Flakes

Flake” is a technical baseball term defined loosely as a player who displays occasionally dramatic oddities of character. There was a time, not so very long ago, when a Texas Ranger “flake” could be defined as a player who complained about runny milk shakes in the hotel coffee shop. For too many seasons, the Ranger roster was one of the least entertaining in baseball.

The early Texas Rangers, the Bob Short-owned Rangers, managed to distinguish themselves only by fielding the worst outfield in the 102-year history of the game (LF Rico “Beeg Boy” Cart y, RF Jeff “I Hate the Wind” Burroughs, CF Alex “Who Cares” Johnson). And when the club passed into the puffy hands of Bradford G. Corbett, it looked like more of the same dreariness – Brad appeared timid, naive, and secretive in his first press conference. But before too long, the true crap-shooter ’s instincts began to sparkle from the Fort Worth pipe baron. And Mr. Corbett began making small roster additions befitting his own rather flaky personality.

A favorite recollection comes to mind: watching the Corbett entourage invade the modest Ranger spring training facility in Pompano Beach in 1975. Led by Corbett, the group consisted of Brad’s family, a handful of Robintech vice-presidents, a number of foreign-looking clients, and a muscular male Doberman Pinscher.



“Where’d you get the dog, Brad?”



“He belongs to my new center fielder, ” replied Corbett, his eyes pointing proudly to the lone figure of Willie Davis in left field. There lay Willie in an embryonic yoga position, loosening up for the game by chanting mysterious Eastern incantations.

Unfortunately, Corbett’s first attempt at sponsoring a talented flake went soggy. Weird Willie continued to play the shallowest center field in the majors even though he was too old to run to the warning track; his arm compared unfavorably with Bert Campaneris’ command of the English language. But Bradford didn’t give up, offering tryouts to other established flakes of high repute – Bob “Wolfman” Johnson, Clyde Wright, and the dual entry of Mike Kekich and Fritz Peterson.

Still, it wasn’t until the current edition of the Rangers that Corbett hit the flake motherlode with the likes of Dock Ellis, Jim Kern, Sparky Lyle, Richie Zisk, and Pat Putnam. This 1979 Ranger All-Flake Team may qualify the Rangers as the goofiest team in the majors. It’s just a shame that Billy Martin isn’t here to manage them.

Jim Kern,

like the other members of the all-flake team, was given a questionnaire to complete in preparation of his flake statistics. Later, he was asked if he’d enjoyed the questionnaire. “I liked Page Two the best, “he replied, waving two half-eaten 8 1/2 x 11 pieces of paper. “But I’m just now getting to the good part. ” He then finished off the questionnaire, snatched a reporter’s note pad and ate the top page, and walked quietly off to the whirlpool.

Kern readily admits that his flakiness is at least partly contrived. He has professional reasons for burning Danny Darwin’s shoes; it is for the sake of his career that he flaps away from a post-game television interview doing his Great Emu squawk. Because an opposing batter just might think twice about Kern’s fastball when he learns that the night before the game Kern spied on his teammates in a hotel bar by hiding alone for half an hour behind the potted plants.

Sparky Lyle once arrived at Yankee spring training camp in a coffin. For all observers, it was a major comic event; for Sparky it was just another day of showbiz at the ballpark.

The unflappable Lyle does still get a chuckle out of one particular clubhouse event he staged, the party he threw in New York for the inaugural visit to the dressing room by female reporters, a much-ballyhooed cause in the Eastern press. Women reporters with no sports credentials were assigned to enter the locker rooms for the occasion. Upon entering, the ladies were greeted by a cake, provided by Sparky, molded in the shape of a penis and decorated with the words “For all female reporters. Compliments of the New York Yankees. ” (Taking a cue from the dry Lyle style, Yankee president Al Rosen, when informed of the cake by an incensed female reporter, replied, “What color is it?”)

A man of letters (“Looks like I’ve gone from Cy Young to Sayonara”) and numbers (he paid Steve Comer $1000 for the uniform number 28), Lyle is noted among sports-writers for his handling of interviews after tough losses. After giving up the game-losing hit, he sits at his locker; the press approaches; before a question can be asked, Sparky yells out, “It was a bleeping hanging slider!”

This year’s sleeper flake surfaced in the clubhouse in rumors and whispers. “Hey, ask Putnam about the time he put out Comer’s face when it was on fire. ” And, “Ever hear about the time in Class A ball when Putnam shaved his entire head and left the sideburns?”

Pat Putnam, a rookie and the only non-millionaire on the all-flake team, displays major league flake talents: He puts out flames with his tongue, he eats ballpoint pens, and he does a Mister Bill imitation that ranks about 8 on a JO scale. But his selection for the squad over veteran flake Oscar Gamble was undoubtedly nailed down by his “feeding Shamu. ” After every Ranger victory, Putnam submerges in the whirlpool as most of the team gathers round. Then trainer Bill Ziegler dangles a hot dog above the pool. Putnam lunges out of the tub, seizes the hot dog in his teeth, and dives again. “Last night, ” he complains, “when I came over the side I hurt my flipper. “

After a Shamu hot dog, he’s prone to put out a cigar with his tongue. Why? “When I was five years old, I drank some poison. I think that did it. “

When Eddie Stanky made big news by resigning as Ranger manager after only one game, a local sportswriter confided that he blamed Dock Ellis for the early departure. “Don’t get me wrong, ” said the writer. “I don’t think Dock said ’boo ’ to the guy directly. But imagine being out of the game for 20 years and your idea of bizarre behavior is Rocky Colavito exercising with the bat behind his back. Next thing you’re a manager getting on the Ranger team bus only to see this bald black man wearing a diamond earring and wondering out loud ’why no niggers ever play on the left side of the infield. ’ “

Manhattan Dock established his flake reputation several seasons ago in Pittsburgh when he showed up for batting practice wearing pink hair curlers. He polished his act here in Texas under Billy Hunter with his well-remembered comment on the tight-fisted manager: “He’s Hitler, but he ain’t gonna make no lampshade out ta me. “

Dock, who lists his occupation as “minority millionaire, ” was genuinely pleased to make the all-flake squad. “We have arisen. The flaky fans out there have some people to identify with now. Isn’t that right, Bump? Oh, Bump. Oh gee whillikers, Bump.”

Editor’s note: Alas, on the evening this magazine went to press, Manhattan Dock was traded to the New York Mets – a severe blow to the A11-Flake Team.

Richie Zisk claims he is haunted. “I’d say Alex is about five-eight or five-nine, ” he says. “Yes, probably five-nine. Next Sunday, when we weigh in, I’ll have Alex there and. . . “

“Who is Alex, Richie?”

“Oh, Alex is my friend who haunts me. Right now I’m the only one who can see him. But someday you’ll be able to see him. Honest. “

Zisk, who holds the National League record for seeing Jaws (eight times), was dubbed the “Polish Prince” in Chicago. In Arlington, though, he’s “Scorpio ” after being bitten by a scorpion under the dugout last season. Most of Zisk’s flakiness is not public, though he occasionally destroys a water cooler or a bat rack. “I’ve never been caught at the scene of a crime, yet somehow the word always gets around that I could have played a role. ” Says one teammate, “For everyone else on the all-flake team I can see a kind of method in their madness. Not Zisk. I wonder about that boy. “

Zisk is a pro wrestling aficionado (“Alex once haunted Killer Karl Kox”) but otherwise says he’s not much of a night person. “But Alex is. Alex is a bar hopper and he keeps late hours. Like right now, he’s late for batting practice. “