was a very good question. You used logic to try to understand something that seems impossible – that Jesus could be consumed by man and still exist in other forms at the same time. But that is the power of God, to do the impossible. God created the Universe but He is not subject to the laws of the Universe as we are. He can do all things that He wishes to do even if they seem impossible or illogical to us.”

That was as good an explanation as any I had heard even though I had no idea of what it meant. Most of religion made no sense and that is why you needed faith.

“If the Host represents Jesus,” said Catherine Elizabeth O’Connor.

“No! No!” jumped in Sister Elise.

Father McCain held up his hand indicating that sister should be quiet.

“Jesus is there fully in the flesh. The Host does not represent Him; it is Him.”

“I am sorry,” said Catherine, adjusting her thick glasses. “Here is my question, Father. What if the Host falls to the floor?

“Since the Host is the sacred body of the Most High, Jesus Christ, the priest is the only one who can pick it up off the floor. No one else can touch the Host, only a consecrated Catholic priest.”

Now you would think that at this stage in our development the boys too would be in awe of the sacrament we were about to receive, and in some ways I guess we were. It was, after all, an absolutely amazing thing to be eating Jesus Christ Himself. But we had other concerns; much more immediate practical concerns that were far easier to understand and took up more of our mental time.

Oh yes, there was a BIG other thing in our minds, Big with a capital “B,” which overshadowed everything Father McCain was telling us.

I was nominated by head-nodding acclimation to ask the BIG question.

“Father, if someone pukes…” All eyes immediately turned to Mary Louise Roncallo, who had puked enough times since kindergarten to make us fully aware that First Holy Communion could be an amazing stage for a spectacular performance by the vomit-comet queen.

“That is disgusting, Francis,” yelled sister aiming her deadly eyes at me.

Riding right over her, Father McCain said, “Yes, Francis, if such a thing happens, and it has never happened in my thirty years in the priesthood so don’t worry, the priest would have to take the elements of the Host out of the, ah, uh, stuff.”

The only ones who didn’t know we were talking about Mary Louise were Father McCain and Mary Louise herself. Mary Louise didn’t seem too self-aware or she wouldn’t eat like a hippopotamus, often bullying to steal the other kids’ food. She would do this to the smaller kids who were afraid of her massive hairy body; she would loom over them until they sheepishly handed over their sandwiches, cookies and pies; and she would also steal food from the tougher kids when they weren’t looking as she had lightning-fast hands when it came to food.

Mary Louise Roncallo seemed the size of a horse; had the appetite of an elephant and the hygiene of a pig, and she was now fully coated with small black hairs all over her reddish skin.

“So,” I continued in order to make sure I had this exactly right. “If you were the priest and someone puked all over the place…”

“Francis Scoblete!” shouted the sister. Father McCain put his hand up to silence her again.

“Yes, if I were the priest that is what I would have to do. It is one of the Laws of the Church.”

So for the next week the boys set up a notebook guessing at what time in the First Holy Communion Mass Mary Louise would let loose. I figured she’d launch sometime after receiving the body and blood of Our Lord, Jesus Christ. Up until then her stomach would be empty since we were supposed to fast from after dinner on Friday evening until we ate Christ at Saturday’s First Holy Communion ceremony. Since there were 23 boys in the class, the times were spread out all over the place.

All the girls, except for Theresa Blodgett, refused to participate in our lottery because it was disrespectful to the Lord Jesus Christ, Himself. I tried to explain to some of the girls that the Lord wasn’t the issue; it was Mary Louise. The girls disdained me. Maybe Sister Elise Martin was right after all; girls were better than boys.

The big day finally arrived.

My mother dressed me in the special First Holy Communion suit with a carnation in the lapel. The girls all wore white dresses to symbolize that they never got dirty. I didn’t realize at the time that the white dress symbolized that they were marrying Jesus Christ. When I was told that a few months later I said, “I thought Jesus Christ never got married?” Later I was told that being the bride of Christ was not what marrying Jesus really meant. These nuns could drive you crazy with their “it means that but it really doesn’t mean that” routines. After a while I just shut my ears – and that made Catholic life a lot easier to handle. It could drive you crazy knowing that everything that was was also everything that wasn’t.

The nuns lined all the classes up in Our Lady of Angels school yard, with the girls on one side and the boys on the other, each group forming their Holy Communion line. We were lined up in height order; the smallest boy, Hugo Twaddle, first, all the way to the two giants of our class, Kenny Peterson and the towering Patrick Heelan being the last two. I was in the middle of the line.

The girls were lined up with itsy-bitsy Maria De Cardinale first and the humungous Mary Louise Roncallo last.

The parents filled the massive Our Lady of Angels church, which was on Fourth Ave between 73^rd and 74^th Streets. Once all the parents were inside, the organist began the music and we were slowly ushered into the massive church.

If you faced the altar, the boys were seated on the left side of the church; the girls were seated on the right. Nuns patrolled the aisles, making sure no one talked as this was, as one nun reverently put it, “Your entrance into Life Everlasting through you own free will given to mankind at the dawn of creation when we were perfect but made all the wrong choices from then on.” That seemed formidable…whatever it meant.

As we entered the church the shortest kids were seated in the front rows; the tallest kids in the last rows. A couple of parents dared to take pictures in the church as the procession entered and they were quickly tongue-lashed by the nuns nearest them. “This is a house of God!” loudly proclaimed Sister Elise. “Not a photography studio!” Since Our Lady of Angels was a huge church anything that was said, even when whispered, would echo. So everyone in the church could hear sister’s admonishment echoing throughout the building. “NOT A PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO! NOT A PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO! NOT A PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO! NOT A PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO!”

The boys and girls had somber expressions on their faces. This was not the time for levity, even when Ladislav Hamlin ripped a rather loud and disgustingly smelly fart. We ignored it, except for a couple of giggles from some of the boys. Every girl completely ignored it even though it could be heard and then smelled for quite a distance. All the girls had their heads bowed – God were they religious.

Once we were all seated, Father McCain and several altar boys entered the altar area and the Mass began. In those days the Mass was said in Latin which sounded mystical and the priest faced the altar so no one could quite see what he was doing. That made the Mystery of the Transubstantiation even greater since it was all so secretive.

Father McCain gave a sermon about the importance of the Holy Eucharist in the life of a Catholic because it was our chance to share in the mystery of the Holy Trinity and the Life of God Himself.

Then it was time for us to eat Jesus Christ, the Lord, Himself. The nuns went from row to row indicating when it was our turn to go into the center aisle, our hands in prayer mode, and then we walked slowly and solemnly to the Communion railing. Since Mary Louise was behind me I wasn’t able to see her until I came back from being given a dry, tasteless wafer which I was not allowed to chew – Christ had to melt in your mouth, like M&Ms. As soon as I had that bread in my mouth I committed a little blasphemy when I thought, “Christ doesn’t taste too good.”

Coming back to my pew, there was Mary Louise passing me going to the Communion rail – her face as red as blood. I could see those little heaves starting that if left unchecked would result in horror for all around her and a win for the kid who picked the right time.

I was already seated in my pew, kneeling, supposedly praying to Jesus, and the Father and the Holy Ghost, but I was actually watching the monstrous Mary standing after receiving the Host. She turned to walk back to her pew. Now the white line showed on her forehead. The boys gasped in excitement. The MOMENT was at hand!

Mary started to make her gurgles, “ugh, ah, urp, urp, blurf, yorg” as she slowly headed back to the last pew. The girls in front of her were now very much aware that danger was in the offing as they heard the prelude, “ugh, ah, urp, urp, blurf, yorg,” and so they started to walk faster to put some distance between themselves and her, knowing full well that with the projectile vomit of Mary Louise there was really no escaping if the comet headed towards them or over them. With that arcing vomit-comet doom looming, you’d get some, most or almost all of it on yourself and everything around you. It was fate; like Christ having to be hung on the cross to save the rest of us from bad things. It was the way of the world.

The adults started to look at her as the white line now covered her face from forehead to nose. You could see some of the adults pointing, “What is that dear? On that kid?” “I have no idea, honey.”

Loud: “Ugh, ah, urp, urp, blurf, yorg!” You could hear it echoing in the church. “Ugh, ah, urp, urp, blurf, yorg.” “Ugh, ah, urp, urp, blurf, yorg.” “Ugh, ah, urp, burp, blurf, yorg.”

Sister Elise turned towards Mary and stopped in her tracks. The nuns all knew of Mary’s puking prowess and none of them wanted to get in the way either.

Louder: “Ugh! Ah! Urp! Urp! Blurf! Yorg!” (Echo, Echo, Echo.) All heads turned towards Mary Louise Roncallo.

“It’s coming!” I whispered to Arman Carmen Buddy Frasca the Third.

Loud as all Hell: “UGH! AH! URP! URP! BLURF! YORG!” (Echo! Echo! Echo!)

Mary Louise’s head started to sway from one side to the other. Her face was now totally white. Her mustache was highlighted prominently. The girls ahead of her were now sprinting to get away. The boys’ side of the church were all ducking and praying she wouldn’t turn in our direction. The parents looked befuddled.

And then: “Arrrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuggggggggghhhhhhhhh!!!!!!! Arrrrrrrrrrrrroooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuggggggggghhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!” and a HUGE (with a capital ‘H-U-G-E’) vomit-comet rocketed up out of her mouth and sailed majestically up over the pews where the adults were sitting stunned. As the comet dripped on them small multi-colored pink gobs of whatever had been in Mary Louise’s stomach, the comet made its descent into the pews where even more parents sat in wide-eyed awe as the comet landed and splashed gallons of stinking goo all over them.

From the altar I saw Father McCain quickly turn around, look in bewilderment as the sounds of hundreds of attendees echoed in the church.

McCain saw the vomit-comet splash its contents over pews and pews of his beloved church floor, and the kneeling parents and other parishioners and (God save him) he yelled (without thinking mind you of his role as a servant priest of the Almighty God) he yelled right from the altar: “OH, CRAAAP!” which echoed all over the church, “Ohhhhhhh CRAAAP! Ohhhhhhh CRAAAP! Ohhhhhhh CRAAAP!” to the bug-eyed astonishment of all the adults and First Holy Communion recipients.

The parents who had been baptized in the gooey gobs from Mary Louise fled the church uttering low screams; wives and grandmas weeping into their handkerchiefs. All their new clothes had been drenched in dreck. Other adults held their noses as they tried to act unconcerned but they quickly fled the church too. A few of the other kids puked too as Mary Louise had lofted a Godzilla-like blob that smelled like the bodies burned in the never-ending fires of Hell itself. It was hard not to puke. Even I fought the urge.

“That was great,” said Jake “the Snake” Jacobsen.

“That was an atomic bomb!” smiled Billy Bell.

“I think I hit it on the head when she’d do it,” said Hugo Twaddle.

The stern-faced nuns escorted us all out, by rows, in an orderly fashion, and we went into the schoolyard, still in height order.

I could imagine poor Father McCain going through all that puke when everyone left the church looking for pieces of Jesus’ body. It wasn’t easy being a priest in the Catholic Church.

In the schoolyard as we were about to split up and look for our parents, Mary Louise said, “I’m hungry,” and stared at the smaller girls.

(The above is an excerpt from Frank’s Confessions of a Wayward Catholic! )

Frank’s latest gambling books are I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps, and I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack. Available from Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.

Mary Louise Roncallo

My first day of school at five years old. I wasn’t nervous. I also wasn’t all that interested. A lot of things my parents got excited about had no impact on me although if it were supposed to have a big impact on me I could pretend it did. The act of pretending I had learned so far back I couldn’t remember when. I was what I pretended. The memory of a five-year old is as cloudy as the memory of anyone. As a five-year old, being four years old was 20 percent of my life ago. Hard to remember all of that.“Now Frankie,” said my mother, “I know you are nervous but kindergarten is your first step into the world of adulthood. Everything will be just fine.”

“Yes,” I said

We were living on 3^rd Avenue and 70^th Street (called Ovington Avenue) because my parents couldn’t take the dirty fruit-man in the store below our old apartment on 62^nd Street and 4^th Avenue anymore. I didn’t like that old apartment anyway because two rooms were not heated in the winter. My parents called it a “cold water flat.”

I would be going to the local Catholic school, Our Lady of Angels on 74th Street between 3^rd and 4^th avenues. My mother dressed me in the standard Catholic blue knickers and a white shirt which had OLA lettered on it.

“Are you ready Frankie?” asked my father.

“Yes,” I said.

Both my father and mother walked me the four blocks to the school. They held tightly to my hands, one on either side of me. The kindergarten was in its own small area of the grammar school. I guess they didn’t want the older kids to torture the younger kids so they kept us separated.

The teacher, the ancient Sister Thomas Mahoney, who was maybe 40, stood outside the school and greeted all the parents and the new kindergartners. She seemed pleasant enough, although she looked a little fierce in her black and white habit which the nuns used to wear in those days.

Some of the kids cried and clung to their mothers – it was almost all mothers there, very few fathers. Some of the kids looked shell-shocked. Others, such as me, were just curious as to what this new chapter in our lives would entail.

One girl standing there was a bloated kid, as if a balloon had been inflated inside her; she also had hairy sideburns and a really red face. God, it wasn’t just sideburns, I noticed this girl also had a coat of dark hair on all her exposed parts; up and down her arms and on her exposed legs and on her upper lip too. She reminded me of King Kong, my favorite monster.

“Stop staring,” said my mother.

This girl held on to her really skinny, sallow-faced, cigarette smoking mother for dear life.

“Sister! Sister!” yelled the skinny mother, smoke coming out of her nostrils. Mom seemed really agitated now. Sister Thomas came over. “My daughter is very nervous,” said the skinny mother.

“Oh, she needn’t be,” said the nun in a kindly fashion to the skinny smoking mother and to the bloated girl. “My daughter has a delicate stomach,” insisted the upset mother, smoke oozing out of her nose. “She gets very upset very easily.” She inhaled deeply on her unfiltered cigarette. “She gets stomach aches.”

“We’ll take good care of her,” said Sister Thomas. “What’s your name?” Sister Thomas asked the girl. The girl buried her head in her mother’s dress and made some weird choking sounds, “aaahhhh, urggghhh, dolop.”

“Her name is Mary Louise Roncallo,” said the skinny woman, throwing her cigarette onto the ground. “Do you think I could stay in the class with her for a few days to help her get over her shyness and fear?”

“No, that’s not a good idea,” said the nun. “We need to get them to be able to function without mommy.”

Mary Louise’s mother finally pried Mary Louise loose and gave her into the loving hands of Sister Thomas, who brought her over to some other girls who had already said goodbye to their mothers.

“This is Mary Louise,” said Sister. “Can she stand with you here?”

The girls looked at the sister in awe and they nodded their heads. Then they looked at Mary Louise and grimaced.

“And who is this handsome young man?” asked Sister Thomas. People who met me always said how good looking I was.

My father nudged me. “I am Francis Scoblete,” I said.

“Well, Francis, welcome to Our Lady of Angels. I am sure you are going to like it here.”

“Yes,” I said. Then my father and mother kissed me and walked away. I waved goodbye then turned my attention to the other kids. In my five years, I had not had many friends to play with so I was interested in these other kids. Some looked like babies and some looked a lot older than I.

Then Sister rang a hand-held bell and we all walked into the school. The classroom had all sorts of books, crayons, paper, displays, a screen, decorations and religious paintings of Christ on the cross and the Virgin Mary floating up into the sky with little angels all around her.

“Boys and girls, we now separate; the girls go over here,” she pointed to her right, “and the boys go over there,” and she pointed to her left. “We have an even number of boys and an even number of girls so each of you get a partner and we will start with our morning prayer.”

Some little boy took my hand, “Can I be your partner?” he asked. “Okay,” I said. This little boy looked scared. He was the smallest kid in the class. His name was Hugo Twaddle.

Mary Louise was left over because no girl wanted to be her partner and one other girl, a shy one, was also alone. “You two are going to be partners,” said Sister happily.

The shy little girl walked to the nun and whispered, “She smells bad.”

“She is one of God’s children,” said Sister Thomas.

“She smells bad,” whispered the shy girl.

“You and she are partners,” said Sister Thomas more firmly. The shy girl looked over at Mary Louise who seemed redder than before.

“Yes, sister,” said the shy girl. I liked the shy girl; she seemed very pleasant and clean-looking in her Catholic school uniform which was a navy blue dress and a white blouse.

“Boys and girls,” said Sister Thomas clapping her hands to quiet the few kids who were talking. “Welcome to Our Lady of Angel’s kindergarten class. Many of you are scared because this is the first time you have been away from your parents. But this is the first day of the rest of your lives.”

Many of the kids lost interest in what Sister was saying because five year-olds don’t have much of an attention span and these distracted kids looked around the classroom. I looked at the painting of Jesus with the blood flowing from his head, hands, feet and sides. Strangely enough I had great powers of concentration, even at five.

“We are now going to say our morning prayers,” said Sister Thomas. “Everyone stand up.” We all stood up. “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,” she made the sign of the cross and we all tried to follow it. “Dear God and his son Jesus, please help our young people to be good Catholics and to pray for the conversion of Russia a land of atheists and killers.”

Russia, what was that?

“Amen,” she said.

We all looked at her.

“Say Amen,” she said.

“Amen,” we all said.

Then we had the first day. I don’t really remember what we did because it was non-stop action – do this, do that, do this other thing – all designed to keep little kids interested, busy and, to some degree, learning. Some of the kids couldn’t really concentrate on anything and there was always one or two or three of them wandering around looking confused. At two hours into the class, Sister Thomas clapped and called everyone to attention. “It is now cookies and milk time, boys and girls,” she said.

Some of the kids cheered.

Sister brought out a giant platter of cookies and big containers of milk. She passed out cups to all of us and she went around the room giving out one cookie per student and pouring milk into our cups. “This is what God gives us children,” said Sister Thomas over and over.

Mary Louise grabbed three of “God’s cookies” off the tray as Sister turned her attention to some other kids who were hitting each other.

Mary Louise quickly gobbled down the three cookies and drained the milk in one giant gulp. Then she saw her shy partner delicately eating her cookie, after dunking it genteelly in her milk, and Mary Louise grabbed it away from her. Mary Louise gobbled that down too. The shy girl was pale and upset but didn’t say anything. Mary Louise held her hand out and the shy girl gave Mary Louise her milk, which Mary Louise chugged.

After we enjoyed our repast, Mary Louise started making weird noises – gurgles, a couple of wet farts, and then a white line started at the top of her head and headed down her face – she was changing from a hairy red thing to a hairy white thing. When the white made its way to her chin, Mary Louise made some animal sounds and then projectile-vomited across the entire room: aaaaarrrrggggghhhhhhh! Glop! Glop! spraying most of the kids in class and landing full-splash on several in the back of the room. Projectile vomit is like a shooting star; the bulk of it heads across the heavens but it has a tail that falls to earth before the bulk of it lands. That tail was puke particles that hit most of us.

I was spared the hit and so was my little partner Hugo, but the other kids were screaming and one or two started to vomit on themselves and their partners. Shortly, the Our Lady of Angel’s kindergarten class of Sister Thomas Mahoney was a puke-fest with most of the kids letting their cookies and milk explode all over the place.

Mary Louise had hurled her two “vomit comets” (as we ultimately titled them) across the heaven of the class room and she now looked around to find something to eat. She was eyeing the puke but Sister Thomas quickly led everyone to the bathroom where she and several other nuns cleaned the kids off. The only two without any puke particles on them were my little partner and I. Yes, God was good.

After school the mothers congregated outside waiting for their sons and daughters. When the kids came out the mothers hugged them and asked how their day was. The kids told about their exciting adventure of the day – no, not learning. You could now see the mothers looking over at Mary Louise as the first information the mothers received had to do with the vomit comet and its aftermath.

Mary Louise’s mother talked to Sister Thomas who went to her even before Mary Louise did. Mary Louise was busy grubbing candy from another mother who had brought some for her son. “More, more,” demanded Mary Louise.

“I told you,” said Mrs. Roncallo, “that Mary Louise has a delicate stomach and she must be treated very gently, do you understand?”

“Mrs. Roncallo,” said Sister Thomas sternly, “she vomited on everyone in the class. Has she been taken to a doctor?”

“The doctor says she is a very special child. She is smart but sensitive.”

And that continued all through kindergarten and elementary school. Mary Louise Roncallo on almost all important occasions reacted with vomit.

She had an unusual talent. Like a fine wine, she just got better with age.

The above is an excerpt from Frank’s Confessions of a Wayward Catholic!

Frank’s latest gambling books are I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps, and I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack. All his books are available from Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.

Dealer Signatures in Roulette

Casino dealers often get into the same easy rhythm when they deal and this is true of roulette dealers as well. They pick up the ball and spin it the same way every time, and they also give that ball the same “oomph” as well. The ball will tend to spin around the roulette wheel the same number of spins as it did the previous spins and it should therefore land approximately the same number of pockets from where the dealer picked up the ball.

If the dealer can actually achieve what I just wrote it is called a dealer signature; the dealers own particular fingerprint on the game. Obviously no two dealers would be alike in how they do this and thus no two fingerprints would be the same.

Is this really possible? Can dealers actually have such signatures? Or is this kind of thinking just wishful thinking; the same kind of thinking that leads players to believe in trend betting and the like? The opinion of experts is divided. A few say it is possible; more say it isn’t possible and the pains-in-the-neck experts say it is theoretically possible but probably not actually possible at a real roulette wheel.

I tend to lean more towards those who believe this is possible with strong reservations. However, if a dealer has such a signature I would think it is somewhat ephemeral and would not necessarily be manifested as often as players looking for it would like.

If a dealer’s signature were unconscious; that is, the dealer is really not aware of what he or she is doing, then it would take thousands of rolls of the ball with each of perhaps hundreds of experienced dealers to ascertain if the concept had any merit. There has never been a study such as this (as far as I know) because it would take the patience of Job to do it.

If the dealer’s signature were conscious then that would be a totally different story. Such a dealer would have the ability to make his friends, his family and himself a bundle of money over time – and if he were caught he’d be playing the uncomfortable game of prison roulette. So such a conscious talent might be used subtly to nail players the dealer didn’t like; help those the dealer did like; and maybe make some money on the side for an occasional friend or family member.

Roulette dealers disagree as to whether such a thing as a signature is possible. In fact, they doubt whether the unconscious or conscious creation of signatures exists at all. Very few dealers of the dozens of dealers I have spoken to believe signatures actually exist. They are more skeptical than the experts – actually, the dealers are the true experts here and they should probably be listened to.

However, if a signature study were done, could it successfully determine once and for all if the signature exists on the part of some dealers? Don’t be so quick to say yes because there are several factors that might make the study invalid or impossible to do.

Thinks of this: How could a person, notebook in hand, stand by a dealer’s table, then follow that same dealer from table to table, day after day, recording her spins without the dealer becoming uncomfortably aware of such a person? Maybe the dealer might at first think that the wheel was being observed for flaws, but this still might cause him to alter his spin to stop the player from determining what that wheel’s flaw is.

Anything that is dealer-dependent could be immediately changed when the dealer becomes aware of being watched. As in quantum physics, the observer interferes with the observed by the mere fact that he is observing. In such a case you can probably forget about ascertaining a dealer signature. I think the discovery of a dealer signature in real casino play is probably impossible if one wishes to have dealers followed for any prolonged period of time. Therefore, the dealer signature might exist but might not be able to be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt.

There is also another problem in proving dealer signatures. Roulette wheels do slow down over time, so the movement of the wheel from time “A” to time “B” could be different enough to affect how many pockets pass the ball by as the ball spins around the wheel. The dealer might do everything the same exact way but with each ball-spin she is playing into a fractionally different wheel speed and dealer signatures would end differently around the wheel as the wheel slowed somewhat. A researcher would then be required to analyze the pattern of the signature over different wheel spins – an impossible task in my estimation.

If dealer signatures truly existed, they would be exploitable in short-term play, as the gradual slowing of the wheel’s speed would not affect the signature quite so drastically.

So what should you do?

If the dealer signature exists, then it will help you to win if you could actually figure it out. And if it doesn’t exist, you won’t hurt yourself anymore playing that way than you would hurt yourself playing any other way. You would face the same house edge we would have faced had you played any other kind of layout strategy. So have some fun and go ahead and see if you can figure out a dealer’s signature. It might be like searching for Bigfoot but it’s worth a try.

Frank’s latest books are I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps, Confessions of a Wayward Catholic and I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack. Available from Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.

The Dating Game: Cheaters’ Edition

Announcer: Ladies and young ladies and even younger ladies and you red blooded guys, welcome to The Dating Game: Cheaters’ Edition. Here is our co-host, the ultimate comedian Mister Bill Cosby!

(Wild applause. Camera pans the audience and it is all male. Many are wearing backwards red baseball caps.)

Cosby: Ha! Ha! Thank you! Thank you! As I told that young lady backstage, “Decide that you want it more than you are afraid of it.”

Announcer: And what did she say?

Cosby: Nothing. She was … asleep! (Wild applause.) Anyway, let’s moooove on. My fellow co-anchor is chomping at the bit to get out here and give his spin about men on women. Here he is, the one and only Bill O’Reilly.

O’Reilly: Wow! It’s great to be out…so to speak! (Wild applause.) Okay, calm down folks – you gotta love the folks…

Cosby: That’s what I’ve been saying for years! (Wild applause.)

O’Reilly: As you know we will have four married men who are known for their unique talents with the ladies and these men will try to convince a young lady to ask them on a date.

Cosby (fiddling in his pocket): One, two, three…

O’Reilly: Hey, Bill, what are you counting?

Cosby: The number of pills in my pocket! (Wild laughter.)

O’Reilly: Okay, let me introduce our contestants. Our young lady is in a sound-proof room and will not be able to hear or say anything.

Cosby: That’s how I like ‘em! (Wild laughter.)

O’Reilly: Our first contestant is the former movie producer Harvey Weinstein. (Wild applause. Harvey waddles on stage and takes his place.) Welcome to the show Mr. Weinstein.

Weinstein: Thank you. I’m feeling a need for a shower! Anybody care to watch? (Wild laughter.)

O’Reilly: You are some big kidder Harvey!

Weinstein: “Big” is the word I’d use to describe me!

Cosby: Ha! Ha!

O’Reilly: And speaking of “big,” let me introduce you to our next contestant, the picture of perfection himself, Anthony Weiner!

(Anthony Weiner walks out on stage to wild applause.)

Weiner: You know guys, I am thinking of running for councilman in Brooklyn.

O’Reilly: That’s gonna be tough.

Weiner: I have just the campaign photos. (Wild laughter.) Let me show them to you.

O’Reilly: Later. Let’s move on. Our third contestant is one of the greatest lovers of all time. From his days as Governor of Arkansas to the Presidency of the United States, William Jefferson Clinton! (Wild applause.)

(Clinton walks on stage, waving to the crowd, who are now chanting “Bill! Bill! Bill!”)

O’Reilly: We have a lot of “Bills” on this show.

Cosby: You gotta have a lot of bills in your wallet if you want to be successful at what we do!

Weinstein, Clinton, Weiner: That’s for sure! (Wild laughter.)

Clinton: It’s great to be here…Bills! Just keep in mind that I did not have sex with that woman – except once – I mean Hillary! I am not with her! (Wild laughter and applause. He takes his seat and shakes the hands of Weinstein and Weiner.)

O’Reilly: And now the numero uno man himself; the man with the hands of – shall we say the hands that have grabbed the golden ring? – the current President of the United States, Donald J. Trump! (The audience is cheering insanely. Some are throwing their red baseball caps into the air.)

Trump: Take a look at my fellow contestants. All Democrats. You see in certain situations we men are all alike! When you are famous you can get away with anything. (He makes out as if he is grabbing something. Wild cheers as he takes his seat.)

Cosby: Women are all the same too, especially when asleep.

O’Reilly: Now let me introduce our young lady of the evening. Justine, a waitress from Bayshore, New York.

(Onto the stage walks a pretty 21 year old woman. She looks somewhat nervous. There is applause and some of the baseball-capped men shout out, “Mr. President, just grab it and make America great again.”)

Weinstein: Young lady are you interested in being a movie star?

Cosby: I have some vitamins here that can reduce nervousness.

Clinton: There is an intern position open in my company.

O’Reilly: Okay, everyone calm down and we can start the questioning.

Young Lady: Contestant number one; what is the most important thing in life to you?

#1 Weinstein: Being able to do what I want because they want something from me.

Young Lady: Contestant number two. What is it you want in life?

#2 Weiner: To show my pictures to you. How old are you?

Young Lady: I’m twenty-one.

#2 Weiner: Oh, well, uh, would you happen to have a daughter with an iPhone?

Cosby: Number two, you have some sense of huma!

Young Lady: Number three. What is your favorite colored dress?

#3 Clinton: Blue. Freshly cleaned. No stains.

Young Lady: Number three, do you smoke?

#3 Clinton: Keep in mind that sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar.

Young Lady: Contestant four. What color hair do you have?

#4 Trump: I don’t know. But I do have very large hands if you get my point.

Young Lady: Contestant number three. Do you play a musical instrument?

#3 Clinton: Yes, the harmonica.

Young Lady: Contestant number two. What instrument do you play?

#2 Weiner: I blow my own horn. I have pictures of that if you’d like to see them.

Young Lady: Contestant number one. What is your biggest asset?

#1 Weinstein: How did you know I call it my asset? Do you enjoy showers?

O’Reilly: Okay, that’s it for the questions. Young lady, have you made a choice?

Young Lady: Well, I am debating between number three and number four. I can’t figure out which one it is.

#3 Clinton: That depends on what the definition of “is” is.

Young Lady: Oh, you are so funny! I pick number three!

O’Reilly: Great, great, before you meet number three the folks want to know where he will take you on your date?

#3 Clinton: We’ll be going to a furniture store to pick out a desk.

(Wild, insane applause.)

Frank Scoblete’s latest books are I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps, Confessions of a Wayward Catholic and I Am a Card Counter: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Blackjack. Available from Amazon.com, Kindle, Barnes and Noble, and at bookstores.

Death Threats, Racist Rants and Las Vegas

I am a big fan of Hall-of-Fame baseball player Hank Aaron and I have him on my list of the 20 best players to ever play the game.

When he was going after Babe Ruth’s all-time home run record of 714, he received death threats and racist diatribes. When he finally broke the record hundreds of thousands of fans cheered their heads off – I was one. These fans were from all races.

How many of the fans at the ballpark that day sent him racist letters and death threats? How many of the millions of baseball fans around the country sent him such letters and death threats? How many of the immortal Babe’s fans did this?

I am guessing the “fans” who sent such missives don’t even make up one one-hundredth of one percent. Babe Ruth fans? Hey, no one can replace the Babe but were they acting racist and ranting about the Negro who dared defile the great Bambino? Nah. They just didn’t want Hank Aaron to break the record.

Hank Aaron’s fans didn’t want Barry Bonds to break Aaron’s record (I know I didn’t). In fact, I am sure that Bonds’ received all sorts of missives about steroid use and what a disgrace he was to baseball for his supposed drug usage (read Game of Shadows).

When a person has some fame there will be idiots – a “Nano” percentage – who will react as idiots. I’ve had a few of these jerks in my life.

If the person they are going after is black, these idiots will use racist language, insults and threats. If the person is white?? Same thing. If the person is a country western fan just shot down in a blaze of gunfire in Las Vegas these idiots might say something to the effect that such country-western fans probably voted for Trump and so what if they die? as one CBS executive Hayley Geftman-Gold proclaimed on her Facebook page.

I think we have to be careful when we blame an entire class, race or population of individuals for the evil actions of the few members of that class, race or population. It is cloudy thinking. It is dangerous thinking.

Are there exceptions to my rule? Of course. War is one; sports another. All those people in that uniform are my opponents.

But in general, I think making the individual the representation of the group is a bad way to think; it creates too many enemies for little reason whatsoever.

The Great Horned Owl in Our Backyard!

It was early morning, maybe 5:30, and I was working on an article for this web site when I heard it. “Who! Who!”

My wife the Beautiful AP came into the office. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Who! Who!…Who! Who! Who!”

“Wow, it sounds like an owl,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah,” I agreed. “It does.”

Our office is in the back of the house and it is three-quarters windows. The “who, who” seemed to be coming from the corner of the room nearest to my desk. AP’s desk is in the center of the room; behind her back are the cages of our two parrots that were not yet uncovered from their night’s rest.

“Who! Who!” came the sound again.

“Oh, man,” I said. “Now that is definitely an owl. It sounds like it is right outside this window in front of me.”

“Who! Who!…Who! Who!”

“No, no, it’s to your left on Brendon’s side of the house,” she said gesturing towards our neighbor’ home.

“Who! Who!”

I went around my desk to the window and peeked through the shade. “I don’t see anything in the bushes or on the fence. Nothing on Brendon’s side either.”

We shut off all the lights in the office and both of us scoured the yard.

“Who! Who! Who!”

“Oh, yeah, that damn thing is right here!” I said.

“I’m going out with my camera and binoculars. I might be able to get a good picture,” she said, scurrying to grab her gear. “Wouldn’t that be cool?”

“I remember that owl in the tree about 15 years ago,” I said. “But that was really far away. This thing is right here.” I pointed to the windows.

The Great Horned Owl is an apex predator, a large creature that can even scare hawks. It’s not a creature you want to have hunting you.

AP went outside and I kept looking out the office windows. In about 15 minutes she came back. “Nothing,” she said, disappointed. “I couldn’t even hear it.”

“Really?” I asked. “It cooed a few times while you were out there.”

“I didn’t hear a thing,” she said, perplexed.

We didn’t solve the mystery right then. But when we came back from the pool (we swim most mornings) we heard the owl again.

“We’re never going to find that thing,” I shouted from the kitchen.

“We don’t have to,” she said from the office. “Listen!”

And the owl gave a double hoot, loud like crazy. It sounded as if it were in the house.

“Come in here!” AP called to me.

I came in.

“It’s right there.” She pointed to my computer.

“Huh?”

“It’s the live cam that Paul gave us,” she laughed.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said.

Paul is one of the members of the South Shore Audubon Society. He runs a monthly book discussion group and often recommends books, videos and websites.

He recommended a Cornell University web site (https://explore.org/livecams/).

The site has all manner of birds and animals with live web cams. I usually keep mine at the Great Horned Owl and check this creature and her babies out every morning. The site was up but the screen was minimized. So when mama owl hooted, well, it sounded as if she were hooting outside our windows.

No live sighting, no great photograph to add to my wife’s portfolio, but one mystery solved.

Second Chances

His name was McKenna and he was without question the best pitcher in the league. He was a lefty with an amazing fastball and a curve that seemed to fall off a table.

McKenna played for our rivals. He crushed hitters. Our teams were rated one (his) and two (mine) by the New York City newspapers that covered local sports.

I was a part of a recruited team—yes, recruited, as the coaches scoured the City for the best players they could sign up—playing in one of New York City’s elite baseball leagues. I think I was 15 years old and most of the players were a year or two older than I. Didn’t matter. I batted second and played shortstop. I was a damn good player even in the elite leagues.

We played McKenna’s team midway through the season. Both of our teams were undefeated, which was amazing because so many of these recruited teams were good and it was hard to stay undefeated.

My father always attended my games. He’d give me advice. I’d listen intently. He knew his stuff. He was a good father and a good coach.

So our undefeated teams met at Marine Park in Brooklyn. They beat us 1-0. Why did they beat us? Because of me; completely and utterly because of me. That’s right. I struck out three times with runners on base. I made the error that let in the one run that lost the game for us. I was awful. I was embarrassing.

I didn’t know McKenna as a person; he was an opponent. The third time I struck out—looking as if I should never have left the stickball games in the school yards—I could see the sneer on his face. He had a cold, hard face. He was a good-looking kid, just like the cool, blond villain that the girls liked in the movie Karate Kid. He had his beautiful girlfriend at the game. She laughed and cheered, especially when I went down on strikes. I didn’t have a girlfriend.

I just couldn’t hit the damn guy. It was as if his pitches had magic.

After that third strikeout I couldn’t find my father in the stands. I looked out and way in the distance I finally saw him. I walked down the third base line and shouted to him, “What are you doing?”

“I’m digging a hole,” he said.

I had to laugh a little. I could certainly throw myself into a hole. Just bury me.

Striking out three times—three times!—was a disgrace. It meant the pitcher dominated you. Today’s players don’t seem to be upset as they ring up strikeouts one after another but for me? I was, despite laughing at my father’s quip, ready to hide from the world. Yes, indeed, dig me a deep hole.

And we’d have to play his team again at the end of the season.

No one beat us the rest of the season, so in our last game we had only one loss. I was having a good hitting season and my fielding was excellent. The error in the McKenna game was the only error I had committed the whole season.

McKenna’s team lost one game during this time—a game he didn’t pitch—so both of our teams were tied with identical records. Everything hinged on this game; this one finalgame.

In the month between my total humiliation and this upcoming decisive game I thought of McKenna a lot. I thought of his sneer. I thought about how embarrassing my first run-in with him had been. Strikeouts, the error that cost us the game…the worst I have ever played a game. I could see his girlfriend laughing and jumping up and down as he destroyed me.

Now the encore:

In the car, driving to the game, my father said, “Baseball gives you a chance to come back and redeem yourself. You will own McKenna today; you will own him. Oh, and I left my shovel at home so you have to own him.” Did my father really believe that? Would I be even able to touch the ball as it flew towards me? Did he really leave his imaginary shovel at home?

I knew that on McKenna’s fastball I kept swinging under the ball. I had to get my swing level with the pitch. How to do that?

I had read about Ted Williams saying that when you go up against a fast pitcher, you have to swing for the very top of the ball; even try to miss over the top. On a fast pitch, swinging for the top or above the top of the ball would mean the swing would actually land in the middle. In short, if your swing can’t get up high, then aim higher!

I practiced that at a local batting cage – spending all my hard-earned part-time money on a 100 mile-per-hour machine at the Rockaway Avenue Batting Range. Swinging high allowed me to own the machine. Of course, McKenna wasn’t a machine.

But what of McKenna’s curve ball? That damn thing was impossible to hit —seemingly impossible. My father told me that Joe DiMaggio had said that the curveball was easy to hit if you could pick up the spin of the ball. So in batting practice I would have the pitchers throw nothing but curve balls to me. I learned to see the spin.

Now the moment of truth came calling as I walked to the field. This game was being played at the Parade Grounds in Brooklyn, the premier field that had fences and plenty of seating for the fans—and (wow!) there were plenty of fans at this game! It had been written about in the papers as the ultimate New York City baseball confrontation.

And here’s how it went:

I had anticipated being put at the end of the batting order, perhaps hitting seventh or eighth due to my previous encounter with McKenna. My coach came over to me.

“I’m changing the batting order,” he said.

Okay, I was prepared for this. I had failed miserably in my last confrontation against McKenna so down I’d go in the batting order.

“You are not hitting second today; you’re hitting third today. You’ve been creaming the ball lately so third you are!” he said.

And the game began. We were the home team and McKenna’s team came up first. It happened right away. Our pitcher loaded the bases with two walks and a single. There was one out and we were playing the infield in to try to stop a run. With McKenna pitching, one run could be the game—as it was last time.

A wicked line drive was hit to my right. I dived, caught the ball and then threw it with all my might to the third baseman to get the runner scrambling back to third base. A double play to end the inning!

McKenna walked our first batter, nicknamed Speedy because of his, yes, speed. Immediately Speedy stole second base. McKenna struck out the second batter and then it was my turn. Did I just see him sneer as I took my place at home plate? He was probably thinking he had destroyed me in the last game and he’d destroy me in this game too.

The first pitch was a blazing fastball and I swung above it. Bam! Into the outfield it went, a single, and Speedy scored from second. A double play ended the inning for us.

I hit two more singles that day, one off McKenna’s curve ball. I made several great plays at shortstop. Each of my singles—each one!—allowed us to score a run. We won 3-1.

Redemption!

In the previous game McKenna dominated me; today I dominated him. As my father had said, “You will own him today.” I did.

That season taught me that you often do get second chances in baseball and in life, but you just have to work hard to take advantage of them.

The Bird Needed Gift Boxes

“Ma’am, you ordered thirteen dollars’ worth of gift boxes,” said the representative.

“No, I didn’t,” said the woman.

“Yes, you did,” said the representative.

“No, I didn’t,” said the woman.

“No, I didn’t,” said her parrot in her voice.

As recently reported in the New York Post, in London a clever African Grey parrot spent $13 on gift boxes from Amazon.com. That’s right; the parrot mimicked its owner’s voice, activated Alexa and placed the order. (Why? I have no idea! Maybe to send seed to its friends?)

Those in the know in the parrot world are fully aware of the intelligence of parrots and particularly of the African Grey whose greatest individual was the late Alex, the bird who could reason and accurately use basic vocabulary under the tutelage of animal psychologist, Irene Pepperberg.

My parrots—Augustus, a Quaker parrot of about 21 years, and Mr. Squeaky, a green-cheek conure, about five years old— are not as smart as the parrot mentioned above. They can’t order from Amazon.com like the parrot in London or have a vocabulary of over a hundred words, like the legendary Alex.

However, Augustus and Mr. Squeaky can pitch food and cutlery with the aim of Sandy Koufax to get our attention. They can strategically poop on us to convey disdain or give a mild bite to express annoyance. Actually, only Augustus can regulate his bite. Mr. Squeaky will draw blood every time; but he’s a teenager.

There is a great documentary about the intelligence of parrots and crows titled Beak & Brain: Genius Parrots from Down Under. It can blow you away if you think a bird’s brain is merely a birdbrain.

And if a bunch of gift boxes arrive at your house? Who knows who ordered them?

Only One Babe

The greatest baseball player of all time was Babe Ruth. No one—not Barry Bonds, Ted Williams, Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio or Stan Musial, and all those others you can name—can match the Sultan of Swat. Ruth was and still is the epitome of the baseball player.

I believe that in my previous article (https://frankscoblete.com/are-todays-baseball-players-better-than-those-of-the-past/) I laid to rest the concept that modern players are better than those of the past. Indeed, if anything, the past players may have been slightly better than today’s players.

Yes, baseball has gone through many changes since the Babe played the game. Stadiums are far smaller, allowing more home runs. Baseballs are livelier—some say they are now truly juiced; and many players have been juiced too. Pitchers are no longer expected to pitch nine innings. Relief pitchers have taken over much of the chores.

Experts maintain that today’s baseball players are bigger, faster, and stronger than ever before. Maybe they technically are—although in his best years the 6’2” Babe weighed only 222 pounds, the same height and weight as Barry Bonds. The image of the Babe as a blobby fat man wobbling around the bases is based more on his rounded face than his rounded body.

Additionally, the fact that today’s pitchers and many everyday players are injured so often might give pause to this idea that today’s players are supermen.

Baseball is a game of statistics. In fact, today there are so many statistics that one could spend almost a lifetime trying to figure what the hell the statisticians are encapsulating (ENCAP) in their formulas (FR). It could drive you insane (CRAZY).

But let me take just a few statistics that we (mostly) understand and I will show you just how good the Bambino was. Here is where he fits in with the all-time greats in terms of career averages.

SLG (Slugging): 690, number one all time

OPS (On Base Plus Slugging): 1.164, number one all time

WAR (Wins Against Replacement): 183.7, number one all time

RBI (Runs Batted In): 2214, number two all time

OBP (On Base Percentage): 474, number two all time

HR (Home Runs): 714, third all-time (There were seasons when the Babe hit more home runs than whole teams! No modern slugger has ever done that.)

BA (Batting Average): 342, ninth highest of all time

Now, keep this in mind. The other great players you can name rarely excel in so many categories. Many other homerun hitters did not have the lifetime batting average of the Babe. Those with higher averages did not whack very many home runs. And he was an excellent fielder too!

Are the above statistics the be-all and end-all of the Mighty Babe’s career? Hell, no. Babe was one of the greatest pitchers who ever played the game. Few of today’s baseball fans know this. Here are some of his lifetime pitching statistics:

ERA (earned run average) 17^th all-time at 2.28 percent (Go online and compare his lifetime statistics with the best pitchers playing right now.)

W-L Record (Won-Lost Record): 94 wins-46 losses

WP (Winning Percentage): won 671 percent, 12^th all time

And this: Consider how many great pitchers you can recall from the last 40 years. Now look up the statistics for them. Guess what you will find? They were probably not anywhere near as good as George Herman Ruth.

Yes, he could hit wonderfully and pitch spectacularly. Babe Ruth’s real nickname and the one he truly deserves is The Greatest of All Time.