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A story and brief review on a new book by Dayn Perry, which ran in the Sun Herald on June 6:

Coast author writes Reggie Jackson biography

Dayn Perry learned something very important writing his latest book. It had to do with getting his head in the narrative elements of the biography he was working on. It’s something that he learned to cherish, even as someone he cherished more made it harder.

“I wrote this, largely, after we had our son,” he said. “I didn’t realize how important solitude and silence were in the process.”

Wyatt, now 2-1/2 years old, didn’t stop Perry from finishing “Reggie Jackson: The Life and Thunderous Career of Baseball’s Mr. October,” his second book and first biography.

He wrote during Wyatt’s naps, taking time last week to talk from his Chicago home for an interview before those nap-time work hours.

Perry graduated from Gulfport High School in 1990, went on to Millsaps College and completed undergraduate and masters degrees in English with an emphasis in creative writing.

Perry is a baseball fan, for sure, writing columns for Foxsports.com and posting at daynperry.com. He’s a St. Louis Cardinals fan, raising Wyatt in the ways of hardball guerilla warfare in enemy Cubs territory.

His first book, 2006’s “Winners: How Good Baseball Teams Become Great Ones”, was an examination of great teams using statistical analysis and storytelling.

His latest plumbs the depth of, as the subject himself would say, Reggie Jackson’s greatness.

Perry utilized old-school time in the Harold Washington Library looking at New York and Los Angeles newspapers for Jackson’s time with the Yankees and Angels. He also went new school to look through online archives in Oakland and other New York newspapers.

“There’s a lot out there on him,” Perry said. “Not a lot recently. when you get in newspaper archives, its’ a slow process. It’s every day of his career, pretty much.

“It’s a time-consuming effort, but it’s also pretty fascinating for a baseball fan and guy who likes to poke through newspaper archives.”

Perry wrote in his source notes about unsuccessfully trying to get Jackson to cooperate with the project. He said that made him have to “enter Reggie’s head and presume to communicate his thoughts.”

It’s not unusual in biographies, but it was new ground for Perry. He said he did it judiciously, and not just for legal reasons. He felt the book’s narrative engine needed it, but he stripped some of those efforts in later drafts feeling they were leaps too far.

Perry is decompressing right now, keeping an eye from time to time on how his book does on the Amazon.com list.

He’s kicking around an idea for his next book, one on the 1932 season that saw the Cubs play the Yankees in the World Series.

That year saw the beginnings of the Cook County political machine and the fall of Tammany Hall.

He’s unsure what the subject of his current book thinks about Perry’s product.

He chooses to believe that’s good news.

If Jackson was outraged, Perry would have heard about it.

“I’ve not had any contact from him and doubt if I ever will,” Perry said.

“My guess he would read it, and it would be somewhat beneath him to ever acknowledge it.”

“Reggie Jackson: The Life and Thunderous Career of Baseball’s Mr. October” (William Morrow, 326 pages, $25.99), by Dayn Perry

Dayn Perry mines the mountain of previous material on Reggie Jackson and combines it with information derived from interviews with many who knew him as teammates, coaches and reporters to tell a strong tale of a pivotal player in baseball history.

Jackson faced some of the overt racism that Jackie Robinson did when breaking the color barrier and superstars like Willie Mays surely still dealt with, but Jackson’s place in baseball racial history may be in breaking the shackles of acceptable personality players of color had to deal with.

He certainly had the outsized ego to take and expand the stage, but Perry writes about Jackson’s own complicated racial experiences.

He grew up largely among whites, including many Jews, and frankly hung around white players more than blacks.

He also flouted societal “rules” and dated a long list of white women.

Lost to death were such interview subjects as New York Yankee teammate Thurman Munson, manager Billy Martin, Oakland A’s owner Charlie Finley and Jackson’s father, Martinez.
Perry couldn’t interview Yankees owner George Steinbrenner, either, his memories taken by illness.

But he did catch up with a score of journalists who covered Jackson, including Bill Madden of the New York Daily News, who told him the following anecdote, Perry’s favorite.

“Bob Lemon was sitting in his office putting his signature on a ball the rest of the team had signed to give to a sick kid or whatever,” Perry said. “(Madden) noticed he didn’t sign the sweet spot of the ball like most managers do. He asked him about it and Lemon held it up and Reggie had all signed there.

“Bill Madden said if this had happened when Billy Martin was there, it would have started a brawl.”

Has Jim Riggleman completely lost the plot? Can anyone explain this inning to me (see play-by-play below)? Riggleman pinch hits with Desmond, a shortstop, for the pitcher, and later in the top half of inning uses Morse, an outfielder, to pinch hit for Bernadina, the right fielder. Fair enough.

They go out in the bottom of the inning, and Desmond, the shortstop, goes to play right field. Wha? Then, they have to play swap gloves and send Alberto Gonzales, not the waterboarding attorney general but the shortstop, to right field and bring Desmond in to play short.

Swapping gloves in the middle of the inning? Isn’t that something that happens in Little League? Geez.

Washington – Top of 7th
Jonny Venters pitching for Atlanta
J Venters relieved P Moylan.
I Desmond hit for J Peralta.
I Desmond grounded out to shortstop.
N Morgan reached on bunt single to first.
M Morse hit for R Bernadina.
M Morse grounded into double play, shortstop to first, N Morgan out at second.
0 Runs, 1 Hits, 0 Errors

Atlanta – Bottom of 7th
Doug Slaten pitching for Washington
D Slaten relieved J Peralta.
I Desmond in right field.
M Prado grounded out to second.
M Cabrera hit by pitch.
C Jones walked, M Cabrera to second.
B McCann hit by pitch, M Cabrera to third, C Jones to second.
M Batista relieved D Slaten.
A Gonzalez in right field.
I Desmond at shortstop.
T Glaus popped out to second.
E Hinske walked, M Cabrera scored, C Jones to third, B McCann to second.
Y Escobar struck out looking.

Next to “filthy” in the dictionary is the second pitch in this clip.

Welcome to the big leagues, Mr. Strasburg.

The No. 1 reason Super Bowls should not be played outdoors in northern climes:

(No, that wasn’t the Super Bowl, and no, it wasn’t the Meadowlands. My point is valid.)

The Washington Nationals finished off the Orioles series with two wins, ending with Josh Willingham hitting a game-ending 10th-inning bomb in the finale. The call him the Hammer. I’ll let it slide.

Oh, Jim Riggleman played Nyjer Morgan a day after his fit. Morgan went 2-for-5. Guess I was right. At least for one day.

I’ve paid attention to the Washington Nationals. I adopted them a few years back when they moved from Montreal after years of baseball apathy. I quit following the Braves when I got sick of the bandwagon fans who couldn’t pick Mike Lum out of a lineup of a guy in an old-school Atlanta uniform, Margaret Mitchell, Gen. Sherman and Ted Turner.

Then, the Nats imposed their own special brand of apathy on me for a couple of years. A couple of 59-win seasons. Last year, in particular, was a disaster. The Nats changed out their entire pitching staff over the course of a season. I believe the only place that works is T-ball.

Anyway, the Nats have been surprisingly good this season. Not to say they are good, or that the modicum of success they achieved was sustainable, but they are improved. And also lucky.

From that point five games above .500, the wheels have fallen off. Thanks to a rain-out in Colorado, they started a seven-loss week by losing a doubleheader. Eight games later, they were sub-.500 for the first time in 34 games. (Considering they finished 51 games under in 2009, I’ll take it.)

And Nyjer Morgan’s been particularly bad of late. He’s .200/.310/.220 over his last 15 games, but more memorably he’s been the nexus of two inside-the-park home runs in the last four days. The first one by Angel Pagan was acceptable. The one given Saturday to Adam Jones might be termed unforgivable.

Certainly, it was bush league. And immature. The second is the real problem. I’d say Morgan’s a bit of a head case. But in this case, I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt. I don’t get to watch much other than highlights, but I think he’s just trying way too hard. I’ll bet Jim Riggleman has a fairly intense father-son chat with him and throws him back out there.

Beware, Natinals. I’ve already proven to swoon easily into apathy.

Jazz Fest provides so many choices, there’s going to be occasions when you make mistakes. I’m not so sure if I’d classify yesterday’s final decision as a mistake.

Simon and Garfunkel or My Morning Jacket. Honestly, I was more excited about seeing My Morning Jacket. I haven’t listened to a lot of their stuff, but I’ve liked what I’ve heard and heard enough good things from folks I trust to have chosen them.

Except, I didn’t. I mean, Simon and Garfunkel, they occupy a stratospheric spot in popular music’s all-time rankings. I went and saw Simon and Garfunkel.

They were, to unleash the S&G fans who have savaged Keith Spera’s review, not very good. Paul Simon didn’t sound great at the beginning, but I thought improved as the set went on. Art Garfunkel, due to either age or illness, was poor the whole set. He couldn’t hit his ethereal falsetto, flatter than the feeling of seeing how small crawfish bread has gotten. (Note to Jazz Fest organizers: I demand truth in advertising. You *must* call it crawfish breadsticks from now on. Pathetic.)

But full credit to Garfunkel for his professionalism. He took his medicine, kept trying and giving it his best. Even the chilly Simon and Garfunkel relationship seemed to thaw when Simon reached over at one point and gave his longtime partner and sparring partner as squeeze on his shoulder.

The crowd was supportive, and that’s what I found so uplifting about the performance. Everybody wanted to see a good performance, and if they didn’t in reality, they let their minds wander and hear them as they sounded when we were all much younger. I admit to listening to my inner soundtrack playing their tunes as they struggled. (And it wasn’t all a struggle, Simon’s mid-set session with his solo hits were more energetic and the stellar band buoyed the performance.)

Music is about memories. Where we were when we first heard a song, a time in life that a song takes us back to, some girl we daydreamed about while listening to some sappy ballad. And Saturday, it was about remembering the great contributions of Simon and Garfunkel, even if they didn’t provide a memorable Jazz Fest experience.

It’s hard to put into words what happened Sunday. As a long-time Saints fan, I still find it hard to believe what happened in Miami, but I’ll try to explain using a day and long night in New Orleans pre-celebrating, watching the game and celebrating for real. O, the celebration …

Driving in with good buddy George, we saw signs of what Katrina wrought on us all. They’re tearing down the westbound lanes of the old twin spans, with the new bridge partially in service already. But enough of the downer stuff, Sunday was a day to party.

George, a native New Orleanian, got us a primo, free parking spot in the quarter. We walked to St. Louis Cathedral and immediately saw a little parade getting started beside Jackson Square. That’s where we heard our first “Who Dat!”.

Mass was sprinkled with Saints winning the Super Bowl references. Monsignor Kern welcomed a packed house, filled with lots of lots of black-and-gold jerseys, Saints sweatshirts and T-shirts, for the 9 a.m. service (yeah, I worked until midnight Saturday, then was up at 6, leaving George’s at 7 to make Mass), saying he appreciated everyone being there to pray for “what certainly will be a Saints victory.” He said he also expected everyone back next Sunday for prayers of thanksgiving. The monsignor said the Holy Father had given them special dispensation to depart from the called-for green vestments and they were wearing black and gold. He said they’d also been given permission to fly the Saints flag out front instead of the papal colors.

The large crowd created a little bit of a traffic jam during communion, but everybody snaked their way through the intertwined lines and made it through. The Monsignor finished Mass, with the recessional hymn ended with a baroque-tinged “When the Saints Go Marching In” riff by the coolest church organist in the world. During that jam, we heard a cheer from the back.

Monsignor Kern had taken off his cassock to reveal his Brees jersey. That was by far the least sacrilegious use of Brees’s name and likeness for the day.

Sunday was the day after the city’s mayoral election, and our first bar of the day, Harry’s Corner, where their opinion of the outgoing mayor was clear.

We saw a beautiful lady in her finest Saints garb, the first of many homemade outfits we’d see during the day. (My dark bar photography skills do not do justice to the beadwork and finery she’d crafted.)

Pat and the lovely Suzy had joined us for Mass, and we took a Bloody Mary (yes, 10:30 Bloody Marys is how NOLA rolls) for the road for lunch. I punched a New Orleans ticket that I’d somehow never punched before …

We were second in line at about 10:40 for the 11 o’clock opening. We saw the first of a million dogs …

… and before the restaurant opened, the line had gotten long.

Port of Call means two things: great hamburgers and, um, interesting drinks. Yes to both, please. The burger was too delicious to take pictures of, and the I’m pretty sure there was a potato under the biggest scoop of sour cream I’d ever seen. (Please don’t tell our trainer about that.) And the Neptune’s Monsoon was delightful. I didn’t get to see the patented six-bottle simultaneous pour because the crowd was too thick around the bar already.

Then, off to the Quarter. We saw Mohawk Brees …

… an alligator chomping on Peyton Manning …

… inspirational signs …

… and insulting signs (I’m assuming the spelling of “BUTT” is a reference to Peyton’s long-ago misstep at Tennessee) …

… and there’s proof that I was there.

Sunday was the Krewe of Barkus parade, so there were tons of dogs out in costume. This was, far and away, our favorite. It’s a good thing that dogs can’t hire lawyers, or else this owner would owe any fortune he might have for theft of dignity.

They said he was dressed as a Saintsation. I’ll let feminsts and men who are pigs argue that editorial statement among themselves.

It was still early afternoon, but Pat and I found ourselves in the gutter already …

… much to the delight of this little one.

A guy in the parade had a New Orleans Top 10 sign:
1. Black and Gold, Baby!
2. We have the best parades.
3. Second lines.
4. Beautiful homes
5. The Mardi Gras Indians.
and …

There were more beautiful ladies …

… and a beautiful old martyred lady, Joan of Arc, supporting the Saints.

We also found the most dedicated New Orleans Saints fans.

See the ol’ timey Saints helmets. See the containers under them? Urns. Ashes. Fans.

They hang out at Molly’s at the Market, where we also saw Coach Sean Payton before he caught the Concorde down to Miami.

I think the cocktail in his hand was courage juice for his onside kick.

(Molly’s was also the place I saw what I considered the first real omen portending Saints victory. The line for the women’s room had one, maybe two in it; the men’s line was 10 or 12 deep. The world turned upside down. Heck, that might be a sign of the apocalypse.)

There were more reminders of Katrina …

… and then the sacrilege …

… and the “real” thing …

I mean the Saints’ savior, not the real Savior. I didn’t get a shot from close up, but dude looked like Drew.

I don’t have any photos from the game. We went back to the hotel to watch the game. We knew we’d have beer, snacks and, most importantly, a clean restroom.

The five other people in the room will never believe that I was less crazy than watching the NFC championship game with Carla in our living room, but I swear I was. Carla’s stuck with me for the rest of our lives; the friends might bail on me if I did all the stuff I did two weeks prior.

The highlights:

A quiet worry-filled first quarter.

Some of the best hotel room coaching you’ll ever hear for the four-down failure at the Colts goal-line, followed by what at first looked like questionable clock management punctuated by a morale-lifting Garrett “Money” Hartley field goal.

The best run of the night, George’s halftime gallop to Krystals just down the street for 20 gut bombs. Lucky gut bombs, my friends. When fortunes waned in the second half, I threw myself on the remaining grenades and turned the tide single-handedly.

The Onside Kick, or Where Sean Payton Sealed New Orleans Immortality. This may have been my most unhinged, when my lip-reading eyes found the official on the far right side of the pile first say “White ball,” several seconds before the referee made it official, seconds filled by me jumping up and down screaming, “He said white ball! He said white ball!”

Shortly thereafter, I tweaked my calf muscle helping escort Pierre Thomas into the end zone on his screen pass run. I sprinted across the hotel room as he was sprinting in. I woulda laid out any Colts fan in the room, too.

There was the commercial spent on bended knees, waiting to see if Payton had challenged the two-point conversion call.

There was sheer pandemonium when Tracy Porter, I’ll say it again, Tracy Porter picked off that Manning pass and returned it for a touchdown.

And there was great relief when the Colts’ fourth-down attempt failed at the Saints goal-line, followed immediately by the breaking-out of the ceremonial heater.

Forty-some-odd seconds later, I opened the door into the hotel hallway and saw the masses pouring out of rooms heading for the elevator. We joined them after one last bathroom break, waiting on a couple elevator cars to come before finally finding one with enough room for us and another room to overstuff. I’ve never been more relieved as I was for an elevator to reach the bottom safely, what with the bouncing and shouting and celebrating and rapping.

Here’s one picture of the opening minute or so of our time on Bourbon Street when there was actually room to move and think.

After that, we were pretty much pushed against the hotel wall, trying to make our way to the corner to get over to Royal.

We eventually made it, many high-fives and Who Dats to strangers laters. We wound up in the Carousel Bar at the famed Hotel Monteleone.

We found some room there, a friendly waitress who took away my cigar and I was able to rally with some other friends.

Former Sun Herald co-worker Richard:

And my friends Tammy and Trice, along with her cousin, John:

We also found Breesus Christ, a jolly man issuing special dispensations who had a handler trying to keep away the riff-raff, again not exactly what Jesus stands for, forgive us.

After a bit, we decided to trek across the Quarter heading back to Molly’s. Royal was much calmer, like Bourbon on a normal weekend night, so way more crowded than normal but still navigable. There were random musical groups attracting dancing fans …

… a flying pig …

… and a celebrating statue behind St. Louis Cathedral.

The crowds thinned out as we left the Cathedral area, but when we got back down on Decatur at Molly’s, there was another huge crowd of folks in a whole ‘nother party.

There was even a woman standing on a parked car twirling these big balls of fire from chains off each hand.

Her fire-globes (not a euphemism) were coming what looked like inches from the neighboring building’s sidewalk overhang, but the Saints kept everybody safe. Even the brass band that tried to get into Molly’s.

We stayed out of the madhouse on the way back to the hotel, stopping at Tujague’s for a quiet drink in the bar before seeing another crowd of people with an impromptu band.

I smelled pizza on the way back and Tammy, Trice and I stopped for a pie. No photos, which was a theme for me and food. You put food down in front of me and it gets eaten.

We said our goodbyes and I was in the room and in bed, I mean on the floor, by 2 o’clock. Somehow, I was back away at 7, as our room came to live earlier than I would have ever imagined. For Saturday and Sunday night, with a late-night work shift and the celebration, I totalled nine hours of sleep. I walked a foot off the ground Monday, so I guess it didn’t really matter.

The Times-Picayune was selling newspapers out of the back of a pick-up truck on Canal.

We were at Cafe du Monde just in time to beat the rush. Again, no picture of food, just the aftermath.

As we were leaving, there was a three-piece band setting up in front of the cafe. I would have liked to have heard this “backstage” prayer.

They might have mentioned Buddy D. and all the departed Saints fans who didn’t get to see the game from this plane.

We’ve waited a long time for this day, and it’s sweeter than anybody could have imagined. The victory parade is still going on right now. And I’m not sure it will end until the next time the Superdome is in use for the Black and Gold.

Yeah, been a little since I last posted. Nanowrimo halted what little posting I’d been doing here, then I quit on Nanowrimo not far into it. On to bigger and better things, I guess.

(And I won’t talk about the Saints, yet. Saturday’s still a little too painful, and the worry’s kicked in overdrive.)

It’s that time of year to start thinking about the most important event of the year: Jazz Fest. The schedule came out last week and here’s who I will be planning to see:

Weekend One, or the short list

This is the short list just because when I marked up the schedules, there are fewer bands I want to see. There is one of my Jazz Fest favorites, probably a must-see, but I’ll have to see how the individual days play out across the two weekends. (There are fewer TBAs than usual, so this list oughta stand up pretty well.) The bands:

• My Morning Jacket: Never seen them and haven’t really heard a lot of their stuff, but what I’ve heard I’ve liked a lot. If was actually still buying (or stealing) music, they’d be a band I’d want to see.
• Darius Rucker: I know, I know, he’s playing country now. And I don’t have a lot of use for modern country these days. But I saw Hootie and Blowfish back at the Music Farm in Charleston, S.C., back before they went huge, so it would be interesting to hear him now. He’s an act that if there’s nobody else I want to see that day will probably get skipped. No offense, Hootie.
• The Black Crowes: Never seen them and always wanted to, even moreso if Luther Dickinson’s playing with them.
• George Clinton and Parliament/Funkadelic: C’mon, you’re kidding. You need an explanation?
• Cowboy Mouth: A Jazz Fest staple, like crawfish bread. Although I’ll admit that if there’s nobody else playing that day, I won’t make a special trip to see them. (Speaking of crawfish bread, this list is a pretty good one for must-have foods.)
• New Orleans Klezmer All Stars: One of my favorite Jazz Fest bands. In fact, I’ve never seen them play anywhere else. They usually play at the Fais Do-Do stage. I love klezmer music, especially that trill clarinet, and these guys are outstanding and funky. That’s right, funky Jew music.

That’s it for the main folks I’d like to see. There are others on the big, long list, such as Tab Benoit, but he’s a guy who gets circled quickly on a day I’m going but doesn’t bring me out by himself.

Weekend Two, or book time in NOLA this weekend if you want to see me for sure

Lots more acts I’d like to see playing the second weekend:

• Pearl Jam: I’ll admit, I haven’t bought any of their stuff in a long time. I’ve never seen them live, but I’ll be sure to be there to see them. I mean, it’s Pearl Jam, and they’ll be worth what I’m sure will be an uber-crowded day.
• Steve Martin with the Steep Canyon Rangers: Yep, Steve Martin playing at Jazz Fest. Any other banjo player and I’m sure he’d be at Fais Do-Do. Steve Martin will probably get a little bigger stage.
• Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue: Super talented, super energetic, super young. Go see him and get your face blown off.
• Kermit Ruffins & the Barbecue Swingers: It won’t have the same intimacy as when he plays his Thursday night gig at Vaughan’s in the Bywater, but Kermit’s awesome.
• New Leviathan Oriental Foxtrot Orchestra: So eclectic as to not even have their own Web site, these guys play old-timey jazz and ragtime bands. Oh yeah, and there’s a theramin player.
• J.Monque’D Blues Band: Yeah, he doesn’t have a site, either. But a more unique bluesman you won’t find.

Others I’ll be circling quickly on my cubes: Sonny Landreth, Eric Lindell, CoCo Robicheaux & the Swamp Monsters, Driskill Mountain Boys.

Who are you gonna see?

The Saints just pounded the Giants, the team many thought the best in the NFC if not the whole league. New Orleans is good, really good, but Mr. Dark Cloud will throw out this tidbit for you: Beating the best team is not the same as being the best team.

Wait, what? It’s pretty obvious if you think what would happen if the Rams beat the Giants. No way they are the best team in the league. And no way am I comparing the Saints to the Rams. (St. Louis is so bad it looks at the bye week as a potential win.)

There’s just more to being the best team than winning one game, and mainly because of matchups. The Saints matched up well with the Giants, obviously. But would the result have been the same in blustery Giants Stadium? Nobody knows, but the Saints better keep winning to avoid playing outside in the playoffs. (Yes, it’s officially OK in my book to start talking playoffs.)

The Saints may find another team they don’t match up as well against, too. Miami with the Wildcat? Atlanta with Matt Ryan and Tony Gonzalez?

I’ll tell you what it will take to beat the Saints: Another great offense and a tennis-minded defense. Tennis-minded? Yep, tennis. New Orleans has turned the game of football into a tennis match, where the key is holding and breaking serve. The Giants could not break serve/force a punt/create a turnover against the Saints. Gregg Williams defense, on the other hand, did that to the Giants. They gave up 27 points, but got early breaks in serve to coast to victory.

So are the Saints the best team in the NFL? It sure seems that way. Here’s one measure of their success this season: They have outscored their opponents by 99 points in five games. Buffalo (93), Cleveland (69), Tennessee (84), Oakland (62), Kansas City (98), Washington (79), Tampa Bay (89) and St. Louis (oh boy, 54) have scored that many points, period, in six games. Carolina (85) and Denver (99) have only played five games (which makes the Broncos 5-0 start all the more impressive … is that the defense that matches up with the Saints?).

New Orleans has proven it can win by scoring a bunch in the air and controlling the ball with the run. The Saints’ biggest questions left are on special teams, which have been inconsistent.

I’m sure they’ll still be No. 1 on most power polls Monday morning. And that’s fine by me.