Greg Gross
September 10, 2008
Chapter Three
In the 1970s everyone looked toward the sky with amazement and consternation and wonder and fear. Nuclear bombs might fall any second, hangliders and hot-air balloonists might rise. One nut strung a tightrope across the World Trade Center buildings and did his highwire act up there, and a few years later another nut climbed up the side of one of those giant doomed towers. Jonathan Livingston Seagull ruled the bestseller list with its laxative-soft tale of a noncomformist bird who flew in odd ways, outside the flock, and later in the decade the author of that book further fattened his bank account with another enormous smash entitled Illusions, a pamphlet-thin tract about a magical guru who roamed from town to town giving enlightening platitude-heavy rides in his small magical propeller airplane. Oh to fly free and easy far above all the ungroovy problems of the earth! But how free and easy was it? Bald eagles grew scarce, their endangerment symbolic in the flagging Age of Malaise. Gunpoint skyjackings and fiery crashes made even larger claims on the public imagination than usual, as evidenced by the decade-long franchise of a particular wing of the then-booming disaster movie genre (Airport, Airport 1975, Airport ’77, and The Concorde . . . Airport ’79). Meanwhile Skylab was falling, big chunks of it raining down, the once-gleaming American space program impoverished and in shambles. The sky was full of danger! Even standing around outside gazing up at the thing might get you brained by shards of flaming metal.
Greg Gross was not a guy you’d think of as being a sky-gazer. He was welded to earth, neither a guy who could “fly” on the basepaths (like two of the guys who kept him on the bench in his many years with the Phillies, Garry Maddox and Bake McBride) nor a guy (like the other fellow who kept Greg Gross on the bench, Greg Luzinski) who could hit “towering moonshots.” His combination of a complete lack of power and an utter lack of speed was as rare among outfielders then as it would be now. In seventeen seasons, he hit just seven home runs, but he erupted for five of them in the year just prior to this card. I imagine him allowing the keen focus that would allow him to compile a .287 lifetime average and a .372 lifetime on-base percentage to wander momentarily after that power barrage.
Maybe I could become one of those guys, he thinks for a second. He holds a bat in his hands as he thinks this, imagining for one second that he might yet author majestic drive after majestic drive and thus become a creature not of the earth but of the lordly sky.
But just as he thinks this the Two Freaks appear right in the center of his vision. That is to say they are flying. Or falling. It all happens very fast. There is always the whisper of doom around the Two Freaks, a sense somehow communicated even in glimpses that they can’t keep on doing what they are doing for very long. How will they eat? How will they pay the rent? For that matter how will any of us keep ourselves above the greedy pull of the ground? This all flashes past Greg Gross’s eyes in an instant to end his visions of a bevy of slugging percentage crowns. One of the Two Freaks, the curly-haired one seen elsewhere tooting a recorder, is pedaling an ungainly bicycle-powered contraption with wings, and the other, the thin longhaired one, is lashed to a giant yellow kite attached by thin string to the rear of the bike-plane.
Flying? Falling? Hard to tell. It all happens so quickly.
It always happens quickly. Greg Gross lasted 17 seasons as an earthbound hitter of singles. A long time as baseball careers go, but surely a blip in his mind by now. It all goes by quickly. It flies.
Such was the case with each ambiguous and unsettling visitation by the Two Freaks. A blink of the eye, here then gone. This must have been by design, the two figures seeking to define their doomed and beautiful decade as if whispering inaudibly the curses and praise of an institutionalized angel.
(to be continued)
***
(Love versus Hate update: Greg Gross’s back-of-the-card “Play Ball” result has been added to the ongoing contest.)
Cardboard Gods 
1. Oh, ho ho, the plot, as they say, thickens…There may prove to be something sinister here, like the “Men in Black” who appear fleetingly after the disturbing sightings of the Mothman in John Keel’s book.
Greg Gross’ career total of 7 home runs in 17 season’s may only seem lacking in power until compared to Duane Kuiper’s ONE bomb in his very long and successful career.
2. During his time with the Phillies Greg Gross came to my junior high school to give a talk.
What I still remember is he wore purple pants. This was also the headline in the school paper.
Obviously he left an impression on our young minds.
3. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?
Shields and Yarnell?
England Dan and John Ford Coley?
I’m on tenterhooks.
Retrosheet says Greg Gross hit three of those five homers at Wrigley (wind must’ve been blowing out) and the other two in back-to-back games in the launching pad that was Fulton County Stadium.
4. His final HR, his first in 9 years, was a 2-run shot in the top of the 9th off Lance McCullers in San Diego on May 27, 1987 that provided the margin of victory in a 6-4 win. He made a 17 year career out of being a very reliable pinch hitter.
5. Jaime Sommers and Steve Austin?
Steve Austin and Bigfoot?
Pink Lady and Jeff…?
I guess that would technically be Three Freaks, though apart from the language differences, Kei and Mie didn’t seem especially freakish. Jeff, on the other hand, that boy wasn’t right.
6. Seals and Crofts? “Summer breeze, makes me feel fine…”
7. There’s a man on 43rd street in Manhattan, a block away from grand central station. Every day this guy sets up a table, and puts out cardboard boxes full of unopened plastic packages. Future Cardboard Gods, I guess you could call them. This block isn’t particularly tourist-filled, as they’d run towards the ‘I Heart NYC’ stores or be too busy glancing up to see the Chrysler building tower over Grand Central to notice a simple folding table cluttered with boxes and boxes of cards.
It’s the office guys who stop. It’s hard not to, when an unopened silver package of 15 cards has Ken Griffey Jr. on it’s cover with ‘$3.50 or 2/$5’ scribbled on it in black marker glisten shines up at you.
That guy is a priest. And that folding table is an alter for the Cardboard Gods. =)