Jim Poole, 1994 Fleer #16

The Orioles were a dispiriting 67-95 in 1991 (33-48 at home), so they didn't exactly leave Memorial Stadium on a high note. However, they were 1-0 that year when black cats trespassed onto the field mid-game.

I know this courtesy of Baseball Nation's Larry Granillo, who recently tracked the wins and losses of home teams in documented cases of cats on the field. In short, the data is inconclusive: nine wins, eight losses for the home team. But the O's were one of those winners. On Monday night, September 23, 1991, they found themselves in a seesaw battle with the BoSox in the early innings. Baltimore starter Jose Mesa spotted the visitors a 2-0 lead in the first inning, courtesy of base hits from the first four batters. The Birds battled back in the bottom of the second to take a 3-2 lead, perhaps with a little help from a feline friend. They'd already tied the game on a pair of walks and a pair of singles, and Mike Devereaux stepped to the plate to face Mike Gardiner with runners on the corners and two outs. That's when the black cat of undetermined origins leapt over the railing near the visitors' dugout. Moments later, Devo hit a grounder to shortstop Luis Rivera. Rivera flubbed it, allowing the go-ahead run to score. When Boston loaded the bases with nobody out in the fourth inning, O's manager Johnny Oates summoned lefty Jim Poole from the bullpen to replace Mesa. Slugger Tom Brunansky bounced into a double play, but the Red Sox scored the tying run. That was all they would get. Oates stretched Poole for five innings of one-hit relief, and Devereaux added an RBI single in the bottom of the fourth to provide the winning margin. Gregg Olson shut the door in the ninth for his 30th save of the season, inducing a double-play grounder from Mo Vaughn after plunking Mike Greenwell. Though the Birds were bottom feeders in 1991, the 4-3 victory gave them a season series win against the Sawx for the first time since 1983.

After last night's 13-2 shellacking at the hands of the Red Sox, I wonder if the O's could track down that mysterious black cat's offspring.

Harold Reynolds, 1994 Fleer #17

I strive for variety in this blog, sometimes to the point of distraction. In fishing for ideas today, I went through the tags to see if there were any important players that were under-represented. Some vintage subjects (Dons Baylor and Buford) have only gotten one post each, and that will have to be remedied. One of the more surprising members of the One-Post Club was Harold Reynolds. Sure, he was only an Oriole for one underwhelming season (.252/.343/.334 in 1993), but I've spent enough time waxing nostalgic about that 1993 season and my introduction to O's fandom that I would have assumed that H.R. would have had a greater presence on this blog. Besides, the timing of his stint in Baltimore means that there were about a hundred and eleventy different card sets featuring Harold in orange and black.

So here's another Harold Reynolds blog post, so the one from October 2008 doesn't get lonely. And just so this thing doesn't come across as complete filler, here's a fascinating tidbit about the Harold Reynolds Era in Charm City: Harold hit four home runs with the O's, the final four of his career. (He totaled a whopping 21 longballs in parts of 12 seasons.) All four were hit between July 15 and August 21. The last was a high-leverage shot in a wild game in Baltimore vs. the Rangers. 46-year-old Nolan Ryan was facing the Orioles for the final time in his career, and he didn't leave on a high note, surrendering a first-inning grand slam to Mike Pagliarulo and lasting just three innings. But the Birds were shut out in the following seven innings, and the Rangers chipped away and ultimately took a 5-4 lead in the eighth inning. Reynolds led off the ninth against Texas closer Tom Henke and tied the game with a solo home run! It stayed tied until the bottom of the 12th, when Mark McLemore singled off of former Oriole Craig Lefferts to score Jack Voigt, who had led off with a walk and advanced to second on a bunt. I guess if you're not going to hit many homers, you might as well make them count when you do.

Fernando Valenzuela, 1994 Fleer #22

Last weekend, I had the excellent fortune to attend an acoustic performance by Brian Vander Ark for the second straight year. Chances are good that you don't recognize the name. In another lifetime (1997 to be exact) Brian and The Verve Pipe had a #1 hit with "The Freshmen". I preferred their lesser hit, "Photograph", probably because it wasn't played to death on the radio and TV. At any rate, I hadn't given the group much thought since my high school days, except for the occasions when one of those two songs shuffled to the front of the line on my mp3 player. They apparently released a few more albums with much less fanfare, and drifted apart save for the occasional impromptu reunion concert. I owe my reintroduction to their music - and to Brian Vander Ark himself - to my friend Lauren.

To call Lauren a Verve Pipe devotee would be an understatement. She tells stories of following the band on tour as a teenager, and I don't doubt her for a second. Everything came to a head last summer, when she announced her intent to celebrate her birthday (and the birthday of her boyfriend Andy) by hosting a concert by Brian Vander Ark in the beautiful old home that the couple rents in Washington, DC. As it so happens, Brian's spent the past five or six years focusing on a solo career, free from the shackles of a corporate record label. As of this writing, he's released four solo albums and a few live bootlegs. Of course, Verve Pipe royalties only go so far, presumably. So to help cover his expenses, he takes bookings all around the country for a reasonable fee: he's played venues ranging from colleges and coffee houses to living rooms and back yards. I personally think this is incredibly cool, though some of my friends

assumed that such an enterprise was an act of desperation, a Spinal Tap-esque tour of denial.

The thing is, Brian Vander Ark is playing his music in the smallest of venues, and he seems to be loving every minute of it. He travels with no entourage, and mingles with the guests before and after his performance, introducing himself as simply "Brian". He allows his hosts to choose much of the set list, though he teased Lauren for her Verve Pipe-heavy preferences, insisting that he'd need help remembering the words ("Are you sure you don't want to hear 'The Freshmen'?"). He even invited Lauren to share the microphone for a song or two.

This year's show (again meant to celebrate Lauren's birthday) had a bit of a different vibe. A fellow Brian Vander Ark fan that she knew had already been planning to book him, so Lauren offered up her house for convenience's sake. This meant that there were several toddlers bouncing around the living room, a rare sight at this particular venue. When Brian entered unannounced, guitar case in hand, he remarked, "I'd forgotten how great this place is!". If the children were a distraction, he didn't let on. In fact, he laughed right along with us as a few of the kids bopped manically to his soulful, introspective music. He also obliged a young boy who insisted upon receiving a high-five at the conclusion of each song. Of course, it probably helps that he's now a father himself: he wrote the song "Evangeline" for his daughter.

Brian gets some laughs when he introduces the song "Colorful" by talking about his participation in the Mark Wahlberg film "Rock Star". "I had a mullet for four months, for about thirty seconds of screen time." Wahlberg sings "Colorful" to Jennifer Aniston in the film's climactic scene - or so it would seem. "I'm watching the movie, and he opens up his mouth, and my voice comes out," Vander Ark tells us. "It was a weird feeling...until I started getting the checks. They'll put my daughter through community college. 'The Freshmen', on the other hand..."

He closes the show by leading the motley crowd in a cover of "Here Comes the Sun", just as he did last year. It's a happy note to go out on. There might be a snide connotation to "One Hit Wonders", but don't forget that these musicians are capable of some really moving artistic expression. Just because it doesn't sell a million copies doesn't mean that it's not worth seeking out. Brian Vander Ark is a gifted storyteller with his guitar. But he's a devoted father and husband, and an easygoing and grateful person, too.

Jack Voigt, 1994 Fleer #23

Continued from Mark Smith and Scott Klingenbeck

Before I talk about the actual result of the game, I want to go into more detail about our experience in the bleachers. At the time, they were some of the cheapest seats in the park, going for $4. In hindsight, this both blows my mind and makes me feel prematurely old. (These tickets now cost $15 each; $23 for "Prime" games like the Yankees and Sawx.) At such rock-bottom prices, the bleachers attracted the more colorful and authentic O's fans, to say the least.

A few rows behind us there sat a couple robust gentlemen who, emboldened by the warming rays of the sun and the malted hops in their bellies, struck up a one-sided conversation with Tigers right fielder Junior Felix, a journeyman who had a little power and a little speed, but evidently not enough of either to get comfortable anywhere. Detroit was his fourth team in six major league seasons, and his third in three years. As he stood stock-still a few feet in front of the warning track, he was showered with catcalls by Charm City's third-rate answer to Statler and Waldorf. Among their greatest hits:

When a hot dog wrapper blew onto the field: "Hey Junior, why don't you pick up that piece of trash! Ya gotta do something to earn that money!"

As the Tiger pitcher ran into trouble: "Hey, Junior, can you pitch?"

The old classic: "JUUUUNNNIIIOOOORRRR! JUUUUNNNIIIOOOORRRR!"

And my personal favorite: "Hey, Junior, where did the rest of your legs go?" (At 5'11" Junior wasn't exactly a Smurf, but I do recall him having noticably short lower legs that ended abruptly after the calves.)

Junior seemed to be a fairly good sport about the heckling. The fans never got profane or violent, to their credit. At one point, he even turned around and acknowledged them with a wave.

The Oriole right fielder, on the other hand, was not so lucky.

Getting a rare start that day was longtime minor leaguer and utility player Jack Voigt. He had performed above expectations as a rookie in 1993, hitting .296 with an OPS (on-base-plus-slugging percentage) of .895. He struggled as a sophomore, though, and was hitting .240 as play started on June 2. Though he walked twice and drove in a run with a sacrifice fly, some fans were harder to please than others.

Two such discriminating fans wandered down to the bleachers in the late innings. They were a pair of young boys, somewhere around my age. The duo perched in an open spot in the front row and started riding Jack Voigt hard, trying to get a rise out of him.

"Hey Jack, you suck!"

Nothing.

"You suck, Jack! You stink!"

Not very original. No wonder he paid them no mind.

"We want Jeff!"

They were going for the low blow. Jeffrey Hammonds was the Great Hope in Baltimore, the fourth overall pick in the first round of the 1992 draft. He'd made it to Camden Yards one year later, and dazzled fans with his strong bat and his glove. However, he also struggled to stay on the field, and at the time of this particular game, was sidelined by a knee injury. Jeffrey Hammonds was everything Jack Voigt wasn't, a flashy five-tool player with an Olympic pedigree and a big signing bonus who was only briefly detained in the minor leagues. Voigt was 27 when he finally got a tenuous grasp on the big leagues, having spent six long and dusty years in the Orioles organization.

That was the last straw...Jack turned around, threw his arms up and gave them a dirty look. His body language seemed to say, "C'mon! What do you want from me? I'm just trying to do a job here!"

Jack's still plugging away at his job - or jobs, rather. He works in real estate in Florida when he's not serving as the hitting coach for the New Orleans Zephyrs, the AAA affiliate of the New York Mets. I remember reading an article during his playing days that suggested that Jack Voigt would make a good manager some day. Let's hope that he gets his shot. That would show those mouthy kids what's what.

To be concluded tomorrow.