granville wyche burgess

September 27 2022

Granville Wyche Burgess on Pat Conroy: A Connection Through Time

Chickadee Prince Entertainment, Theater conrack, granville wyche burgess, pat conroy

[This article first appeared in 2018.]

It all began when lyricist Anne Croswell and composer Lee Pockriss came to see my play THE FREAK, about the psychic Edgar Cayce in New York in 1981. They liked my writing enough to ask me to join them as the bookwriter for a musical based on novelist Pat Conroy’s memoir “The Water Is Wide,” about his time teaching on an island off the coast of South Carolina in 1969. Being from South Carolina myself and also being a fan of Conroy’s eloquent writing, I readily agreed.

Our musical, CONRACK, had its premiere at AMAS Repertory Theatre in 1987. It was well-received, with the New York Times critic calling it “a well-made family show that has something to say,” and applauding us for not “shying away from portraying racial bitterness with a stinging incisiveness.” What I remember best about the production, however, is that it provided me with one of my favorite theatre stories.

Pat came to see the show with his seven-year-old daughter, Susannah. When they sat in the back row of the tiny theatre in Harlem, I stationed myself right behind them, where I was amused to overhear this delightful exchange. The character, Pat Conroy, comes onstage to sing his opening song. As he launches into it, Susannah turns to the real Pat Conroy sitting next to her and exclaims, “Daddy, I didn’t know you knew how to sing!” For me, this has remained the most profound example I know of that ineffable mix of fantasy and reality that constitutes theatre’s magical appeal.

CONRACK went on to have productions at Goodspeed Opera House, the National Alliance of Musical Theatre, and Ford’s Theatre in Washington, DC. The Ford’s performance was attended by then-President George Bush, First-Lady Barbara, and Prime Minister John Major of Great Britain and his wife. A picture of the President congratulating the cast and me after the show and his personal letter to me are some of my proudest possessions.

But it is the personal connections with Pat Conroy that have meant the most to me as CONRACK journeys down whatever path the Fates have paved for it. In February 2016, our musical was chosen to have a staged reading by The York Theatre in New York City. Out of the blue, Susannah, who had recently healed an estrangement with her father and was fondly remembering their trip to see our show, contacted me to ask if there were any recordings of the music. The only ones we had were a cassette recording made from the audience at a Ford’s Theatre performance, which I promised to send her. On the first day of our rehearsal in New York, Pat announced publicly that he had terminal cancer. I edited the songs as best I could and sent them to Susannah. She later told me that they were some of the last music her father listened to before he passed away. Knowing that made me feel proud, happy, sad, grateful—a mix of emotions that flooded through me as I listened to the music pouring from the stage of The York Theatre that February.

In October 2018, I directed a full production of CONRACK in Pat’s adopted hometown, Beaufort, SC. I was thrilled to do so because it was part of the Pat Conroy Literary Festival, an annual celebration of Pat’s work and that of authors inspired by his writings. Many of Pat’s family attended the show, including his brother, sisters, children, grandchildren, widow, even his agent. CONRACK would be seen by the entire Conroy Clan! Having the people who knew Pat best witness our transformation of his very personal story into song and dance made me a little anxious. The show went great, the audience applauded and laughed, and Pat’s family seemed to really enjoy it. I was not prepared, however, to see them exit the theatre with tears streaming down their faces. They hugged me and thanked me for having created such a wonderful tribute to the humor, idealism, courage, humility, and respect for others that characterized Pat Conroy. I was so grateful for their gratitude. I cried a little myself. They weren’t to be my final tears in the Conroy saga that had begun some thirty-five years ago.

During my time in Beaufort, I had gotten to know Pat’s widow, Cassandra King, a charming, literate, down-to-earth “Southern gal” from Alabama. It was she who provided me further proof that, despite the fact that I had met him only once, my connection to Pat Conroy was deep and destined to last my lifetime. Cassandra had given me a bulging envelope on the last night of our musical’s run in Beaufort. Due to the usual closing performance late-night party, I didn’t open it until my wife was driving me through South Carolina the next day. When I did open it, I found a card which read: “Thank you so much for the fantastic production of CONRACK. It was a moving experience for the entire family. This is an actual pen of Pat’s, that he wrote with, and I only give them to very special people.” She had given me one of the pens Pat wrote with! I kept turning it over and over in my hands as I wept. I am pausing at my computer now to hold it again, gently rubbing it, thinking how Pat must have held this pen as he put down on one of his yellow legal pads some of those lyrical, humorous, rapturously descriptive words that have enthralled and entertained millions of readers and will continue to do so for many years to come. I hold a pen and I can feel spiritually connected to one of the greatest writers of my generation. I am overwhelmed.

^^^

Granville Wyche Burgess is an Emmy-nominated playwright and novelist. He is the author of The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe, a novel about Shoeless Joe Jackson, published by Chickadee Prince, and which is available on Kindle, and in paperback from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and your local bookstore.

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July 18 2020

How to Write Historical and Biographical Fiction

Chickadee Prince Entertainment, history, Lifestyle, Poetry Alon Preiss, charlotte mew, granville wyche burgess, oscar wilde, pen pearson, pol pot, shoeless joe jackson, stephen solarz, steven s. drachman

The Brooklyn small press, Chickadee Prince Books, has published a number of novels that cover real historical events, and inevitably includes passages in which real-life figures play a pivotal role.

Some of these books feature those historical figures as their main characters, such as Pen Pearson’s Bloomsbury’s Late Rose, which tells the lightly fictionalized story of poet Charlotte Mew, and Granville Wyche Burgess’s The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe, which imagines a fictional 9^th inning tale for the real-life baseball player, Shoeless Joe Jackson.

Other books, such as Steven S. Drachman’s Watt O’Hugh trilogy, Jay Greenfield’s post-war opus, Max’s Diamonds and Alon Preiss’s political satire, A Flash of Blue Sky, feature real individuals and historical events, in varying degrees of fancifulness, to advance a mostly fictional tale.

Here, four of these authors tell how they get inside the skin of the real-life characters that they have chosen to include in their novels.

Poet Pen Pearson on dramatizing the poet Charlotte Mew

Alone on the Isle of Wight, Charlotte could imagine she was still twelve years old and that Freda, almost two, was her sole responsibility. The Mew children would walk from the farm at Newfairlee to St. Paul’s Church on a dirt road, alongside cow pastures and alfalfa fields swelling with the August heat. Spatters of rain from dark, swollen clouds would stir the dust, and drops would pool on the packed earth like dew on grass. In the gentle rain, the dust, the alfalfa, and the clover would blossom together in a phantasmagoria of scents. Freda would beg to be picked up and carried so her shoes wouldn’t get muddy, and Charlotte would show her how to catch the raindrops on her tongue while Anne and Henry walked ahead of them.

— From Bloomsbury’s Late Rose, a novel by Pen Pearson

The generic designation biographical fiction is oxymoronic, at least on its face.

How could a book about a historical figure be fiction?

Take the above excerpt as an example. What’s fact and what’s fiction?

Charlotte Mew and her siblings — Henry, Anne, and Freda — did spend summers on their uncle’s farm on the Isle of Wight, where their father was born. They did walk to St. Paul’s together. And Charlotte did think of her sister Freda as her own child. Everything else–the dirt road, cow pastures, alfalfa and clover fields, and the meadowlark’s song (in the subsequent paragraph) — were derived from my own memories of summers on my grandparents’ farm in Soldier, Iowa.

In other words, the substance is factual, the remainder, “fiction.”

My aim was to dramatize the essential truth of Mew’s life as I understood it. That understanding came primarily from research, but also from my own experiences, memories and imagination.

Novelist Alon Preiss, on dramatizing the horrible story of Cambodian despot, Pol Pot

With Saloth Sar center stage in the [Cambodian] government, something changed within him. He looked the same, more or less – the same bucktoothed smile, the same round, fat face. But he was different now, a different person lived within him. For when Saloth Sar took control of Cambodia, an ancient Cambodian spirit named Pol Pot settled easily into his body, a spirit that had been waiting silently in the forest for eons. Pol Pot had come into being in the Big Bang, had floated through the universe, through the clouds of gas and the empty space, waiting for man to evolve. But no human ears had ever before heard his name spoken, until that one day when Saloth Sar spoke the name – Pol Pot – for the very first time. He said it in a very quiet voice, hesitantly, but to his ears the name boomed like thunder. Within moments, the country fell to the whim of a dark spirit who thrived on mothers’ tears and the anguished cries of children. Saloth Sar’s soul disappeared, banished forever to some netherworld prison. “Call me Pol Pot,” Saloth Sar’s lips demanded. To the public, he would not admit that he had once been Saloth Sar; he would not admit that he had once been raised by court dancers. He would not admit that he was an eons-old evil spirit inhabiting the body of a gentle, unremarkable man. He claimed instead to be an obscure rubber worker who now, through some happy quirk of fate, just happened to control the life and destiny of seven million people.

— From A Flash of Blue Sky, a novel by Alon Preiss

I’ve been really obsessed with what happened in Cambodia for as long as I can remember; I was especially incensed at the role that a local Congressman, Stephen Solarz, played in reviving the Khmer Rouge as a fighting force, after they were overthrown by the Vietnamese, and re-elevating the Khmer Rouge’s murderous leader, Pol Pot.

Interestingly, to describe the relationship between these two men, Pol Pot and Stephen Solarz, in my novel, I fictionalized Solarz as a character named “Stephen Solomon,” and I made him a senator, but I didn’t rename Pol Pot.

At the time that I began work on the book, both of these terrible men were still alive, although they have both since died, Pol Pot probably murdered, while Solarz was widely repudiated and thrown out of office, and he died in disgrace.

It was easy to explain Solarz’s behavior. Solarz was an amoral American politician, and he thought that his campaign against the Vietnamese would make him look “tough on Communism,” which people cared about during the 1980s, and boost his profile, the Hell with all the people who would die as a result.

But Pol Pot was a different story. He was originally a French-educated intellectual named Saloth Sar, a really nice guy, by most accounts, a gentle soul who was drawn to politics to help the poor, and wound up running the most murderous regime in history.

What could explain the transformation?

In my novel, when Saloth Sar took power in Cambodia, a neak ta prey, an ancient spirit, possessed his body. What happens to people when they get elevated to the head of government? You have these nice fellows, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, and so on, good students in college, they know people I know, vacation where I vacation. Then they get into politics, and they order assassinations. Pol Pot is just the most extreme example. I couldn’t order someone’s death, sit there in a meeting and order someone killed. How do they do it?

There is something evil lurking in the air, waiting for a human spirit to get that kind of power, and then it swoops in, and that’s the end of that. It may not be an ancient evil spirit, but it’s evil, whatever it is.

Steven S. Drachman on bringing Oscar Wilde to life in the old West

The train pulled out of the station in Denver, puffing smoke, making a racket. A gleeful Oscar Wilde waved from his compartment in the third car, contagiously enthusiastic over what we had all just suffered. I was a bit rueful that he wouldn’t accompany us to [Nebraska]. I’m quite sure he could have done something to distract the gunmen there. And, anyway, I would miss him.
I bumped into him again in 1882 in Arizona, where I saw him take down four other men in a gunfight. The gentleman was good with witty repartee, but he could also shoot, and he could fight. So while I understand him to have been skilled with your “comedy of manners”, the guy was also pretty tough when he wanted to be.

— From The Ghosts of Watt O’Hugh, a novel by Steven S. Drachman

When I was researching my first book, a historical fantasy novel about the adventures of Watt O’Hugh, a Time Roaming shootist in the old West, I decided to set some scenes in Leadville, a really fascinating city in Colorado; it is a sleepy little town now, high up in the mountains, with some appeal for mountain bikers and hikers, but in the 19^th century, it was a real metropolis.

I was excited to read about the celebrities who visited Leadville in its prime, and even more excited and touched to learn that Oscar Wilde had included Leadville in his American speaking tour, and that he had been wholeheartedly accepted by the miners there. I included in my book some of Oscar’s own odes to the population (“large, blond-bearded, yellow-haired men in red shirts, with the beautiful clear complexions of those who work in silver mines”), and Oscar became a Watt’s sidekick through some of his more harrowing experiences.

It’s important that in depicting these characters, we hew closely to what is historically known, and never invent situations that contradict what is definitely known about the individual. (I was really critical of a film called Disney Christopher Robin, which reinvented Christopher Robin Milne in extremely ahistorical ways, a pack of lies disguised as entertainment.) I always thought of Oscar as personally extremely brave, and as a result his character developed in some interesting ways as the trilogy progressed. But just as I wound up depicting J.P. Morgan as someone who really didn’t care about money – trapped in a world he never loved – and came to think of him that way, when I read Oscar’s words today, or watch The Importance of Being Ernest, I can’t help but think of Oscar as someone who might well have taken down four Western toughs in a gunfight in Arizona.

In my mind, my Oscar has become the real Oscar, and maybe I’m right.

Granville Wyche Burgess on justice for his hero, Shoeless Joe Jackson

“Don’t do this, Lefty,” Joe implored. “I’m havin’ a great series. You’ve lost a game, sure, but you can win the next one. We can with this thing!”
“It won’t work, Joe. The fix is in. Chick’s been keepin’ us informed. You gotta have something to drink around here.” He moved towards a cabinet, searching.
Joe grabbed him by the lapels. “Forget about the damn booze for once, will ya’? Sure, Gandil’s been talkin’, but I ain’t been listenin’. I don’t wanna know. I just wanna play ball. I wanna win the World Series!”
“You think them gamblers care what you want? What do you think’s gonna happen if we don’t follow through on what Gandil said we’d agreed to? These men are rough. We both got wives, Joe. We gotta think about our families.”
“If they want to have me knocked off, let them do it!”
“You stupid son of a bitch!”
“Don’t call me ‘stupid’!” Joe cocked his hand. Lefty flinched. But Joe suddenly stopped himself, and turned to leave the room.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m talkin’ to Comiskey in the mornin’!” Joe answered over his shoulder.
“Don’t do it, Joe!” Lefty called after him. But Joe was gone. “Dumb Cracker!”

— From The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe, a novel by Granville Wyche Burgess

My book is about the historical character Shoeless Joe Jackson and his involvement in the Black Sox scandal of 1919 when 8 Chicago White Sox baseball players were accused of conspiring with gamblers to be paid to lose the World Series on purpose. Since there are no recordings or videos of what actually happened, I enjoyed using my imagination to create dramatic scenes.

FACTS: We know that on October 4, 1919, in the middle of the World Series, a Chicago pitcher, Lefty Williams, came to Shoeless Joe’s hotel room to deliver his part of the payoff. We know Shoeless Joe always claimed he was innocent, that Chick Gandil told the gamblers he was in when he’d told Chick “no!” Here’s part of a scene fictionalizing those facts. Shoeless has thrown the payoff money of the floor. Charles Comiskey is the White Sox owner.

The scene above reinforces Joe’s anger that, because he couldn’t read or write, many people thought he was dumb. It sets up a conflict for him about protecting his wife when he is called to testify in his trial. And it foreshadows Commissioner Landis’ edict banning any player who even listened to talk about a fix and didn’t report it to his boss was guilty.

And all because I knew that Lefty Williams tried to give him some money in a hotel room.

^^^

Alon Preiss’s most recent novel is In Love With Alice, which is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or from ANY BOOKSTORE IN ANY TOWN OR CITY IN AMERICA.

Steven S. Drachman is the author of The Strange and Astounding Memoirs of Watt O’Hugh the Third, which is available in paperback from your local bookstore, Amazon and Barnes & Noble; it is also available as a Kindle e-book. Read his blog, or follow him on Twitter or Facebook.

Bloomsbury’s Late Rose, Pen Pearson’s novel about Charlotte Mew, is available in paperback and ebook at Amazon, B&N, all over the web, and at your favorite local bookstore. Follow her on Twitter or Facebook.

March 7 2020

Granville Wyche Burgess: Put Shoeless Joe Jackson in the Hall of Fame

Chickadee Prince Sports baseball hall of fame, granville burgess, granville wyche burgess, shoeless joe jackson

Dear Commissioner Manfred,

I write to add my name to the growing list of people who are outraged at your treatment of the Houston Astros, especially in light of your refusal to re-consider the case for removing Shoeless Joe Jackson from the Ineligible list and thus allowing him to be voted into the Hall of Fame, which he surely would, given his outstanding career.

In two 2015 letters from Arlene Marcley of the Shoeless Joe Jackson Museum in his hometown of Greenville, SC she requested that you remove Jackson from the ineligible list. In denying her request, you wrote that your research into the historical record meant that you could “not be certain enough of the truth to over-rule Commissioner Landis’ determination” that Shoeless be banished for life. With the Astros, you can be certain of the truth-they have admitted it! Yet you granted the players immunity before doing any research. Why have you reached a conclusion to continue the punishment of Jackson after research and refused to punish the Astros players without research?

You cite Landis’ decision as precedent. Let me note that he banished Jackson despite the verdict of innocence by the jury. (In another trial, the jury awarded Jackson over $16,000 in back pay from White Sox owner Charles Comiskey). If Landis is to be your guide, then I humbly suggest it is incumbent upon you to banish the Houston players for life.

Or you might consider this: Jackson was banished for life. His life is over, and thus should be his banishment. If you cannot rectify your treatment of the Astros, at least remove Shoeless Joe Jackson from the Ineligible list and allow him to assume his rightful place in the Hall of Fame.

Respectfully,

Granville Burgess
Author, The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe

^^^

May 26 2019

Granville Wyche Burgess: Yankees vs. Tampa Bay

Chickadee Prince Sports granville wyche burgess, yankees against tampa bay, yankees vs. tampa bay

Went to a Yankees/Tampa Bay game on Saturday. While on the train to the city from our home in Greenwich, my wife, Reba heard an announcement that if you gave blood at Grand Central Station you’d receive Yankees tickets. She stood in line for an hour, finally got to the nurse, who told her it would take about 20 minutes to draw the pint of blood. Reba had to get to the office so she couldn’t give, but they’d already given her the tickets!

Not surprisingly, the tickets were in the nosebleed section behind left field. But it was a beautiful day and we were happy to set aside hours to relax and enjoy the game. That truly is one of the great things about baseball: it forces you to spend a long time watching a slow-moving game, which leaves lots of time to chit-chat, or daydream or, yes, look up answers on your phone to questions like “How many people did the Roman coliseum seat?” (Approx. 50,000. Yankee Stadium? 50, 285 with 2000 more with standing room.) It’s amazing that the Romans built a stadium that large in that time, but then, the Romans were an amazing people. But they didn’t play baseball, although a bunch of Christians wished they had. Anyway, hooray for a game that makes you relax, right?

The game turned out to be a pitcher’s duel, which can be tough to appreciate when you are sitting so far from home plate. I would watch the pitcher wind up and release and I could see the ball but I had no idea where it went. And if a batter hit it, often you would pick up the ball only after it started rolling along the outfield grass. But I did get a new perspective on those high foul balls and popups-they go HIGH, higher than the top of the stadium sometimes. And, from up above, you can see just how much territory the outfielders cover-it looks like acres.

A couple of plays made me appreciate what amazing athletes baseball players are. The Rays centerfielder ran down a hit, grabbed the ball running full speed, and while spinning around through a perfect strike to second base. And the game featured one of my favorite baseball plays: a batter strokes a line drive to left field, which the Rays’ fielder grabs on one bounce. The Yankee runner on second tries for home, the outfield throws a perfect one-hop bounce to the catcher who tags out the sliding Yankee. Turns out later we learned the runner ignored the coach’s signal to hole up at third. “I thought I could make it,” he later explained. Hey, they pay him millions of dollars to make these judgment calls.

The Yankees scored on a passed ball. The Rays tied it up with a homerun and, tied, 1-1, the game went into extra innings. In the top of the 11th another Tampa Bay player hit another homerun. The Yankees got a runner on their half of the inning, but Gary Sanchez, their star catcher, hit into a game-ending double play. BTW, Sanchez, struck out 4 times before that-hey, they don’t earn their millions every day, that’s for sure.

The best part about the day? The Yankees lost! I know this may cost me a lot of unsold books, but I’ve always hated the Yankees. They are just so damn good! I’m an underdog-pulling kind of guy. I grew up with the Brooklyn Dodgers when they would always lose to the Yankees and some feelings you just never forget.

Just like I’ll never forget the extreme pleasure of spending a leisurely Saturday afternoon at the park, watching one of the greatest games ever devised to combine ease and excitement. Take yourself out to the ballgame, why dontcha?

Design by Steven S. Drachman, From an Image by Hoerwin56. Granville Wyche Burgess is an Emmy-nominated playwright and novelist. He is the author of The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe, a novel about Shoeless Joe Jackson, published by Chickadee Prince, and which is available on Kindle, and in paperback from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and your local bookstore.

May 25 2019

Editor’s Choice: Shoeless Joe Jackson was Innocent

Chickadee Prince Criminal Justice, Entertainment, Sports black sox scandal, granville wyche burgess, shoeless joe jackson, the last at-bat of shoeless joe

By Alon Preiss.

Shoeless Joe Jackson was innocent.

Granville Wyche Burgess, whom you remember as the playwright who brought us the hit musical, Conrack, is back with The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe, a new and acclaimed novel that imagines the disgraced baseball player, Shoeless Joe Jackson, in his twilight, and seeking redemption.

Granville is also making the case, wherever he can, that Shoeless Joe was innocent, and that justice is long past due.

This is personal for Granville; he grew up in Greenville, South Carolina, where Shoeless Joe died (Granville was a little boy at the time), and where his new novel takes place.

Granville says, “When I played baseball as a youth in 1950’s Greenville, SC, as an all-field no-hit second baseman, nobody ever mentioned that Joe Jackson, whom many considered the ‘greatest natural hitter of all time,’ lived in my hometown! Such was animus towards Shoeless Joe because of the Black Sox scandal. I think Joe himself wanted to keep a low profile. Years later, when I read about the scandal, I became convinced of Joe’s innocence and wanted to put the truth, as I saw it, out into the world.”

Read Granville’s take on Joe’s fate in History News Network, The Baseball Historian, Seamheads, in Audere Magazine, and in a Q&A with Deborah Kalb, and see some great reviews of Shoeless Joe from NY Post baseball columnist Ken Davidoff, Sport in American History, Booklist, BookAnon, Tehben’s Book Club and BooksNKisses.

Granville is also traveling around to make his case. He’ll be in Greenwich, Connecticut on June 12, Greenville, SC on July 14 and July 17, and in Manhattan on September 19 and, next year, on May 12, 2019.

Good work, Granville, and good luck clearing Joe’s name once and for all.

April 23 2019

On the 100th anniversary of the Black Sox Scandal, GRANVILLE WYCHE BURGESS declares: Shoeless Joe Was Innocent

Chickadee Prince Entertainment, Sports black sox, granville burgess, granville wyche burgess, shoeless joe, shoeless joe jackson, world series

What inspired you to write his story and why now?

When I played baseball as a youth in 1950’s Greenville, SC, nobody ever mentioned that Joe Jackson, whom some considered the “greatest natural hitter of all time,” lived in my hometown! Such was animus towards Shoeless Joe because of the Black Sox scandal. I think Joe himself wanted to keep a low profile. Years later, when I read about the scandal, I became convinced of Joe’s innocence and wanted to put the truth, as I saw it, out into the world. An added plus: I love baseball, I think it’s a great game! As to why now, what better way to commemorate the 100th Anniversary of the Black Sox scandal than to publish a novel about it?

You believe that Shoeless Joe is innocent in the Black Sox Scandal. What makes you draw this conclusion?

First of all, we have Joe’s word, and there is nothing I have read about this Christian man that would lead me to believe he is a liar. Joe went to his grave believing “The Supreme Being will be my judge.” He says he told Comiskey about the fix and Comiskey ignored him—and plenty of what I have read about Comiskey would lead me to believe he was primarily interested in protecting his reputation and his money. As someone who could neither read nor write, I believe Comiskey’s lawyer, Alfred Austrian, tricked Joe into testifying the way he did. He certainly got him to sign a waiver of immunity that he could not read. What many people do not remember is that in a 1924 trial where Joe sued Comiskey for back pay, a jury believed him and awarded him the money. Then the judge, noting discrepancies in Joe’s 1920 testimony and his 1924 testimony, overturned the decision. What is indisputable is that Joe Jackson played his heart out in that World Series: no errors, the only home run, a .375 batting average, and 12 hits, which stood as the record until 1964.

Growing up in times of segregation, what draws you to stories about injustice, specifically this one?

Growing up, I saw the injustice of segregation all around me, from Whites Only drinking fountains to the squalid housing of what was euphemistically called “Nickletown.” Also, I was familiar with the ethos of the people who, like Joe, worked in a textile mill: they worked hard hours, loved their families and their communities, and were very religious. I was drawn to this story not only because I think Joe is innocent, but also because I think his hometown should celebrate, not ignore, this iconic baseball player. Happily, they now have. There is a Shoeless Joe statue in downtown Greenville and a Joe Jackson museum across from the minor-league ballpark.

What are some similarities and differences you find between writing plays and novels?

For me, the main similarity between writing plays and writing novels is story, story, story! I love a good story and try to write something that has people constantly wondering “What happens next?” As a playwright, I tell the whole story in dialogue, and dialogue is an important part of my novel-writing. I believe it is harder to depict character in playwriting because action is the best means of depicting character, and action in the theatre is limited. I can’t have a baseball game onstage—or at least only in a very limited way. I can’t do a scene sliding down a rocky river, as I do in the novel. Finally, the sheer number of words you can use writing a novel makes it a form in which one can more easily expand upon ideas and where one can spend time describing scenes and, especially, the inner emotional life of a character than one can in playwriting. I find the restrictions inherent in dramatic writing make it a much more difficult genre, for me, than narrative fiction, where I can let the words more easily flow.

March 16 2019

Granville Wyche Burgess: Take Me Out to the Ballgame (Part 2)

Chickadee Prince Sports baseball, granville burgess, granville wyche burgess

The Orioles vs. Rays game begins at 1:05 pm on a cloudy day in Sarasota. We are seated behind first base, which turns out to be a pretty good place to see some action. The O’s turn a nifty double-play: a grounder to the first baseman, who throws to the shortstop covering second, quickly retreats to the bag, and is there to take the throw to put out the runner at first. This is not easy to do, but as with many things professional ball players do, they make it look effortless. So does the center fielder as he grabs a hit on one hop and throws a perfect strike to third base to get the runner there. And this is just the first inning!

In the second, an Oriole batter draws a walk and the speakers burst forth with Fats Domino singing “I’m Walkin’,” another example of the good-natured humor to be found at a baseball game. Can you imagine such light-heartedness at, say, an NFL game? No, football is serious business! The Oriole player reaches third base, then the pitcher throws a ball in the dirt, which bounces out of the catcher’s glove, the guy on third breaks for home, the pitcher covers the plate, the catcher backhands a flip of the ball to the pitcher, who swipes it across the runner as he slides…. “safe!” signals the umpire, throwing his arms wide. I love the sudden drama of a baseball game. You’re just casually watching, nothing much going on, then—bam!—everything goes into high gear, 5-10 seconds of intense action. Unlike football or basketball, where the dramatic action is pretty continuous, baseball, for me, is more enjoyable because there are stretches of time when you can relax, look around, soak in the scene, anticipate the next pitch.

You also have a very good chance of leaving with a baseball when you go to a spring training game. Fans are always begging to be thrown a ball and players often oblige. If the right fielder catches a final out, he will practically always throw it to a fan lining the small stadium wall as he trots back to the dugout. When the first baseman throws the ball back to the dugout after he finishes tossing ground balls to warm up the infielders at the top of each inning, the player collecting it will probably throw it back into the stands, over the netting that protects the fans. Boys are especially blessed with baseballs, it seems. When a man catches a foul ball near me, he immediately signals to a nearby boy and gives it to him when he comes over, eliciting applause from nearby fans. And another fan shouts every time someone captures a foul ball: “Give it to a boy, give it to a boy!” He succeeds in shaming quite a few fans into giving up their hard-earned baseballs.

I have my moment of glory with a foul ball, too. It’s hit nearby and bounds off the cement right at me. I reach up with two hands, no one is trying to grab it from me, it’s spinning easily, piece of cake catch, I see it descend into my hands… and I flinch and it bounces off my hands and someone else scoops it up. I had it, it was right there, how could I blow it? For a moment I feel bad—I wanted that baseball! But I soon realize that I wouldn’t have kept it, I don’t need a baseball, and a kid gets it anyway, so what? I also realize that the fact that I had 3 x 5 notecards in one hand and pen in the other—I am taking notes for this column—probably has something to do with my fumbling the ball. But I also think with a smile about my days at second base in Little League, where I had made untold miscues on batted balls. Yep, still making errors, decades later! Some things never change.

The game ambles on and the time drifts by. The O’s turn a classic double-play, Tinkers to Evers to Chance-like. A batter breaks his bat and the pitcher ducks as half of it flies over his head. Chris Davis, the Orioles’ highly-paid first-baseman —something like $100 million for three years—earns some of his pay by blasting a homerun over the center field fence. How can a ball player be worth $100 million dollars? Then, again, how can CEO’s be worth the millions they are paid, even when their companies are losing money? But this is not the time to be unsettled by thoughts of income inequality. The O’s are winning, 4-1, it’s the top of the eighth inning, and we are getting closer to the real reason I have chosen to come to this particular game. Today is “Seniors Run The Bases” Day. Anyone over 60 gets to run the bases at the end of the game. I can’t wait. I have never been on a professional baseball diamond. This is going to be fun.

Then it happens, as it so often happens in a baseball game. The karma completely changes. Suddenly the Orioles can’t get anyone out. The Rays score a run, then another, and the score is soon tied. The manager brings in a relief pitcher and he gives up back-to-back homeruns. It’s 7-4, then 8-4. Another pitcher in, and they still can’t get the final out. How can it be that, batter after batter, you can’t get one more out? Especially since you’ve been leading all afternoon? This is one of the great unanswerable questions of baseball, one that, I muse, makes it a lot like life. Sometimes you just can’t find the answer, you just can’t get un-stuck.

What’s worse, the sky is getting very dark. The rain that was predicted seems to be on its way. Jim, Barb, and I decide to leave, the heck with running the bases, it’s not worth getting soaked. On the way out of the stadium, I watch the Rays score even more runs, until it’s 9-4 as we leave and the Orioles still haven’t gotten the final out. Barb and I reach the bushes and retrieve our umbrellas. Then the heavens open up. I mean, it rains not just cats and dogs, more like elephants and hippos. I am trying to protect Jim, who did not bring an umbrella, but mine is really only suited for one person. After a while, Jim gives up and simply plows ahead through the rain. Barb decides her socks and shoes are so wet she begins walking through puddles instead of around them. I think about the cost of trying to save that $10 parking fee by parking at the far-away CVS.

Finally, we reach the car. Fortunately, we have towels to place on the seats. A homeless person knocks on our window in the pouring rain and launches into some story about needing money to get somewhere—“What’s your cell phone number, I’ll call you when I get there and you can tell me where to send the money back?” Barb is too miserable to listen and gives her $10. So that’s where the parking fee ends up! At last they drop me off at aunt Anna’s house and I peel off my drenched clothes and jump in a deliciously warm shower. Once I’m in warm clothing with a drink in hand, I think back on the day. The home-team got clobbered, I got soaked, I didn’t get to run the bases and imagine I’m Jackie Robinson, I blew my chance at grabbing a foul ball. On the other hand, I saw double-plays, several homeruns, plays at the plate, met The Elephant Man, had a beer, and enjoyed several hours of stress-free fun. All in all, it was a great day. Of course it was, it was baseball!

CODA: As I left the stadium at the Orioles/Rays baseball game, I heard the announcer say that Seniors Run The Bases Day would be held at the game against the Pittsburgh Pirates. I made sure to be there. It was a sunny day, a bit brisk, but no rain. Jim and I joined at least 100 seniors as the Orioles mascot led us onto the baseball diamond. I took off running, not fast but slow enough to enjoy touching each base, making sure to step on it purposefully, especially home plate. Truth to tell, it was over much too fast. But, as with so much of my life loving baseball, I had the memories.

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Granville Wyche Burgess is an Emmy-nominated playwright and novelist. He is the author of The Last At-Bat of Shoeless Joe, a novel about Shoeless Joe Jackson, to be published by Chickadee Prince in May, and which is available for pre-order on Kindle, and in paperback from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and your local bookstore.