One of my all-time favorite people is the editor of this paper, Tim Whyte. For decades, we’ve played on the same team of Journalism here at The Mighty Signal. The most heated argument we’ve ever had was over whether the word, “numbnuts,” was hyphenated. 

As you can likely guess, it was in my column. Not his. 

Tim was going through one of those awkward periods where he and the AP Stylebook were hyphenating everything, like, the word, “teenage.” AP and Tim felt strongly that “teenage” deserved that little tiny half-a-dash betwixt, which I rightly felt was, ahem — “whack-a-doodle.” 

“What’s next?” I asked. “Hyphenating ‘New-hall?’” Or, if AP had its way, “Newh-all.” 

Like an Old Testament prophet, Mr. Whyte held up the AP Stylebook. 

You know what? Tim and I argued like sensible men. We may have released heavy, put-upon sighs or shaken our heads over the better use of our valuable time. We may have even taken a moment of silence to stare out the window at the car lot across the street and pondered that instead of going into newspapering, maybe we should have been cops or investment bankers. 

To our credit, Tim and I didn’t scream or become so unhinged, 9 inches of white surrounded our pupils. We didn’t swear. Throw chairs. Bump chests. Threaten. Loudly question our choices in moms or wives. Run down the hallway like an insane chimp, uprooting the sickly office Ficus tree and making bluff charges.  

You know. Like baseball players? 

I didn’t trash Tim’s office, although, frankly, who’d notice? 

I was disappointed, but not surprised, at the recent tantrum by Team USA after losing to Venezuela in the World Baseball Classic. Several members of our squad were seen ripping the silver medals from their necks in disgust after losing the recently conquered nation, 3-2. It was the second straight time the Americans lost in the title game. Right after being honored by Major League Baseball’s commish, Bob Manfred, some from the good ol’ U.S.A.’s team didn’t hide their disgust. To their high class and credit, they didn’t rub the second-place medallions on their butts while making Pee-wee (hyphenated) Herman raspberry noises. 

Years ago, I applied for my first bank loan. It was for a big-asterisks motorcycle. I did get the loan. But, if I hadn’t? I wouldn’t have gotten an inch away from the loan officer’s face, sprayed him with spittle and questioned his math and procreational skills. I’ve asked girls out on dates. Some (the near-sighted ones) said no. I didn’t kick dirt on their Espadrilles nor loudly suggest, in front of 25,000 lip-reading people, that, for money, their moms were overly friendly with the Coast Guard. Hard to believe? Some people in town don’t like my literary style. I don’t find out their address, show up at their house and scream at them through the screen door. 

Why is it baseball players can get away with, again, no offense to the Pan troglodytes, such chimp-like behavior? 

Who can forget the famous Pine Tar Incident? In the 1992 Yankees-Royals game, Hall of Famer George Brett hit a two-run dinger in the ninth to lift Kansas City up 5-4. Brett was tossed because his pine tar was higher than 18 inches up his bat. Brett went rodeo bull on steroids and pretty much everyone in New York City had to restrain him from attacking the ump. 

One of my favorite tantrums was actually the apology afterward. We’ve all seen a batsman return to the dugout to destroy the furniture. In 2018, Carlos Gomez struck out with runners on and two outs. It was later proved that the second strike actually hit him. Furious, the Tampa Bay Devil Ray used his bat to fatally beat the be-what’s-it’s out of one water cooler, then punched another. Gomez later made an Instagram video, apologizing to water coolers everywhere. 

Ty Cobb had a legendary temper. Back in 1912, he ran from the plate to attack a heckler in the stands, beating the holy heck out of the fan. It turned out, the rooter was crippled and didn’t have use of his hands. When asked later about the incident, Cobb calmly replied, “I don’t care if he had no feet.”  

Remember Carlos Zambrano? Few do. The hot-headed 2010 Cub was constantly in fights — with his own teammates. The Chicago pitcher murdered a Gatorade tub after giving up five home runs in a game, trashed the dugout and threatened to quit. The Cubs said okey-doke and fired him before he could compose his letter of resignation. 

Talk about smashing the hand that feeds you, in 2004, the moody Yankee hurler Kevin Brown delivered a particularly suckee performance and was pulled from the mound. He hauled off and threw a mighty overhand right into the clubhouse wall and busted his throwing hand. He was accused of steroid use and, in retirement (I love this) was involved in, as his Georgia police report indicated, “… several handgun incidents.” 

Heavens. The duality of humanity. There was an Indian tribe up in Washington state that, up until the late 19th century, had an extremely strict taboo, with severe consequences, for stealing. Yet, there was the taught expectation that everyone in the tribe was expected steal. Go figure. 

There’s this American cultural acceptance to baseball that grown millionaires, dressed in clownish pajamas, should go berserk over a disputed call. Frequently, the phenomenon of the baseball brawl erupts and it’s rarely much of a fight, more of a sissy air-slap fest and blouse-tearing contest. 

For the life of me, I could never understand why all the heightened emotional conflict, fisticuffs and rage in baseball. 

I mean, it’s not like the other guy tried to hyphenate — “numbnuts …” 

“Naked Came the Novelist,” John Boston’s long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch,” is on sale at JohnBoston-Books.com. (It should be a movie.) So are other fine books, including his two-part “SCV Monsters” series. A lifelong SCV resident with 119 major writing awards and nearly 12,000 columns, Boston is Earth history’s most prolific humorist and satirist.

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