Probably not a name that anyone recognizes, so let me explain.
When I was younger, my family used to go to the Iowa Cubs (the AAA team of the Chicago Cubs)games pretty regularly. Old Sec Taylor stadium stood on the Des Moines river near downtown. I loved the old park. The outfield walls were made of wood painted with advertisements and had no bleachers beyond them. And the beer soaked cement floors and seats weren't comfortable exactly, but they were worn in a way that was home. They've since replaced this stadium with a newer, more modern stadium. I haven't been there in a while, so it's hard to remember all the differences, but there's more bricks, more lights and the parking lot is cement. (That's actually a big difference. I remember the lots being a dirt road that had been worn by people driving in and parking. At the end of games, we'd look around for foul balls or homers depending on where we parked. You could count on a couple to hide under a car or behind some unkept grass. With the cement though, whatever the kids outside during games don't get will run into the river.) It's a nice new stadium. But doesn't have the charm I associate with the stadium I saw when I was a kid.
(Digression. It was at this stadium that I met Greg Maddux and realized what an asshole he is. The story: I was 8 or so and wandering down by the bleachers sort of mindlessly. I took my seat and saw a pitcher on the bullpen mound standing a couple feet from the fence along the left field line. We used to get there early so we could try to get autographs and such, as these were going to be the next big stars of the Cubs [if there ever was such a thing], but we'd also get to see the pitchers warm-up. I loved watching this. Hearing the smack of the ball in the mitt--it really is the greatest sound in the world. So I'm sitting there waiting for the pitcher to start his tosses. He's got his back to me, starting from the stretch, which did seem odd, now that I--he turns and throws the ball directly at me. I jump. Well, he didn't throw the ball, but he had turned so quickly and whipped his arm around. He had been practicing his pickoffs. So what does a future Cy Young Award Winner and greatest pitcher of his generation do when he sees that he's scared an 8 year old? That fucker giggles. I like to think his pickoff move never developed and the fact that you can steal bases off him almost at will is due to his guilt at being such a asshole. But, it's probably because he's still giggling.)
Despite my love of the Carinals, the Iowa Cubs were the home team, and I would root for them when they weren't playing the Memphis Redbirds (the Cardinals AAA team.) And for a while, they had a first basemen named Joe Hicks, who I loved. I'm not sure if it was anything beyond us having the same first name (Joe!), but I was young, I didn't need anything more. He was a first baseman, so I should be a first baseman (though I couldn't be because Christopher Ringleb was our firstbaseman. He was also a twat.), his number was 33 (thus the thinking of him today), so I should be #33 (which also couldn't happen because little league numbers were 1 through 14 or 15. So I was 9, for Terry Pendleton, who I also loved because they made me third base and Pendleton was the Cards 3b at the time). I remember one of his at-bats distinctly. He came up with the bases loaded. I don't remember the outs or the inning. I just remember being excited seeing him stride to the plate. And he did not dissappoint (I don't think he ever did). He smacked a ball into right field. And though Joe was not a fast man (neither was I!), he legged out a triple as everyone around me cheered and yelled. It was probably that moment that sealed the love of baseball in me (also the love of the triple. I know it's not as efficient as a home run, but it's so much more powerful in a way). He was officially my first hero who wasn't my dad or the generic idea of a fireman.
It seemed that Joe was in Des Moines for most of my childhood while I was going to games, and I loved it. He probably would rather have been in Chicago. His statistics show him as a pretty good player, though he was blocked by Leon Durham. He spent a year in Japan and came back for another little bit. This story tells of Hicks really well.
I guess I'm tempted to find it depressing that my slugging hero is now a chiropracter in Kokomo, Indiana (but I find all of Indiana depressing). It's hard not to, when you think about the dreams I had for him (and he probably had for himself). If he had made it to Chicago and done well, that would've been a different path for me. I would've bought Cubs hats and his Jersey. I would've wanted him to succeed. 1984 would've broken my heart, yet steeled my fanhood. I would've been a Cubs fan. Joe Hicks had the power to lead me to the Cubs. And to so much suffering. Whoa. Would I have watched the Cardinals win the title in 2006 (over the Tigers) and felt upset for having left them? Would I hate Albert Pujols? Wow. I would've been Bizarro Joe.
That's fucking frightening. In a weird way, I have to thank the Cubs managment for missing on Mr. Hicks and saving me from them. And I am now scared straight. (Bitching about Aaron Miles and Cesar Izturiz isn't nearly as bad as what it could be.)
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