Will Clark Puts Shakespeare in His Place

Giants first baseman Will Clark and I were tense around each other at the start of his career. This was the 1980s. We are friendly now. He is a warm, life-embracing man, but at that point we were young, and both needed to learn diplomacy. The things I wrote annoyed him. He once gave me the finger, and I probably deserved it.

The Giants were playing a day game at Candlestick Park and, although Candlestick had a bad reputation because of wind and cold, it was beautiful for day games. A filtered sun, warm, light breezes. Perfect for baseball. I arrived at the park early and, instead of heading into the clubhouse, I sat in the dugout. Enjoying myself. No one else there. Peaceful. Until Will Clark walked out of the tunnel from the clubhouse, walked into the dugout. Saw me.

It was then the transformation took place. He was a handsome young man when he felt relaxed. But when he was tense – say, when he was at bat with the bases loaded or when he faced a hostile journalist – his face underwent an extreme change. His jaw moved forward as if on tracks. And his eyes became demonic.

This face had a name and the name had a derivation. In Clark’s rookie year, San Francisco catcher Bob Brenly was glancing through the Giants media guide when he came across Clark’s middle name. Nuschler.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Nuschler? What’s a Nuschler?”

Turns out Nuschler is a family name from a Clark ancestor, an honored name in the Clark family. Brenly didn’t know from that. He knew from Nuschler. And he named Clark’s fierce competition face the Nuschler Face. And it stuck.

So, I was on the dugout bench enjoying the morning sun, when a happy-go-lucky Clark appeared. He eyeballed me and then he went full Nuschler. That face! God save me! He picked up a bat and paced back and forth in front of me. I could see the headline in my paper: Clark Goes Berserk and Assaults Columnist.

And I could imagine Clark’s quote: “Cohn had it coming. All of us feel that way. If it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.”

I sat there without moving, didn’t want to provoke Clark. He finally stopped in front of me, glaring at me, gripping the bat. Here it comes, I thought, ready to die. But he didn’t slug me. Instead he said these words I’ve never forgotten.

“Lowell Cohn, you think you’re so fucking smart.”

“I don’t think I’m so smart, Will.”

“Yes you do. I want to tell you this. When I was in college, I read Shakespeare and all that shit.”

That right there is the greatest, most interesting quote any athlete ever laid on me.

Shakespeare and all that shit.

Clark walked out of the dugout leaving me alone to contemplate his wisdom. In college, Shakespeare was part of the general shit, a course you had to get through, along with the American Political System, Introduction to Logic, Geology and Gym. I knew where Clark was coming from. And I was glad to be alive.

We laugh about his quote when we see each other these days, and with a friendly laugh, he says, “Tell me the Shakespeare story, Lowell.” Which I happily do.