When Max Patkin, who resembles a battered utility pole with sputtering water fountain attached, surfaced at bucolic Elfstrom Stadium in west suburban Geneva Tuesday evening, it was a case of new park, old shtick.
The tidy field is home to the Kane County Cougars, the Chicago area`s one minor league baseball team. This night, it was a stage for Patkin, a curious piece of Americana: the ”clown prince of baseball” who`s passed through nearly as many towns as Amtrak.
It was Geneva this night, then off to Portland, Ore.; Vancouver; Norfolk, Va.; Huntsville, Ala.; and Nashville before returning home to Philadelphia. It`s been this way for 47 years.
”Herniated disc, glaucoma, prostate operation, degenerative knees, fallen arches and a hiatal hernia, and I still haven`t missed a show in 47 years,” he said to a captive dugout audience of Cougars, 19- and 20-year-olds chewing wads of gum and craving to make the majors from this entry-level, Class A affiliate of the Baltimore Orioles.
”I`ve been in places like New Iberia, La., and seen mosquitoes so
(expletive deleted) big they thought my nose was a landing field,” said the man with a very large nose and penchant for off-color adjectives and nouns.
”Hey, I know New Iberia,” said a crew-cut Cougar and son of the South.
Patkin chatted on, oblivious. There`ve been many thousands of such kids. They come and go. Only Patkin, a last vaudevillian in a video age, has endured, a bit shopworn but unable to spurn a few more nights of slapstick and guffaws from the stands.
He`s 72. He began his career with the Wisconsin Rapids, a White Sox farm club then, but gave up with a bum pitching arm six years later. While a player, he had gained mild renown for coaching first base at times, using his gangly frame and ample schnoz to elicit laughs as he aped on-field action.
His playing career shot, he was hired by showman Bill Veeck to be a two-innings-a-night first-base coach for Veeck`s then pathetic Cleveland Indians at $650 a month (not bad in the 1940s). His first game was memorable as 80,000 showed up at Cleveland`s Municipal Stadium to honor legends Ty Cobb, Tris Speaker and a cancer-ridden Babe Ruth.
Ruth was gaunt and ”hardly able to talk,” says Patkin, who recalls being nearby as a dying Ruth spied an old enemy, then summoned enough energy to declare, ”I hate that (s.o.b.).”
When the Indians improved and became creditable, Veeck ditched his two-legged sideshow. But Patkin forged on, working trade shows with Jim Thorpe and touring with the Harlem Globetrotters, though minor league baseball was his forte. He`s performed at more than 3,000 such games in a tattered uniform with a question mark on the back; encountered most of the game`s big stars when they were unknowns; and played himself in ”Bull Durham” (the director knew Patkin from his own minor league days in Sacramento, Calif.).
With agreement of both sides, Patkin performs for parts of three innings in the middle of a game, coaching first base, then third and finally taking a few swings at home. He also drinks enough water so that, for what seems at least 10 minutes, he alternately jabbers to the crowd and spews liquid like a geyser.
The banter is well-practiced.
When the crowd didn`t respond to a line, he yelled with mock derision,
”Basketball crowd,” or: ”Take it easy, there`s nothing else to do in this town. I spent a month here one night.” Amid cheering as an opposing player struck out: ”Don`t laugh, lady, you`ll have kids of your own one day.”
At times, he came off as a cross between Chuck Berry and Don Rickles, lurching about like a giraffe on roller skates.
When the scoreboard sought to rouse the crowd with a flashing ”Charge”
sign, he shouted, ”That`s what she said to me last night.” Throwing dirt in his own face, he declared, ”Now I look like a Dominican.”
In the dugout, his banter with players verged on the X-rated. At one point, a young fan was brought into the dugout to appear in a between-innings promotional race with the Cougar mascot. The boy`s mother (”We get the Tribune every Sunday,” she noted, ”for the coupons”) cringed upon hearing snippets, clearly hoping her anxious son`s attention was fixed elsewhere.
”I once mooned the crowd in Lethbridge, Canada. There was snow on the ground and maybe 50 people in the stands,” said Patkin. ”I was never invited back.”
But there`s been work for a man who toils alone and books himself rather than use an agent. He once did 90 to 100 games a season; now it`s about 50. The money is decent. He didn`t want to discuss that, but it`s thought that he gets about $1,500 for his travel to and appearance at a game.
”I work on a straight guarantee, not a percentage of the gate. I don`t make anything near what the Chicken makes,” he said, alluding to the one-man act that tours different sports events and has hatched many immitators.
Sports have changed dramatically before his eyes. Fans expect to be entertained. Scoreboards and public-address announcers keep up a non-stop, often brainless, stream of huckstering. Team mascots are almost de rigueur.
”They used to come for a ballgame; now they want to be entertained,”
said Patkin.
It`s a stiff challenge to a yesteryear brand of amusement. Still, minor league crowds remain ”more conducive to my work” than the big leagues, he explained, noting the parks` intimacy and absence of millionaire superstars to steal the spotlight.
Patkin`s first wife died and he`s divorced from his second, living alone outside Philadelphia.
He`d love three more seasons, to get to the 50-year mark.
”As long as I have kids and families in the stands, I`m in good shape,” said the clown prince.
As for the young Cougars, chasing their dream, his simple advice comes with a smile: ”Get to the big leagues so you don`t have to watch my
(expletive deleted) act.”
The Tribune reported Thursday that cable`s Turner Broadcasting System will air a 30-minute documentary that supports the controversial French abortion pill RU 486. It`s the handiwork of the Women`s Issues Network, a group of prominent Chicago women, many with ample disposable income. Actress Cybil Shepherd serves as on-air host.
The documentary is far from neutral and was a tough potential sell to caution-filled commercial networks. That`s why a letter from Playboy Enterprises Inc. Chairman Christie Hefner was key.
She wrote Mr. Jane Fonda-oh, you know him-whom she`s known from her firm`s involvement in the cable industry. Her pitch included enclosing a tape of the documentary. It didn`t hurt that she knows Fonda herself from California politics.
A week later, Scott Sassa, a former Playboy Enterprises executive who is president of Turner Entertainment Networks, called back to say the boss was impressed. Negotiations ensued, and the documentary will air Sept. 21 as part of a two-hour special on abortion.
Hefner figured that the best hopes would be a cable network or PBS. ”But even PBS has become leary of controversial matters,” she says. She`s got that right.
This week`s Sucker Bet, or data for a late-night tavern wager:
How many cars get washed on a good day at Turtlewax Car Wash and Auto Appearance Center, 1550 N. Fremont Ave.?
According to manager Bob Formosa, the best days are Saturdays during the winter, when, at $6.95 a shot, about 550 come through.
NBC wants its stations to do their utmost to create suspense for its prime-time Olympic broadcasts and interest in buying its cable Triplecast. Chicago`s WMAQ-Ch. 5 will zealously heed the call.
A memo last week informed the staff that, ”During our afternoon news programs we do not want to give results of events that took place during the late morning and early afternoon” but will ”tease” the network coverage to ”maximize the audience during prime time.”
Remember, there`s a seven-hour time difference between here and Barcelona. Almost all of a day`s events will be over when Channel 5`s afternoon news comes on.
Despite the fact that you`ll be able to get the results from myriad TV and radio outlets, the station that not long ago was our ”24-Hour News Source” won`t tell you. Now that`s corporate loyalty!
