Goodbye Orioles!
Memories Of A Series Gone Bad
By Scott Paulsen

On the way to the principal's office, where I would surrender my sister's radio and my outdoor lunchtime privileges, I tried to relax by mentally running through the Orioles' lineup from that fall of 1969.

There was Don Buford, who had come to them from the Chicago White Sox; Dave Johnson, the consummate number-two hitter; Frank Robinson, the only man to win the Most Valuable Player in both the National and American leagues; Boog Powell, the monstrous first baseman; and Brooks Robinson, the human vacuum at third base. Hitting seventh was Paul Blair, who played the most shallow center field in the majors. The eighth spot belonged to the all-field, no-hit Mark Belanger, an all-star shortstop.

The Orioles were playing the "Amazing" or "Miracle" Mets in the World Series.

Mr. Teeter, our fifth-grade teacher, was a bald 30-year-old man with horn-rimmed glasses and a speech impediment, which made him sound oddly like Sylvester the Cat.

He taught science and math, or as he would say, "Thienth and Math. Statithtics," he would say. "Photo-thin-the-this," he spat at us one day.

On the bus, we all compared our radios. We sneaked them into school like bombs, hiding them in lunch bags, crushing liverwurst sandwiches, smashing potato chips under the weight of a Silvertone transistor radio.

At lunch, we stood out in the playground and showed each other how we planned to hide the radios under our shirt and run the ear phone wire from the hidden radio, up our shirt and into our ear.

What none of us realized is that Mr. Teeter had been a fifth-grade teacher for a very long time. We were not his first class. This was not his first World Series.

The Orioles had been there three years before. A classroom full of boys with transistor radios listening to the radio play-by-play during his lesson was still fresh in his memory.

Ron Swoboda made a catch in Game 4 that no human being, especially a stocky, slow secretary's son from Dundalk should have been able to make.

One more win for the Mets and it was over—the miracle would be complete. The Mets would be champs.

Mr. Teeter said, half way through science, at about 2:30 p.m., "I'd like you all to write a report. You will be allowed the retht of the period to rethurch thith report in the librwawy."

Robin Raver, who sat in the front row, wiped her face with her sleeve.

"The thubject of your report will be..."

We all waited.

"In honor of the Oriolth being in the thereeth...birth."

Birth? I wondered. I have to write about sex,? As a punishment?

"Cardinalth," Mr. Teeter said. "Penguinth. Blue Bellied Thap Thucker. Pick a bird. Write a report. Have it done by tomorrow."

We headed to library in an orderly line.

The Kingfisher is a pigeon-sized bird, blue-gray above and white below with a bushy crest and dagger-like bill. The male has a blue-gray breast band; the female is similar but also has a chestnut belly band. The call is a loud penetrating rattle.

Fantastic writing — clear, concise and informative, lifted directly from Volume 8, K-L of the Collier's Encyclopedia.

Why kingfisher? I was the eighth kid in line.

In addition to easily copied encyclopedias, our library also had a nice collection of Matt Christopher books. Sports novels for boys, they had titles like Catcher with a Glass Arm, Crackerjack Halfback and Johnny No Hit. They were books about losers who became winners, or winners who get injured and have to work hard to get back.

The kingfisher perches conspicuously on a tree limb over a river or lake while searching for fish. When flying from one perch to another they often fly with uneven wing beats, uttering its rattling call as it goes.

I plugged the earphone jack into the radio and clicked the volume knob. Amy Ressing looked across the library table at me with a certain longing.

Chicks dug the guy willing to flirt with danger.

Chuck Thompson was the Orioles' announcer for Game 5. It was the seventh inning. The Orioles were winning 3-2. Al Weis came to the plate. He played 10 major league seasons. He hit a total of seven home runs. He drove Dave McNally's first pitch in the seventh to the stands. It was a tie game.

The kingfisher inhabits rivers, lakes, and saltwater estuaries.

I had never cursed in public before.

Eddie Watt relieved McNally in the eighth inning and immediately gave up a double to New York's Cleon Jones.

The next batter was Ron Swoboda, who still talks about it somewhere in a bar or on a golf course, sometimes two or three times a week, I'm certain.

He talks about how he won the World Series.

He doubled into left field and from my seat at the far end of the library, between the Collier's Encyclopedia and Centerfield Ballhawk! I blurted out a four-letter word, said goodbye to my sister's radio, said goodbye to my outdoor lunch privileges, and worst of all, goodbye to the Orioles.

Scott Paulsen hosts a sports talk show weekdays on 970 AM The Burgh.