Book Tour Diary #6: Wrap-Up

He clapped during my introduction. He clapped when Garry Marshall’s name came onto the screen. He clapped at the first appearance of Marla Hooch. He clapped at everything. He recited the dialogue along with his favorite characters. He hooted and hollered. For the people sitting near him, this guy kind of ruined A League of Their Own, which I screened at AFI Silver on the last stop of my summer book tour. For me, sitting a good fifty feet away, he was the perfect capstone to a great summer.

This was my last event of the tour. Two days earlier, I had screened Little Big League at Philadelphia Film Society to a crowd of 9 people, including me and my friend Kate, who was my next door neighbor in Boston over 20 years ago and who I have stayed friends with. A screening of Little Big League is not like a screening of A League of Their Own. It’s an experiment, not a coronation. I was excited to shine a spotlight on Little Big League in Baseball: The Movie, but the fact that it needed a spotlight in the first place should tell you much about its reputation. The book may succeed in boosting its rep, but this screening didn’t. The crowd was light (although as usual, the people who showed up were delighted to be there) and the film didn’t hold up on the big screen quite as well as I expected. For a film with such a ludicrous premise—a 12-year-old becomes the manager of the Minnesota Twins—its far smarter and funnier than it has any right to be, but its sitcom conventions are easier to overlook when viewed from your couch. It’s still good, but I’m not entirely sure it’s great.

There was no such mystery with A League of Their Own, my favorite baseball film of all-time and one which I was fortunate enough to test on the big screen (for the first time since childhood) last year at the Metrograph in New York. For me, this event was a celebration. I used to live and work in DC, so I had lots of friends in the audience. I gave my best introduction to any film on the tour (isn’t it always the case that you finally get good at something just when you don’t need to be?), and the film itself is, well, perfect. 

Then there was the clapper. I didn’t get a chance to meet him. Someone who did told me he was a little “off.” I can relate. I’m a little off, too, when it comes to baseball films, and we have the last three years as evidence. When I watch A League of Their Own or Bull Durham or Field of Dreams or The Natural in a theater, I want to clap and recite the dialogue and sing the songs along with the movie, too. But I don’t. Instead, I let a few tears drip from my eyes at the most poignant moments, and then I push them back in because I’m a stupid adult who doesn’t really know how to cry in public. 

But not this guy. This guy was free. He loved A League of Their Own with his whole heart, and he didn’t care who knew it. Maybe there’s a happy medium between being so excited about a movie that you ruin it for others and holding back all your emotions like some cliché of a grown man, but I’d rather tilt towards exuberance than emotional repression. Good for that guy. I hope he’s happy, wherever he is.

Looking back now, the book tour was an incredible experience. It was exactly what I needed at this moment in my life. I haven’t mentioned this, but I’m in the early stages of a divorce, and the book tour provided innumerable experiences to counter the sadness and confusion that accompanies the end of what was the most important relationship in my life. The tour got me out of the town that I still share with my ex. It got me to the road, my favorite place. It got me around new people. I made friends wherever I went. Ate some great food. Saw some new streets. The tour also gave me real, live external validation for my work. People took time out of their day to come hear me talk. They read my book and liked it and told me so. Divorce can do a number on one’s self-esteem. The tour built it back up a little.

Maybe most importantly, it allowed me to revel in the things that I love the most—baseball and movies—with no shame or embarrassment. No, I wasn’t willing to clap and recite the dialogue and sing along like our friend in Washington did. Social conventions still have a hold on me. But on the inside, I was clapping and reciting and singing as loud as I could for two solid months. It just took until the last event of the tour for someone to mirror it.

* * *

With the tour over, outside of a couple stray events this fall, and having completed most of the press for the book, I’m not entirely sure what comes next. I’m working on a proposal for another book. I don’t know if I’ll be able to wrestle it into existence, or if the publishers will want it. I hope they will. I can’t say what my next posts on this site will be about, if I’ll continue to write about baseball films or if I’ll do a 4500 word post detailing my current re-watch of Seinfeld. I might write about movies more than I have been.

Even the Mets are playing good ball right now, so I really don’t know what to expect. The world has turned topsy-turvy. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll stay with me on this journey. I like having you here, and I’ll try to keep it interesting for you. Until then, I leave you with these words…

Avoid the Clap, 

Jimmy Dugan