Any port in a storm

Things we watch in the evening instead of baseball

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Now, on with business.

This will, without question, be a baseball newsletter. That’s the point, yes? Baseball scores, baseball highlights, baseball opinions, baseball bullshit. That’s going to be the point of all of this, obviously.

But there are other things we’ll be talking about here too. Things like, “Columbo.”

I spend most of the offseason watching old TV shows and movies. Old Douglas Sirk melodramas. Film noirs. A ton of 1970s New Hollywood classics. When it’s TV it’s a steady diet of “The Rockford Files” and “Columbo.”

There’s something comforting about shows like those. TV dramas today are so full of tormented anti-heroes and comedic TV is so full of discomfort-driven quirky humor that seeing straightforward, genuinely warm, funny, and comfortable performances like you get from likable actors such as Peter Falk and Jim Garner stand out more than they once might’ve. It’s not nostalgia for me — I was too young when those shows were in their heyday to have experienced them first-hand, so I’m not living in the past — but they’re certainly comfort food now. Look at the goddamn world, after all, and ask yourself if you couldn’t use some comfort.

I go back and forth on which one of those two shows I prefer. “Rockford” is probably more conventionally entertaining and enjoyable. “Columbo” can be a bit more formulaic — it’s always a variation on the same “pretentious rich guy murderer’s hubris is his downfall” theme — but it’s a great formula and the production values and star power are always top notch.

Lately I’ve been on more of a “Columbo” jag. Since I’m not doing real recaps until Monday (see below for some fun) I decided last night to forego baseball and watch an episode.

It was “Any Old Port in a Storm,” a 1973 episode starring Donald Pleasance as the murderer of the week (note: this is not a spoiler. “Columbo” is not a “whodunnit.” It’s a “How’dTheyDoIt.” You see the murder in the first 10-15 minutes and the drama of the show is in Columbo and the killer playing cat and mouse).

This episode was set in the world of wine snobbery, with Pleasance owning a winery and spending most of the episode chewing the scenery in all the best ways. Like in the big set piece near the end, set in a restaurant, where he berates the staff for serving him a 1945 port which had been ruined due to being exposed to excessive heat, referring to it as “LIQUID FILTH!”

I’m totally stealing that line if I ever have the guts to order expensive wine and not do what I always do and say “oh, this is nice,” even if I can’t really tell the difference between it and a bottle of $13.99 grocery store cab.

Other bonuses: this is the first “Columbo” episode in which he whistles “This Old Man,” which is a recurring thing thereafter. Once he’s whistling that, it’s a signal to the audience that he has the crime solved and what comes after is setup to get the killer to confess.

Anyway: aces “Columbo” episode. A perfect way to spend an evening. Especially because it didn’t involve some morally ambiguous anti-hero or the need to watch a ten episode arc in order to get the payoff. I’m not the sort who thinks everything old is better, but dammit, some things are.

Speaking of which . . .

AND THAT HAPPENED . . . CLASSIC!

I’m still holding myself to truly begin the recaps on Monday, as I promised myself I would. As such, I went back into the super old archives of this newsletter — I haven’t mentioned it, but it’s been around a lot longer than most of you realize — and found a recap one of my predecessors did on July 13, 1903, back when it was called the “Cup of Coffee Pamphlet.”

The Cup of Coffee Pamphlet was mailed to subscribers. Founding subscribers received it via telegram and were given the chance to be called all manner of off-color insults by the author’s dim-witted adopted son, whose father and mother were killed in mining and shirtwaist factory accidents, respectively.

Those who received it free of charge were considered horrible freeloaders and, if discovered, were beaten over the head by Pinkerton men with signs that looked like this:

The past was very, very different than the present. Thank God we live in these times.

Here’s the recap. Apologies if there were any typos in the transcription. It was written with squid ink on parchment made from the skin of a some horribly endangered species, which was the style at the time.

Note to our readers: The Cleveland Naps, Philadelphia Athletics, Chicago White Sox and Boston Americans did not contest base ball games on this day, as it was adjacent to The Sabbath and they wished not to engage in revelry of any sort out of an abundance of admirably pious caution.

Superbas 6, Cubs 4: Jimmy Sheckard starred for Brooklyn, acquiring three safeties. The men from Chicago may have had a better go of it, but first baseman Frank Chance and scheduled hurler Bob Wicker were suffering from an all-overish malady, rendering them mere spectators. Such ailments are increasingly common to-day, inspiring one to question the vim and vigor of the modern ball-player. Perchance the exorbitant salaries paid our sportsmen — some $11 more per season than recently re-tired greats such as staunch giants Buck Ewing and Cupid Childs — has sapped their resolve.

Reds 5, Giants 4: Noodles Hahn was pitching mightily, but Dummy Taylor was matching him frame per frame. Then, in an instant, calamity ensued! A lady of questionable morals and station burst forth from the grandstand, clad in nothing but 42-eyelet patent leather laced boots, black leather corn-husking gloves and a double-weight wool summer suit, ran toward center field and proceeded to parade herself, bloomerless, before all 1,274 spectators in attendance. Many breeches were soiled in astonishment upon the lewd display and Taylor was forced to retire to his fainting couch. When order was restored, Reds outfield Cozy Dolan plated the go-ahead run. It is unclear as of press time what happened to the woman in question, though she was escorted off the field by Giants manager John McGraw. McGraw has likewise not been seen since the incident.

Tigers 4, Highlanders 3: Heine Smith came to bat in the 8th inning with all bases occupied and the Tigers behind in the contest 3-0. Just as Jack Chesbro delivered a 2-ball, 2-strike pitch, however, the entire Highlanders club instantly dropped dead of cholera, likely brought on by the continued existence of a massive cesspool just northwest of Hilltop Park, at the corner of Fort Washington Avenue and 168th Street. The bases cleared in the confusion, resulting in a Tigers victory. The event has left Highlanders owners William Devery and Frank Farrell shaken. So much so that they are considering relocating the club to the Polo Grounds for the 1904 season. They assured the gathered press afterward, however, that the property upon which Hilltop Park sits would be safe for any purpose, save base ball games or the construction of a hospital, which would be simply irresponsible.

Beaneaters 8, Pirates 3: Boston pitcher Togie Pittinger provided nothing but cold coffee to the Pirates batsmen, offering them no more quarter than the Colombian chargé d’affaires was granted by his government upon his agreement to the Hay-Herrán Treaty. A fine how-do-you do, indeed. Yet, just as one suspects President Roosevelt will outwit the Colombians in our God-blessed endeavors to forge a great canal across the Isthmus of Darien, so too do I suspect that the men from Pittsburgh will prevail in the race for the National League Pennant.

Phillies 6, Cardinals 4: First baseman Klondike Douglass and outfielder Bill Kiester were the heroes for Philadelphia, each causing two runs to be scored. Bill Duggleby kept the batsmen from St. Louis in line. Following the completion of the contest, Homer Smoot, the Cardinals outfielder, suggested that he and his teammates were at a disadvantage by virtue of their having to spend the previous evening greasing the wheels of streetcars operated by Frank and Stanley Robinson, the owners of the Cardinals. He further suggested that, if Congress could see fit to establish a reasonable work week — perhaps, 100-140 hours — their play would be crisper and more competitive. The Robinsons, when reached for comment, decried Smoot’s sloth and suggested that if their players were granted breaks from their labors, the very foundation of Our Republic would be imperiled. Or, worse, trade unions may form.

Senators 4, Browns 2: A scant 11 days ago, Washington slugger Ed Delahanty, while traveling from Detroit to New York in a quixotic attempt to abandon his fellow Senators and join the Giants, drank five whiskeys, brandished a straight razor and was kicked off his train near Buffalo. He was last seen alive walking across the International Railway Bridge. He was last seen at all 20 miles downstream, dead, naked and battered at the bottom of Niagara Falls. I realize I am sometimes known to provide some embellishment in these accounts of the previous day’s games, my dear readers, but of this I speak only the truth.

In any event, Delahanty’s absence was not felt by his mates on this day, as first baseman Kip Selbach tripled in two of his fellow mourning teammates to defeat St. Louis’ Jack Powell. Following the victory, Selbach, in a touching tribute to the fallen Delahanty, drank six whiskeys, brandished a shillelagh and plunged off of the 11th street bridge into the Anacostia River. He was pulled out, quite alive, by a naval patrol. Selbach never was the man Delahanty was and could not match his accomplishments in most pursuits. This, apparently, proved to be no different.