SBNation.com: All Posts by David Davishttps://cdn.vox-cdn.com/community_logos/46737/sbn-fave.png2013-06-20T10:48:31-04:00https://www.sbnation.com/authors/david-davis/rss2013-06-20T10:48:31-04:002013-06-20T10:48:31-04:00'She is gone!'
<figure>
<img alt="" src="https://cdn.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/ORK3n1jSlfjmhdJ-frcqcHalUHY=/103x0:1844x1161/1310x873/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/15100405/gibsonlede2.0.jpg" />
</figure>
<p>The search for the Gibson home run ball and for the answers to a family tragedy</p> <div class="main-wrap">
<p>Kirk Gibson is sitting in the visitors' dugout two hours before game time. The Arizona Diamondbacks manager is watching his players stretch and take batting practice before they meet the Dodgers in an early-season divisional match-up.</p>
<p>It's disconcerting to see Gibson in Dodger Stadium wearing road gray and red. He will forever be a hero in Los Angeles because of one indelible moment in one impossible season. In 1988, Gibson carried an undermanned Dodgers team to the NL pennant, past the heavily favored Mets, and into the World Series against the even more heavily favored Oakland A's.</p>
<p>The effort had so physically punished Gibson's legs that he could not walk out onto the field for the player introductions before Game 1 of the Series. He was not in the starting lineup; it was unclear whether he would be able to play at all.</p>
<p>Somehow, Gibson summoned the strength to pinch-hit with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning, the Dodgers trailing by one run. He hobbled to the plate and looked terribly off-balance early in the count, squibbing weak foul balls against Dennis Eckersley, the best closer in baseball.</p>
<p>Then came Eckersley's 3-2 offering — and instant immortality.</p>
<p>You've seen the replay a million times. Gibson awkwardly reaches down and muscles the ball over the head of right-fielder Jose Canseco and into the stands next to the visiting team's bullpen.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet floated-snippet-right">
<p><iframe frameborder="0" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/0toCMwEBwLo" height="315" width="560"></iframe></p>
</div>
<p>He gimps around the bases, punching his fist in the air. All of Dodger Stadium — all of Los Angeles — erupts as Vin Scully, the bard of Chavez Ravine, punctuates the moment: "She is ... GAAAWWWNNN!"</p>
<p>In the distance the brake lights of a car flash red, as if the early-exiting driver realized, "Oh, crap, we just missed the greatest single moment in L.A. Dodger history."</p>
<p>Gibson never played again in the Series. He didn't have to. A team with a lineup featuring the likes of Danny Heep, Mickey Hatcher and Jeff Hamilton — what broadcaster Bob Costas accurately described as one of the worst ever fielded in the World Series – finished off the powerhouse A's with Canseco, Mark McGwire, Dave Parker, Terry Steinbach, and Carney Lansford in five games.</p>
<p>Some 25 years later, the Dodgers have yet to win another World Series. Heck, they've yet to <i>return</i> to the World Series.</p>
<p>On this day, as the afternoon sun bakes the dugout, I ask Gibson if he thinks about the home run when he returns to Dodger Stadium. He nods and peers down the right-field foul line. "I walk in here and always look up at where I hit the ball," he said. "I kind of named it myself: seat 88 for 1988."</p>
<p>Gibson has probably talked about this moment a thousand times, maybe more, but he seems in no hurry. "It's very vivid to this day," he continued. "I was in the locker room listening to Vin [Scully] on the TV saying, 'Kirk Gibson will not be hitting tonight,' and I just said, 'My ass.' I really had no business going up there to the plate. But, you know, it's what I live for. I felt like my teammates wanted me to do it."</p>
<p>I've arranged to interview Gibson because I'm trying to figure out what happened to the home run ball after it disappeared into the scrum in right field. Gibson himself never saw the ball again, and no fan came forward that evening, or the next day, claiming to have recovered it.</p>
<p>It is gone, permanently.</p>
<p>But this quest, I'm beginning to realize, is also personal. I had tickets to the very section where Gibson deposited his homer, but I didn't attend the game. I can recall exactly where I was when he hit it out — which might explain why, 25 years later, I am trying to locate a ball that will never be found.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet floated-snippet-right">
<p> </p>
<h2>My sister had gone into the back bedroom of our parents' apartment and shot herself.</h2>
<p> </p>
</div>
<p>The phone call came early in the morning on Sept. 5, 1986. I was immersed in the drudgery that paid my share of the rent, proofreading financial documents for a printing company, when my boss pulled me aside. On the line was my family from 3,000 miles away. My sister had gone into the back bedroom of our parents' apartment and shot herself.</p>
<p>This is what shock looks like: I hung up the phone, returned to my desk, picked up a piece of paper, and began to proofread it. One of my roommates had to rescue me from myself, ferry me to LAX, and put me on a plane to New York.</p>
<p>My sister and I were two years apart and very close. The one difference was that Margot appeared to have won the genetic lottery. She had long black hair that she parted in the middle, and played a mean game of basketball (and field hockey and lacrosse). She was pretty and smart.</p>
<p>Mental illness is none of those. It is wicked and merciless. It preyed on my sister until, on the morning she was scheduled to enter a facility for treatment, she ended her life. She would have turned 26 the following week.</p>
<p>I was 24 and living in a strange city far from my family. Here's a news flash: I was unhinged for a while. I drank to forget everything and drank to remember every detail. I ingested a variety of illegal substances that numbed the mind. I slept 12 hours a day, but was always exhausted. When people spoke to me, their words sounded like they were coming from underwater.</p>
<p>I didn't recover so much as endure, one step forward to three staggers backward. I read everything I could in a futile attempt to comprehend her death, from "When Bad Things Happen to Good People" to Emile Durkheim's classic, groundbreaking treatise on suicide. I memorized the so-called five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.</p>
<p>"Stages" implies a beginning and an end. Grief after suicide — and, I imagine, after other types of death — does not parse so neatly. A year passed, then more, and the pain didn't diminish. What I was left with was unrelenting sadness and a slew of unanswerable questions: Why? How did we not see her extreme agony?</p>
<p>In the spring of 1988, I found myself living in Echo Park, a rough-and-tumble neighborhood in northeast Los Angeles that was years from hipster gentrification. I could walk from my rental to Dodger Stadium in about 10 minutes. The sprawling ballyard was a revelation compared to the stadium of my youth, cramped and noisy Shea, hard by the subway and LaGuardia.</p>
<p>Going to Dodger games became therapy and escape. Looking out from the top level, downtown L.A. appeared as a breathtaking, steel-and-glass silhouette. From the cheap seats high above home plate, the San Gabriel Mountains shimmered with an almighty glow. The old-timey organ music, the straw bowler-wearing ushers, and the smell of grilled Dodger Dogs gave the place a cozy feel.</p>
</div>
<div class="chorus-snippet browser_wide_media"><span>
<a href="http://assets.sbnation.com/assets/2814321/351981.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="351981_medium" class="photo" src="http://assets.sbnation.com/assets/2814321/351981.jpg"></a>
<em class="caption">Getty Images</em> </span></div>
<div class="main-wrap">
<div class="chorus-snippet floated-snippet-left">
<p> </p>
<h2>Going to Dodger games became therapy and escape.</h2>
<p> </p>
</div>
<p>The long-ago move from Brooklyn had transformed the Dodgers from loveable, hard-scrabbled losers — "Dem Bums," as rendered by cartoonist Willard Mullin — into a West Coast juggernaut. The team had won four World Series titles since 1958. The farm system churned out rookie-of-the-year candidates, and the Dodgers routinely topped three million in attendance.</p>
<p>Their snappy blue-and-white uniforms signified tradition and ingenuity. They were Pee Wee Reese and Duke Snider and Jackie Robinson, they were Sandy Koufax and Fernando-mania (with Hideo Nomo soon to open the Pacific rim); they were Vero Beach and the O'Malley family; they were Garvey-Lopes-Russell-Cey and Tommy Lasorda's wall of celebrity photographs and Frank Sinatra singing the Anthem on Opening Day.</p>
<p>They also possessed the most precious asset in the discombobulated and far-flung region known as "The Southland": Vin Scully, the spoken-word laureate of the diamond. When Vin told listeners to "pull up a chair," you simply did because it sounded like he was speaking directly to you.</p>
<p>No doubt, a reactionary streak lurked within Blue Heaven. Many residents who lived near Chavez Ravine resented the sweetheart land-deal presented to owner Walter O'Malley by the city of Los Angeles, one that permanently disrupted a quiet, predominantly Mexican-American neighborhood. The club could have hired the first African-American manager, with former infield star Jim Gilliam, but chose Lasorda instead. (The team of Jackie and Fernando has yet to select an African-American or Latino manager, thus squandering its reputation as a progressive franchise.) Centerfield prospect Glenn Burke was traded away in 1978 in no small part because he was gay, if not publicly "out."</p>
<p>There was a sneaking sense that, in the fledgling era of free agency, the much-ballyhooed "Dodger Way" was no longer relevant. The death of O'Malley in 1979 left the team in control of his son, Peter, who displayed none of the visionary ruthlessness of his father. The young corps of prospects — e.g., Mike Marshall, Greg Brock, Dave Anderson — was not as good as advertised. Critics harped that Lasorda overworked his pitchers (see Valenzuela, Fernando) and bungled situational matchups (see Clark, Jack); critics charged that Lasorda's solitary title, from the World Series played after the strike-shortened 1981 season, deserved an asterisk.</p>
<p>This was mere prelude to the incident that irrevocably shattered the franchise. In April of 1987, Dodgers' longtime general manage Al Campanis was invited to appear on the television program "Nightline." The show was intended to be a valentine to the national pastime on the 40th anniversary of the integration of baseball by Jackie Robinson. This was not only the proudest moment in Dodger history, but perhaps in all of American sports.</p>
<p>In response to a comment made by fellow guest and "Boys of Summer" author Roger Kahn, "Nightline" host Ted Koppel asked Campanis why there were no African-American managers or general managers currently in the Major Leagues.</p>
<p>His reply was stunning in its inanity. "I truly believe that they may not have some of the necessities to be, let's say, a field manager, or perhaps a general manager," he said. Campanis followed that with more nonsense: "Why are black men or black people not good swimmers? Because they don't have the buoyancy."</p>
<p>Campanis was fired that week. Fred Claire, a former sportswriter, took over as general manager, and L.A. sank to fourth in the division.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet floated-snippet-right">
<p> </p>
<h2>We painted our chests blue and orange when the Mets came.</h2>
<br><a href="http://assets.sbnation.com/assets/2810179/1404904.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="1404904_medium" class="photo" src="http://assets.sbnation.com/assets/2810179/1404904.jpg"></a><em class="caption">Getty Images</em>
</div>
<p>I followed the Dodgers' travails closely, but without getting emotionally involved. As a born-and-bred Mets fan, I was still high from the 1986 miracle. With an enviable mix of veterans and young stars — Darryl Strawberry, Dwight Gooden, Keith Hernandez, Gary Carter, Lenny Dykstra, David Cone — the pieces seemed in place for dominance well into the 1990s.</p>
<p>The Mets went 100-60 in 1988, winning the NL East by 15 games, and took 10-of-11 games from the Dodgers during the regular season. My college buddies and I were so puffed-up proud that we painted our chests blue and orange when the Mets came to Dodger Stadium. (I mentioned that I was unhinged, right?)</p>
<p>Which isn't to say that the Dodgers were awful. Claire had engineered a quick turnaround by signing Kirk Gibson (declared a free agent in the offseason because of collusion) and trading for shortstop Alfredo Griffin and reliever Jay Howell. The key acquisition was Gibson, who had led the Detroit Tigers to the 1984 World Series title with two homers in the decisive Game 5.</p>
<p>Gibson hit .290 with 25 homers and 31 stolen bases in 1988. He brought gritty leadership, clutch hitting, and a football player's mentality to a locker room that was, by all accounts, SoCal soft. "To say that Kirk Gibson is intense is like saying Greta Garbo is quiet or Wilt Chamberlain is tall," L.A. Times columnist Jim Murray wrote.</p>
<p>Gibson's MVP season was overshadowed by the career year of Orel Hershiser. The lanky pitcher looked like a high school math teacher off the mound, but he was a determined gamer on it. He dominated opponents during the second half of the season, reeling off 59 consecutive scoreless innings to top Don Drysdale's mark. He finished 23-8, with a 2.26 ERA and the Cy Young award, in leading the Dodgers to the NL West crown.</p>
<p>It was my hometown Mets against my new city, L.A., for the pennant.</p>
<p>I was so confident in the Mets that, to this day, it's difficult to comprehend how they lost their way. They won the first game, defeating Hershiser and breaking the sacred scoreless streak, and were three outs away from taking a three-games-to-one lead, with Gooden cruising in Game 4. But catcher Mike Scioscia went deep to tie it in the top of the ninth, and then Gibson won it with a homer in the 12th.</p>
<p>Gibson had another game-winning homer in the series, and Hershiser shut out the Mets in Game 7. The Strawberry-Gooden "dynasty" was over before it had begun. The Dodgers were moving on to face the Oakland Athletics in the World Series.</p>
<p>If anything, the A's were better than the Mets. They had won 104 games and swept the Boston Red Sox in the AL playoffs. Canseco was the first-ever 40 home run, 40 steal player in baseball, and Eckersley had resurrected his career in the pen and registered 45 saves for manager Tony LaRussa.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Gibson had severely injured his right knee while trying to break up a double play during Game 7 against the Mets. Combined with the troublesome hamstring pull behind his left knee, the Dodgers' best player could barely walk. He was likely to miss Game 1 and, perhaps, the entire Series.</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p>I don't remember how I learned that the Dodgers were selling a few hundred general admission tickets to the Series. Maybe I saw a blurb in the newspaper; maybe I heard Vin say something on the radio. Somehow, I scored two seats in the right field pavilion for Game 1. Face value was $40 each.</p>
<p>This was going to be my first World Series game, and I was very excited. Until I realized that I had a conflict: I had made plans to spend time with my mother.</p>
<p>In the aftermath of my sister's suicide, my family struggled to regain a sense of equilibrium. Each of us grieved so differently. I was fortunate to find a support group of "suicide survivors" in L.A.; we helped each by sharing our horror stories and sobbing together.</p>
<p>My dad could not speak about what happened. He still can't. He has no words. My mom was eager to talk — needed to, in fact — as if by talking she could keep my sister's spirit alive. And so, when she proposed hanging out together while she attended a medical conference in New Orleans, I agreed to meet her, not thinking that the Dodgers would be in the World Series.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet floated-snippet-left">
<p> </p>
<h2>Family trumped baseball. I gave the two tickets to my buddies and flew to New Orleans.</h2>
<p> </p>
</div>
<p>Family trumped baseball. I gave the two tickets to my buddies and flew to New Orleans. Mom and I ate beignets and strolled through the French Quarter. We talked endlessly about my sister: Why didn't she reach out to us? What could we have done, or said, differently?</p>
<p>On Saturday night, while L.A. and Oakland played Game 1 at Dodger Stadium, my mom and I went to Tipitina's, the blues joint on Tchoupitoulas Street. The music was funky and the beer was cold. It was a temporary salve to our confusion.</p>
<p>I remember sneaking glimpses of the game, from a black-and-white TV set behind the bar, whenever I went to order another Abita. What I missed, of course, was the moment.</p>
<p>As expected, Gibson was not in the starting lineup. He stayed in the clubhouse getting treatment for his legs as the A's, behind starter Dave Stewart, took a 4-2 lead on Canseco's mammoth grand slam in the second inning. The Dodgers chipped in a run in the sixth to trail, 4-3.</p>
<p>In the bottom of the eighth inning, Scully, doing the national play-by-play on NBC, had director Harry Coyle scan the Dodger dugout with a camera. There was no sign of Gibson, and Scully told the TV audience that "[he] will not see any action tonight for sure."</p>
<p>Watching from the trainer's table, with ice on both knees, Gibson yelled out a profanity, yanked on his uniform, summoned Lasorda, and told him he could manage one at-bat.</p>
<p>After the A's went quietly in the top of the 9th, LaRussa brought in Eckersley. He retired Scioscia and Jeff Hamilton, before walking pinch-hitter Mike Davis and putting the tying run on base.</p>
<p>Out of the dugout limped Gibson to bat for pitcher Alejandro Pena. The crowd reacted like Willis Reed was taking the floor for the Knicks against the Lakers during the 1970 NBA Finals at Madison Square Garden.</p>
<p>Scully signaled the dramatics: "All year long, they looked to him to light the fire and all year long he answered their demands until he was physically unable to start tonight on two bad legs."</p>
<p>Gibson teetered at the plate. He fouled off the first three offerings. His swings were weak, all upper body and wrist, with no leg or hip power.</p>
<p>Eckersley wasted a ball, then Gibson fouled off another. Two more balls missed as Davis stole second. Full count, runner on second. Two out.</p>
<p>Gibson stepped out of the batter's box and tapped his cleats. He reminded himself of the report from Dodger scout Mel Didier: look for a backdoor slider from Eckersley on 3-2.</p>
<p>He set himself. Eckersley delivered. Sure enough: back-door slider. Gibson flung his black Tennessee Thumper at the pitch.</p>
<p>Ballgame. 5-4, Dodgers. Cue delirium. It was exactly 8:39 p.m. in Los Angeles.</p>
<p>Said Jack Buck on national radio: "I don't believe what I just saw!"</p>
<p>Said Don Drysdale on local radio: "And this time Mighty Casey did not strike out!"</p>
<p>Said Scully: "In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened!"</p>
<p>The walk-off shot stunned the A's and, seemingly, broke their spirit. The Dodgers cruised to the title, taking the Series in five games. Hershiser won the World Series MVP, but all everyone talked about was the home run. Someone taped a hand-lettered sign over Gibson's nameplate in the locker-room: "Roy Hobbs," it read.</p>
<p>Wrote Jim Murray: "Kirk Gibson is the biggest bargain since Alaska."</p>
<p>When I returned to L.A. and saw my friends, they acted sheepish. Then they confessed. They had left the stadium early, around the fifth inning. The right-field pavilion was too crowded, they said, and they couldn't enjoy themselves. They had watched Gibson's blast on TV.</p>
<p>I was livid. If we'd learned anything from the Mookie Wilson-Bill Buckner episode, it was never to leave the World Series early. You just don't. You treasure every moment. I eventually forgave them (although I was really pissed when I learned that they hadn't saved the ticket stubs).</p>
</div>
<div class="chorus-snippet browser_wide_media"><span> <a href="http://assets.sbnation.com/assets/2810243/1404503.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="1404503_medium" class="photo" src="http://assets.sbnation.com/assets/2810243/1404503.jpg"></a><em class="caption">Getty Images</em> </span></div>
<div class="main-wrap">
<p>* * *</p>
<p>Take another look at the YouTube video from the 1988 World Series. Check out the players' physiques. Notice how normal-sized they look? This was the dawn of the steroids era in baseball, with Canseco soon to play the part of Timothy Leary ("Turn on, man up, ding!").</p>
<p>That's not to imply baseball, or the broader sports world, was innocent in 1988. Simply put, sports were less complicated, less 365 and 24-7. ESPN was a spunky upstart, not a monolith. Only nerds kept track of advanced statistical data. College players filled the roster of the U.S. Olympic basketball team. "Social media" did not exist.</p>
<p>Tidal changes were coming, however, beginning with the Dodgers. Gibson never fully recovered from his injuries in 1988 and departed after the 1990 season. Hershiser did not win 20 games again. Lasorda resigned for health reasons in 1996. Two years later, the O'Malley family decided to get out of the baseball business.</p>
<p>Under new owners Fox and Rupert Murdoch, the Dodgers became a line-item entry for a global media conglomerate. When their usefulness was over, they were discarded again, in 2004, to an inexperienced and under-funded out-of-towner, Frank McCourt, who, as one sportswriter put it, used the team like his personal ATM. McCourt was so god-awful that fans boycotted Dodger Stadium.</p>
<p>All of which is to say: it's been a quarter-century since the Dodgers last appeared in the World Series. The team has not had such a drought since ... ever. In Brooklyn or in L.A.</p>
<p>It's as if the Dodgers squeezed every dollop of good fortune into the '88 title run, only to lose their mojo to a vindictive repo man.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet floated-snippet-right">
<p> </p>
<h2>Despite the TV coverage and thousands of eyewitnesses, the ball never surfaced.</h2>
<p> </p>
</div>
<p>What's also been lost is Gibson's home run ball. Despite the TV coverage and the thousands of eyewitnesses, the ball never surfaced. It is the missing talisman, the Rosebud of Chavez Ravine. Its absence has signaled the end of the City of Angels' aura that once protected the Dodgers franchise.</p>
<p>It's particularly odd because we've read about so many of the people who salvaged historic home run balls — from the mailman who retrieved Gabby Hartnett's "Homer in the Gloamin'" in 1938 to Sal Durante's barehanded grab of Roger Maris's 61st in 1961 to pitcher Tom House's catch of Hank Aaron's 715th in 1974 (off Dodgers starter Al Downing) to the two fans who went to court over Barry Bonds' 73rd homer in 2001.</p>
<p>In 1988, no print or TV reporter did one of those the-lucky-guy-who-caught-the-ball stories. The first published mention of it that I found came during spring training of 1989, when the Times' Jim Murray wrote, "Gibson has the ball."</p>
<p>That's not accurate, Gibson told me. He never saw the ball after it landed in the bleachers. He said that, after the Series, a woman sent him a photograph of her thigh with a black-and-blue bruise on it. The ball had struck her there, she wrote, but she did not know who ended up with it.</p>
<p>"Nobody ever told me what happened to the ball," Gibson said.</p>
<p>I called Mark Langill, the Dodgers' team historian. He said that no one from the organization retrieved the ball. "The beauty of it was, the ball got swallowed by the crowd," he said. "People were so focused on Gibson limping around the bases that no one bothered to track it down. It's one of the two big mysteries we have: what happened to the ball and what happened to the two people who tried to burn the American flag [in the outfield of Dodger Stadium in 1976]?"</p>
<p>I asked Tommy Lasorda when he last saw the ball. "I never watched the ball," he said. "I was watching Canseco. I saw him go back, back, back and then when he had his back to the wall, I said, 'That ball's outta here.' I never followed the ball. I kind of didn't want to look 'cause I was hoping it wasn't a fly out, you know. But I watched Canseco and when I saw his back to the wall, I said, 'That's gone.'"</p>
<p>Lasorda sounded giddy. "Some guy is walking around with a ball worth a lot of money," he said.</p>
<p>Ah, the money. The sports memorabilia business really started to boom in the late 1980s as investors and hobbyists alike recognized the value of significant collectibles. The Gibson ball may well be the last baseball artifact of consequence to elude capture.</p>
<p>What would the physical link to the Dodgers' last title be worth? Tom Bartsch, editor of Sports Collectors Digest, likened it to the Wilson ball that rolled through Buckner's legs in 1986. That has been auctioned numerous times, most recently for more than $400,000.</p>
<p>An Internet search revealed multiple claimants to the missing ball. I contacted one of them, Ed Moran, whom several reporters, including sports business commentator Darren Rovell, believe may well have traced the ball's whereabouts. That is, if his story can be believed.</p>
<p>Moran is an Angeleno and a Dodger fan. He told me that he was not at the game, but that his Uncle Carlos and sister Jasmine were. Moran remembers that they came home that night with what they claimed was the Gibson homer. Apparently, the ball did not land near them. It bounced off a few bodies and hands, and then rolled to Carlos' feet. He scooped it up off the ground and tucked it away.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet floated-snippet-left">
<p><a href="http://cdn3.sbnation.com/imported_assets/1670641/sis_uncle1.jpg"><img alt="Sis_uncle1_medium" class="photo" src="http://cdn2.sbnation.com/imported_assets/1670641/sis_uncle1.jpg"></a> <em class="caption"><a href="http://gatherspot.com/kirkgibson/" target="new">Image source</a></em></p>
</div>
<p>Later that night, a family member <a href="http://gatherspot.com/kirkgibson/" target="new">took a photograph</a> of Carlos and Jasmine holding what appears to be a legitimate 1988 World Series baseball. The picture is time-stamped "15-10-88," Oct. 15, 1988, the night of the game.</p>
<p>Five years ago, with the 20th anniversary approaching, Moran rented a DVD of the Series. He studied the play frame-by-frame, focusing on the instant the ball reached the stands. He said that he was able to identify blurry images of Jasmine and Carlos in the stands, thus establishing their presence in the stadium. (Moran mentioned that this was the first Major League Baseball game that Carlos ever attended.)</p>
<p>When Moran asked his uncle about the ball, Carlos said that he kept it in his sock drawer for years. Then, he gave it to a girlfriend he was trying to impress. The two are no longer dating. Moran called her. She told him that it was somewhere in the garage and that she would phone him when she found it.</p>
<p>Moran is waiting for the call. "Even if she did come up with the ball, people would question it," he admitted.</p>
<p>Moran and his uncle are not the only claimants. Rovell’s 2010 story attracted more than 250 responses, including 31 from people who either professed to have the ball or knew who did. There's practically no way that any of them can prove it is THE ball.</p>
<p>Perhaps it's best this way. Perhaps it's best that no one owns the ball, that it is not in a museum or locked inside some wealthy collector's trophy case. It belongs to all of us.</p>
<p>Leave it to Vin Scully to put it best. "It's too bad we don't have the ball," he told me, "but I don't think it matters. The memory will remain forever."</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet floated-snippet-right">
<p> </p>
<h2>Her suicide, inextricably wrapped around the Dodgers' 1988 title run, altered the trajectory of my life.</h2>
<p> </p>
</div>
<p>Last year, when I turned 50, I did another calculation. My sister has been dead longer than she was alive. Sometimes it doesn't seem like that much time has gone by, but I never got to see her marry or have kids. Her hair never turned gray. She is eternally 25.</p>
<p>An acute sense of loss lingers where the pain has faded. I miss Margot terribly. I miss her beautiful smile and the postcards she sent me with cheery messages written in her miniscule scrawl. I kept two of her jackets. They're so threadbare I can't wear them often, but when I do I feel safe.</p>
<p>It's clear to me now that her suicide, inextricably wrapped around the Dodgers' 1988 title run, altered the trajectory of my life. I had arrived in L.A. on a lark, with no intention of settling here. This was going to be a sunny pit stop until the next adventure.</p>
<p>In the morass after her death, I decided to quit my dead-end proofreading job and look for something more purposeful. I took an unpaid internship at the largest alternative newspaper in town. I fact-checked articles, did occasional reporting, and learned how to be a professional journalist.</p>
<p>Los Angeles became my home, first by default, then by choice. Soon enough, my boss at the newspaper asked me to start a sports section. I was now covering, and writing about, sports for a living. An unarticulated dream came true.</p>
<p>As someone a lot smarter than me put it, "Man makes plans and God laughs."</p>
<p>A couple of years ago, Kirk Gibson auctioned off his bat, helmet and uniform from the 1988 World Series, as well as his MVP trophy. Southern California-based SCP Auctions sold the entire cache for approximately $1.2 million.</p>
<p>I asked Gibson why he got rid of the stuff. It was simple, he said. A chunk of the proceeds funded scholarships that honor his mother and father, both of whom were teachers. "I've given a lot of money away to children who want to get a college education [at Michigan State University]," he said. "I'm trying to build the foundation up so we can give away full scholarships at some point."</p>
<p>This was about moving forward with his life, he indicated. "As great as the moment was, I've got other places I want to go," he said. "So, I keep truckin'. I put my head down and keep going."</p>
<p>An expanse of green grass was reflected in Gibson's mirrored sunglasses as he gazed at the right-field bleachers. Beneath a large Coca-Cola sign the benches were freshly painted. No plaque or marker designated where the Gibson '88 touched down.</p>
<p>"You go through life and go through some tough times," he continued. "I had to endure a lot to get to that moment and to succeed in that moment. And then you have the feeling of succeeding for the fans and for your teammates, and it turns into a big thing for baseball. You feel good about yourself. And so, I always use moments like that as a positive affirmation, sometimes, when my mind might wander and I might struggle with confidence."</p>
<p>He turned to watch his youthful Diamondbacks. The sound of ball striking bat crackled through the empty stadium. Batting-practice homers soared into the stands and rattled off the seats before disappearing.</p>
<p>It was almost game time.</p>
<p><em>If you or anyone you know is having suicidal thoughts, please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 800-273-8255. If you have experienced the death of a loved one to suicide and want to speak with other "suicide survivors," you can locate support groups through the American Association of Suicidology (www.suicidology.org) and the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (www.afsp.org). </em></p>
</div>
<div class="credit">
<strong>Producer/Design:</strong> <a target="new" href="https://twitter.com/chrismottram">Chris Mottram</a> | <strong>Editor:</strong> <a target="new" href="https://twitter.com/glennstout">Glenn Stout</a> | <strong>Copy Editor:</strong> <a target="new" href="https://twitter.com/kfixler">Kevin Fixler </a>
</div>
https://www.sbnation.com/longform/2013/6/20/4445100/kirk-gibson-world-series-home-run-ball-searchDavid Davis2012-11-27T11:50:21-05:002012-11-27T11:50:21-05:00He loves you more than Chinese food
<figure>
<img alt="" src="https://cdn.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/BIA_Y9P4HSvf5TgpoDJNzfRrB4Y=/0x99:825x649/1310x873/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/3994009/img_2374.jpg.0.jpg" />
</figure>
<p>Saturday morning on a quiet side street in Beverly Hills. Audis and Priuses deposit a
<br>small squadron of weekend warriors in leotards and gym shorts at the front door of a
<br>low-slung building that houses Slimmons, the nearly eponymous exercise studio run by
<br>fitness maven Richard Simmons.</p>
<p>It's more than an hour before the start of the 75-minute aerobics class that Simmons teaches every weekend, and already the faithful are flocking. They come with sweatbands and homemade T-shirts that pay homage to their hero. They come with and without tattoos, with and without wrinkles, with and without love handles. They're gay and straight, young and old, and everything in between.</p>
<p>Several dozen people squeeze into the lobby. The ratio is 75-25, women. Most are of a certain age and girth. Some are model-gorgeous. A young man with a thick beard of the type seen in Brooklyn, "Portlandia," and the San Francisco Giants locker-room waits with his wife and parents. A middle-aged couple has driven from Orange County to celebrate the wife's birthday. A group of five women plays cards, happily snipping at each other.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet single_column_big_photo">
<div class="big_photo">
<img src="http://assets.sbnation.com.s3.amazonaws.com/features/Richard-Simmons/simmons1.jpg"><em class="caption">Photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alexdunn/7219723740/in/set-72157629780701160">Alex Dunn</a></em>
</div>
<div class="float">
<p>Richard's familiar face peers from the wall, affixed to the various products that built a fitness empire: VHS cassette tapes in sun-bleached cardboard covers, DVDs, books, color photographs of him leading hundreds of his acolytes. For sale are shirts, towels and trinkets emblazoned with his caricature. The color scheme is the faded pastels of Miami Vice, augmented by white Christmas lights.</p>
<p>Suddenly, Richard walks in the room. His day-glo orange tank-top glitters with patterned crystals. The shirt matches his shorts – those trademark striped shorts that always seem a bit, well, short. He wears white tights, white socks and a gleaming pair of white New Balance sneakers. Covering most of his face is a pair of oversized, goofball glasses from the early Elton John collection.</p>
<p>At 64, he is a bit stooped. His kinetic hair, as familiar as Don King's, is not as full as it once was. His face is no longer youthfully cherubic. But his arms are wiry strong, and his energy level is switched to ON. He personally greets everyone in the room and breaks into song: a rousing chorus of "Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make me a Match!" is followed by "Hello Muddah, Hello, Fadduh."</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chorus-snippet single_column_big_photo right_photo">
<div class="big_photo"><q>The energy is contagious. It feels like we're about to go on a cruise.</q></div>
<div class="float">
<p>He approaches me, a complete stranger, takes my face in his hands and kisses me on both cheeks. He smells of expensive moisturizer. He tells a slouching woman to stand tall: "Head up! String on your nipples!" he says, motioning with his hands as if he were raising her breasts with two drawstrings.</p>
<p>The energy is contagious. The chattering gets louder and more animated. It feels like we're about to go on a cruise.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>Minutes later, two swinging doors open to reveal a long rectangular space. Mirrors line the walls. A shiny disco ball hangs above the polished hardwood floor. Two ceiling fans and an oversized window fan struggle to cool the room.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet right-text">
<p>We scurry to find an open spot. Simmons fiddles with the stereo system. Music begins to play: Madonna's "Holiday," at volume 12. The crowd is clapping and swaying rhythmically.</p>
<p>Simmons faces the mirror with a mischievous grin. He starts moving. He looks like he's 30.</p>
<p>A countdown, straight out of A Chorus Line: ". . . 5, 6, 7, 8!"</p>
<p>I stand at the rear of the room, looking at the backs of about 75 people. My heart is pumping. It's my first-ever aerobics class.</p>
</div>
<p><br clear="both"></p>
<div class="section-break">● ● ●</div>
<p>I missed out on aerobics. Let me clarify that: I ignored it. Too much Spandex and bouncy disco for my taste. Too many headbands, a la John Travolta in Perfect, that god-awful movie in which Travolta, playing a Rolling Stone reporter, infiltrates the Southern California health-club scene. I was more into cotton Tees and the Grateful Dead.</p>
<p>But when I heard that Simmons still – still! – teaches aerobics three times a week, I was intrigued. Along with Jane Fonda, Simmons popularized aerobics, a key component of the fitness boom that began in this country in the early 1970s. His success was outsized: he had his own syndicated TV show, as well as a recurring role on "General Hospital" during its Luke-and-Laura heyday. His diet book was a national bestseller, as were his videos. The "Weight Saint" and his tight Dolfin shorts were a ubiquitous presence on every TV show of the era.</p>
<p>Taking aerobics with Richard Simmons would be like pumping iron with Arnold Schwarzenegger or training for a marathon with Alberto Salazar.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet single_column_big_photo">
<div class="big_photo"><q>"I LOVE YOU MORE THAN CHINESE FOOD!"</q></div>
<div class="float">
<p>The class begins with Simmons leading us through a series of practiced, high-energy movements. The feet and legs go shuffle-shuffle, side-to-side, punctuated by a kick move or a dip or a stretch. All the while the arms move in syncopation: thrusting upwards or to either side. Then, the motions are reversed.</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chorus-snippet right-text">
<p>It's a full-body workout, but mine isn't cooperating. I go left when the pack moves right. When they're raising their arms, mine are at my waist. I never clap at the same time as everyone else. Only when I start to follow the moves of a hefty woman immediately in front of me do I get into a semblance of flow.</p>
<p>Richard turns down the music and screams motivation: "I LOVE YOU MORE THAN CHINESE FOOD!"</p>
<p>Hoots from the floor. He lowers the volume again and, in unison, the class yelps the song's chorus: "It Would Feel Alright!"</p>
</div>
<p><br clear="both"></p>
<p>I'm positioned by the emergency exit door, which is left open to circulate air into the room. As I twirl to the left, I see a family of Orthodox Jews walk by, on their way to the Chabad center next door. They are dressed for the Sabbath, in dark formal clothes, the men and boys in yarmulkes.</p>
<p>They stare at me as I pivot back into the room.</p>
<p>Richard is yelping: "SWEAT TILL YOUR UNDERPANTS ARE WET!"</p>
<div class="section-break">● ● ●</div>
<p>It explains a lot about Richard Simmons that he was born and raised in New Orleans. He was the son of entertainers who left their hoofing and singing careers behind to raise two boys in the French Quarter. He was originally named Milton Simmons. He himself changed that in the third grade, first to Dickie and then to Richard.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet single_column_big_photo right_photo">
<div class="big_photo"><img src="http://assets.sbnation.com.s3.amazonaws.com/features/Richard-Simmons/simmons2-sparkle-full.gif"></div>
<div class="float">
<p>Simmons became a food addict almost from birth. He gorged on endless po-boys, beignets, muffalettas and fried everything. He sold pralines, another of the Big Easy's sugary treats, on the street corner to make extra money so he could dine at Arnaud's, one of the top restaurants in town. Or, the family would go to the Blue Room, the supper club inside the Roosevelt Hotel, and listen to Liberace, Peggy Lee, Vic Damone, and Doris Day.</p>
<p>"While other kids my age began exploring their sexuality, I spent time exploring food," Simmons wrote in "Still Hungry," his autobiography. "Food became sex for me – it became my pleasure. And my taste was maturing. Puberty for me was graduating from Thousand Island salad dressing to Caesar salads. It was like going from hot dogs and hamburgers to beef stroganoff, or from ice cream in a cone to crème brûlée."</p>
<p>He topped out at 268 pounds. He tried every diet and method known to mankind to shed weight: ex-lax, pills, throwing up after meals, starvation, Weight Watchers.</p>
<p>Nothing worked. Between his weight and his high voice, he became the brunt of bullying and harassment. Simmons parried those jibes with comedy and a flamboyant fabulous-ness that is second nature to those who grow up alongside the drag queens, strippers and burlesque dancers, musicians and artists who inhabit the Quarter.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>His life changed via an epiphany. A nurse who saw his overweight condition asked Simmons whether he wanted to live or die. He chose life and recovery.</p>
<p>Today, at a lean 136 pounds, the 5’7 Simmons appears to be in superb shape. His pace never flags during the 75-minute class. "Holiday" segues to Aretha's "Freeway of Love," then "I'm So Excited" from the Pointer Sisters.</p>
<p>The beats drive our movements. I'm getting the hang of an important step in aerobics: a sort of jump-pivot that stops your body moving in one direction even as it begins to send you the other way. I'm now only a half-step behind the pack.</p>
<p>Richard interrupts with more motivation: "I DON'T WANT YOUR BABY; I WANT YOUR SWEAT!"</p>
<div class="section-break">● ● ●</div>
<p>By the time Simmons moved to Los Angeles in the early 1970s, he had shed his excess pounds. He still had never exercised regularly. He searched for a fitness regimen that suited him. He tried yoga and Pilates. Too serious. He trained with Russian gymnasts. Too difficult. He lifted at Vince's Gym, a muscle hangout on Ventura Boulevard run by Vince Gironda. Too strenuous.</p>
<p>He was working as a waiter when a customer told him about an exercise class taught by Gilda Marx from the patio of her home in the San Fernando Valley (and, later, at a studio in Century City). Marx was a tall, lithe dynamo with blond hair. She was married to the son of one of the Marx Brothers.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet single_column_big_photo">
<div class="big_photo">
<img src="http://assets.sbnation.com.s3.amazonaws.com/features/Richard-Simmons/simmons3.jpg"><em class="caption">Photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alexdunn/7219734726/in/set-72157629780701160/">Alex Dunn</a></em><q>The number of pounds shed, of bodies and souls made healthy, of hugs exchanged, is incalculable.</q>
</div>
<div class="float">
<p>Her program combined music and dance steps that made your body shake and sweat. It was Marx who whipped the tushies of L.A.'s top model-actresses into shape, including Susan Anton and Priscilla Presley. Marx worked with Jane Fonda so that the actress could slip (memorably) into a bikini for the film California Suite. (Fonda returned the favor by hiring one of Marx's instructors and launching her own fitness career.)</p>
<p>Simmons took one class with Marx. He loved the atmosphere, but Marx asked him not to return. He was the only male in the class and, supposedly, his non-stop chattering was disruptive. But he had discovered something from Marx's class. Getting in shape did not have to be grim-faced drudgery and eye-popping strain. It could be fun and joyous – and shared with others.</p>
<p>He found a space inside an old Wilson's House of Suede warehouse, just down the street from the police station where the real Beverly Hills cops practice their trade, and opened Ruffage and Anatomy Asylum. The salad bar and fitness studio concept combined the twin obsessions that have consumed Simmons' life.</p>
<p>He opted not to become, as he put it, "the Colonel Sanders of salads." He re-vamped Slimmons, in 1975, exclusively for exercise. He remains at the same location, more than 35 years later. Its well-worn wooden floors have absorbed an ocean of sweat and tears. The number of pounds shed, of bodies and souls made healthy, of hugs exchanged, is incalculable.</p>
<p>My (cotton) T-shirt is drenched as he arranges the class in a large circle. He stands alone in the center and selects three women to join him. They shimmy with him and ape his movements, and everyone applauds when they re-join the group.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>He picks three men. He orders them to remove their shirts. They strip down, and all of a sudden a Chippendale’s performance breaks out. Simmons leers at their bodies with mock lust. The crowd roars approval.</p>
<p>The soundtrack changes to "Do That to Me One More Time," from – yes – Captain & Tennille, and Richard cracks a one-liner: "That's what I tell my proctologist!" It's retro, raucous and campy. Actually, is there a word for "beyond campy"? The middle-aged couple from Orange County is beaming, as is the young man with the Sergio Romo beard.</p>
<div class="section-break">● ● ●</div>
<p>Simmons’ timing was perfect. Dr. Kenneth Cooper had just coined the term "aerobics" to describe a workout that boosted cardiovascular fitness. An old word, "jogging," took on new meaning as Jim Fixx, author of "The Complete Book of Running," and others inspired legions to hit the pavement. In Oregon, track coach Bill Bowerman and one of his former runners, Phil Knight, were experimenting with producing durable, comfortable and fashionable sneakers with a waffle sole. In Venice Beach, a few miles west of Slimmons, an Austrian-born body-builder named Arnold Schwarzenegger was pumping iron at Joe Gold's gym. "Six packs" didn't just mean beer anymore.</p>
<p>Southern California emerged as the epicenter of this modern-day exercise craze. The public rushed to buy Soloflex machines, health-club memberships, protein shakes. Exercise gurus and personal trainers – physical specimens all -- grinned from magazine covers: Kathy Smith, Karen Voight, Jake Steinfeld, Lou Ferrigno, and others packaged physical fitness as a commodity. They sold the promise that a new, improved body would yield a better you, a notion that resonated during the "Me Decade."</p>
<p>Many promised quick fixes. Others, like Fonda, traded on Hollywood glamour. Big-box gyms with Nautilus stations opened in every neighborhood; their clientele looked like they stepped from a brochure.</p>
<p>Simmons took a different approach. He wasn't particularly chiseled or buff. He was the court jester of exercise, the clown prince of fitness. He oozed the gooey spirit of "Up With People." He used humor, often self-deprecating, to made everyone forget that they were sweating.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet right-text">
<p>It was the antithesis of the "tough love" of Jack LaLanne, the gruff godfather of fitness who zipped his blue pantsuit over his taut body and barked orders. LaLanne dared you to keep up with him and, ultimately, you couldn't. (I once interviewed LaLanne. He scared me so much that I swore off soda. I've never wavered, except for an annual root-beer float on my birthday.)</p>
<p>Slimmons functioned like a social club, and Simmons catered to people much like himself: the chronically overweight and the out-of-shape, the outliers who were too embarrassed about their size to set foot in a gleaming health club, much less stuff themselves into a leotard. He spent hours listening to his clients, and supporting their efforts to lose weight, because he related to them. He understood about food cravings, binge-and-purge routines, and starvation diets. He knew about getting teased and taunted, about feeling insecure and vulnerable.</p>
<p>The abuse was often self-abuse: an inner voice ashamed of one's appearance and lack of appetite control. That's where the final piece of his philosophy came in. Simmons motivated with acceptance. He refused to give up on anyone. He urged each client to "love yourself," to not dwell on the past or the problem, to think positively.</p>
<p>His advice was practical. He advocated watching what you eat (i.e., avoid heavy doses of red meat and sugar), practicing portion control, and exercising regularly. He devised healthy menus for the calorie-conscious. No steroids, no trendy diets, no magic pills. Just disciplined consistency and, always, movement, movement, movement.</p>
<p>"Fame" blares: "I Want to Live Forever! I Want to Learn How to Fly!"</p>
</div>
<p><br clear="both"></p>
<p><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/VwOLEP7wRjs" frameborder="0"></iframe></p>
<p>Richard directs us to grab a pair of barbells from boxes along the wall. He demonstrates proper technique for a few lifts. He deepens his voice to mock muscle-heads who eschew aerobic or flexibility workouts, who mistake the appearance of big biceps as an indicator of fitness.</p>
<p>That describes a younger version of myself. I grew up undersized. I was the scrawny guy who got sand kicked in his face in those Charles Atlas ads in the back pages of comic books. I did endless pushups and bench-presses because I believed that a bigger, stronger me would be a more attractive and confident me.</p>
<p>The result: my right shoulder aches constantly. Too much compensation. I choose light barbells so that I can handle these exercises.</p>
<p>Simmons continues with his Catskills comedian schtick. "Are you here with anybody, sir?" he asks one man. When he indicates his mother standing next to him, Simmons asks her her age.</p>
<p>"62?" he says. "You have a great ass for 62. Most 62-year-old asses are flabby, like cottage cheese."</p>
<div class="section-break">● ● ●</div>
<p>Simmons’ fame peaked in the 1980s and 1990s. His infomercials moved product; like Fonda, he made a fortune peddling workout videos. His "Cruise to Lose" outings sold out. He preached to thousands at malls and conventions and traded quips with Stern, Letterman and Oprah. He acquired the ultimate status symbol in Southern California: a mansion located not far from his studio.</p>
<p>He also acquired detractors. Simmons was mocked for being the antithesis of cool, for traipsing around in those ridiculous shorts. His shrill voice was considered too grating. He had too many hair transplants. He always seemed to be holding the hands of an impossibly overweight woman, the two of them weeping as they discussed her lifelong battle to lose pounds. One critic described him as "the result of a union between Ethel Merman and Jerry Lewis."</p>
<p>In 1990, Simmons was bypassed as chair of the President's Council on Fitness, Sport & Nutrition. President George H. W. Bush appointed Schwarzenegger, an admitted steroid user, to the position, followed by another overtly humungous bodybuilder, Lee Haney.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet single_column_big_photo right_photo">
<div class="big_photo"><img src="http://assets.sbnation.com.s3.amazonaws.com/features/Richard-Simmons/simmons4.jpg"></div>
<div class="float">
<p>Implicit was a critique of Simmons’ stylings: the effeminate mannerisms, the obsession with Barbra Streisand and Broadway show tunes. Simmons made for an easy target, especially among those who expect their fitness gurus to have a certain macho swagger.</p>
<p>Simmons has always been reticent about his personal life. His autobiography contains no mention of a partner or love interest (besides food, that is). It's a curious omission for someone who is so open about his weight problems.</p>
<p>Helping others takes so much commitment, he counters, that he has no time for relationships. He has found comfort collecting dolls and Dalmatians. (He has had eight over the years. One remains: 16-year-old Hattie.) He is close to his older brother, who still lives in New Orleans.</p>
<p>With time has come acceptance and respect. In 2006, Simmons was inducted into the National Fitness Hall of Fame.</p>
<p>LaLanne initially scoffed at Simmons' efforts. Later, when they found themselves working the same health and fitness expos, urging the public to exercise and eat smarter, they struck up a friendship. Simmons was a keynote speaker at LaLanne's memorial service in 2011.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>The toning continues. Pat Benatar's "Hit Me with Your Best Shot" provides backdrop. Then, an anthem from the disco era: Donna Summer's "She Works Hard for the Money."</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet single_column_big_photo">
<div class="big_photo"><q>Helping others takes so much commitment, he counters, that he has no time for relationships.</q></div>
<div class="float">
<p>Simmons instructs us to put away the barbells. We lay on padded mats and towels for stomach crunches and pushups. I welcome the cool-down period and breath deep.</p>
<p>The music is lowered. Simmons puts on reading glasses and addresses us. The rapscallion has disappeared, replaced by a more somber version.</p>
<p>In four classes that I attended at Slimmons, over the course of a month, he touched on myriad topics. He talked about how he suffered a seizure several years ago due to severe dehydration. He was unable to talk and had to learn how to speak again.</p>
<p>The lesson? "Count your blessings. You are one of a kind. There's no one in the world like you. You are amazing."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>Another time he said, "I'm 64, and I'm still trying to find peace. Everyone moves so fast today. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Take a moment every day to find peace. Pull over to the side of the road, turn off the radio, and find peace."</p>
<p>He urged us to vote, and not to text and drive. He warned us about eating too much red meat. He provided motivational couplets that he made up in the bath:</p>
<p>"In order to cope<br>You must have hope."</p>
<p>"Every day you eat<br>You must get on your feet."</p>
<p>"Plan your meals<br>And your body will heal."</p>
<p>"Your scale doesn't lie<br>If you eat pie."</p>
<p>"Don’t drown yourself in pity and sorrow<br>Please remember there's always tomorrow."</p>
<div class="section-break">● ● ●</div>
<p>Simmons’ brand of aerobics commands a large audience, especially among Baby Boomers, but he is no longer THE face of fitness in this country. The tattoed and pierced bodies of Generations X and Y have embraced younger mentors (Jillian Michaels, Denise Austin, Harley Pasternak, Tony Horton) and other options: boot camp, Tae Bo, kickboxing, MMA, spinning, P90X, the Elliptical, triathlons, ultra-marathons, vegan and organic diets. Yoga in its many incarnations has entered the mainstream. "The Biggest Loser," a popular reality TV show, chronicles the efforts of overweight people to drop pounds.</p>
<p>In this, Simmons has suffered the fate of every exercise guru who preceded him, from Bernarr Macfadden to LaLanne. Fitness evolves, even if the underlying principles of healthy living, including balanced nutrition and meals and regular exercise, stay the same. Only the package changes, and the proselytizer.</p>
<p>His pace hasn't slowed. He's up at 4 a.m., every day, to say his prayers and count his blessings. He works out daily in his home-gym. He is writing children's books and producing more DVDs and another infomercial. He has embraced Facebook and Twitter. (<a class="link" href="https://twitter.com/theweightsaint" target="new">@TheWeightSaint</a>). His email messages arrive in ALL CAPS.</p>
<p>He recently donned a suit and tie and went to Congress to lobby for physical education in public schools. Budget woes have forced the elimination of Phys. Ed. in many schools. Simmons argues that youth need regular exercise (and better lunches) in the fight against obesity and diabetes. The legislation has stalled.</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet single_column_big_photo huge_photo">
<div class="big_photo">
<img src="http://assets.sbnation.com.s3.amazonaws.com/features/Richard-Simmons/simmons5.jpg"><em class="caption">Photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alexdunn/7219720708/in/set-72157629780701160/">Alex Dunn</a></em>
</div>
<div class="float">
<p>He teaches aerobics at Slimmons three times a week whenever he is in L.A. (His assistants take charge on the other days.) He wears a different outfit, and a different pair of glasses, for each class. The music always changes: country one day, disco the next. For $12, it's a bargain.</p>
<p>One class I took featured the oldies: "Wooly Bully," "I'm a Believer," "Do You Like Good Music," "Wipeout," "Devil with the Blue Dress," "Brown Eyed Girl," "Born to be Wild." For the cool-down, Frank Sinatra sang "Strangers in the Night."</p>
<p>Great tunes, all of them. I was still a step behind the pack. My arms weren't cooperating with my legs. But at least I was grooving.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>"Good Lovin’," that chestnut originally performed by The Rascals, started playing. It was a song the Grateful Dead liked to cover at their shows. I must've sung the words along with Bob Weir, and tens of thousands of other Deadheads, dozens of times.</p>
<p>I started chuckling. Richard Simmons and the Grateful Dead: what could they have in common?</p>
<p>I thought more about it later. Both are iconoclasts – Simmons in fitness, the Dead in music. Both ignored the nay-sayers and carved out a populist niche. Both built devoted fan-bases that proved incredibly lucrative. They followed their passion, cocksure that they knew what worked best. Simmons never abandoned his Dolfin shorts; the Dead never stopped jamming.</p>
<p>The relationship they established with their followers was deep and reciprocal. It was the fans’ enthusiasm and energy – their unabashed and requited love – that inspired and prodded Simmons and the Dead to keep moving and trucking, perhaps long past their expiration dates.</p>
<div class="section-break">● ● ●</div>
<div class="chorus-snippet single_column_big_photo right_photo">
<div class="big_photo"><q>His eyes brim with tears. He looks, at once, exhausted and energized.</q></div>
<div class="float">
<p>Simmons concludes each class by identifying the people who are celebrating a birthday. Everyone sings "Happy Birthday" under his direction. He gives each a miniature Richard Simmons doll.</p>
<p>The room empties slowly. Simmons stays to pose for photos and speak with everyone. His eyes brim with tears. He looks, at once, exhausted and energized.</p>
<p>His class produced a good sweat. My body feels the after-effects of the workout the next day. What I'll remember most is not the physical part, but Richard himself. He is a unique motivator, nudging you to eat right and take care of your body, to concentrate on the little things that add up to overall fitness.</p>
<p>And so, in your way, you do.</p>
<p>The second time I went to Slimmons, which was the second time I was in the same room as Richard, he looked directly at me and said, "You didn't say good-bye to me after class last time, sir. I'm very hurt. I get very insecure."</p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chorus-snippet single_column_big_photo right_photo">
<div class="big_photo">
<img src="http://assets.sbnation.com.s3.amazonaws.com/features/Richard-Simmons/simmons6.jpg"><em class="caption">Photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alexdunn/7219685990/in/set-72157629780701160/">Alex Dunn</a></em>
</div>
<div class="float">
<p>I hadn't done so because I didn't want to disturb the long line of people waiting to take photos with him. Later, when I interviewed him, he was equally solicitous and anxious.</p>
<p><q>I will never love again. I get that love by people who care for me.</q></p>
<p>Does being known as the clown prince of fitness diminish what he does? I wondered. "Absolutely not," he replied. "When the king is upset, he doesn't call for the chef. He doesn't call for the wife. He calls for the little man in the pointed hat. I love comedy. I love having a sense of humor. I had to use that as a child not to get beat up every day because I wasn't Mr. Masculine. That comedy was my sword and my shield. Still is. There is nobody I'm afraid of."</p>
<p>He starts to cry. "Whether they laugh at me or with me, it doesn't matter. Let them laugh loud."</p>
<p>What about the personal sacrifices he's made for his career? "I have loved deeply," he said. "I have lost intensely. I will never love again. I get that love by people who care for me. No, I don't take them to bed, but I take their friendship with me in my heart."</p>
<p>He is weepy. "Everyone should find someone to love. But I guess this little court jester wasn’t supposed to be with someone special.</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>"My job is very emotional. I have many pains in my heart – I always think that I'm going to have a heart attack. My emotions are bigger than anything about me. I'm not apologizing for that."</p>
<p>I asked him how long he planned on teaching. "I'm going to do this until I combust and God takes me to that little aerobics studio in the sky."</p>
<p>Until then, you can find Richard Simmons at that little aerobics studio in Beverly Hills. Appearing live, three times a week.</p>
<p>". . . and, 5, 6, 7, 8! I LOVE YOU MORE THAN HÄAGEN-DAZS!"</p>
<div class="chorus-snippet previously-on">
<h5><a class="top" href="http://www.sbnation.com/longform" target="_blank"><img src="http://cdn0.sbnation.com/images/chorus/modules/network_nav/big_ass_logo.vd93497c.png" class="logo"><br>longform</a></h5>
<a class="item" href="http://www.sbnation.com/longform/2012/11/20/3649738/lingerie-football-league"><img src="http://cdn1.sbnation.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/3622717/ll-lede-2.0_cinema_1050.0.jpg"><h6>Lingerie league goes legit</h6>
</a> <a class="item" href="http://www.sbnation.com/longform/2012/10/17/3512680/feet-of-clay-heart-of-iron-horseshoe-champion-brian-simmons-might-be"><img src="http://cdn1.sbnation.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/1496467/horseshoe-lede.0_cinema_1050.0.jpg"><h6>World's toughest athlete</h6>
</a> <a class="item" href="http://www.sbnation.com/longform/2012/11/13/3614214/the-final-championship-of-the-third-reich"><img src="http://cdn2.sbnation.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/2967217/last-championship-lede2.0_cinema_1050.0.jpg"><h6>Last champions of the Third Reich</h6>
</a>
<div class="left-reset"></div>
</div>
https://www.sbnation.com/longform/2012/11/27/3692806/richard-simmons-still-grooving-at-64David Davis