AHOY COMICS Update, Part 2 of 3 : TOM PEYER

EDITOR'S NOTE:  A very funny recollection, courtesy of the fine folks at Ahoy Comics . . . . Did You Know?

Did you know that our very own Hart Seely, Ops, wrote a book called The Juju Rules: Or, How to Win Ballgames from Your Couch: A Memoir of a Fan Obsessed? Of course you did. But did you know the book has a chapter about AHOY EiC Tom Peyer? But wait, there's more! The book also includes AHOY Chief Creative Officer Frank Cammuso—AKA Moose. Below we've included a excerpt from the Peyer chapter, entitled—you guessed it—"Peyer." Adding to my woes was the growing fury of Tom Peyer, my friend and writing partner, who had recently chosen to board the Yankee bandwagon. Peyer drew political cartoons for the Syracuse New Times, a weekly paper that sought to ridicule the second-generation country-clubbers who ran the city. He had amassed fans and critics, maintaining a persona as an aboriginal Syracuse piece of work. Peyer rolled his own cigarettes, which most people assumed were joints, and wore black long before it became the new black. Physically, he looked like a pencil with an Afro. Politically, he espoused views that were half Eugene Debs, half Bart Simpson, and he drew Ronald Reagan with so many chins that senior citizen groups complained, saying he made dementia look bad. As a teenager, Peyer had dropped out high school and wandered the country. He never went to college, never learned to drive a car and never followed sports. Instead, he channeled everything into comic books. Peyer always knew who Superman was fighting, what babe Peter Parker was pining for, and he could even outline the deep-seeded traumas of J’onn J’onzz, the Martian Manhunter. He claimed male superheroes were named for their penises: Iron Man, Hawkeye, Colossus, Black Bolt, the Punisher, the Thing, the Hulk, the Beast, Nightcrawler, Mr. Fantastic… (By the way, the Yankees also have their share: The Iron Horse, the Stick, the Babe, the Boss, Moose, Super Chief, Old Reliable, King Kong, Catfish, A-Rod, Godzilla…) We never did figure out Swamp Thing. In the mid-1980s, Peyer approached me with a confession. He had grown up in a Yankee household, but during his rebellious teenage years, he rejected the great traditions and history of his subculture. Now, pushing 30, Peyer sought to reconnect with his lost heritage and start enjoying his birthright: The Yankee championships that arrived every October, like apples in the orchards. He asked me to tutor him as a Yankee fan. Well, what could I say? What manner of friend would say no? Here was a fellow whose intellectual development had been limited to art, politics, culture, religion, science, music, literature, news, ex-wives and family. I told him, yes, of course – I would do my best. I assumed the role of a Yankee Professor Henry Higgins, with Peyer as my Eliza Doolittle. I assigned books and movies. I lectured on critical issues, such as how no Yankee dynasty has ever evolved without a home-grown catcher. I explained how Whitey, Mickey and Billy were called “The Unholy Trio,” due to their superhuman abilities to consume liquor, and how Babe Ruth’s pumpkin-sized cranium won him the nickname “Two-Head.” I taught basic home juju – where to sit, the Lookaway, furniture pressure points, etc. -- kindergarten stuff, nothing that could get him booted from the diocese. Had I known the Yankee teams that were coming – the Eric Plunks, Jim Walewanders and Lee Guettermans – I would have told him to visit Alaska, write a screenplay, take up Morris dancing… anything. The sad truth is, Peyer enlisted at the start of a six-year barf, from 1987 to 1992, perhaps the unkindest era in Yankee history. We would spend more money than any other sports team, yet we would finish dead last in 1990. Steinbrenner would rip through managers like my Maverick went through quarts of oil. Worst of all, in Peyer’s comic book mind, it was my fault … Soon, he was running around Syracuse, claiming that I recruited him, hypnotized him, and made promises that I did not keep. I write here with a clear conscience: I sold Tom Peyer NO bill of Yankee goods. I led Tom Peyer down NO primrose pinstriped path. By 1989, Peyer was openly defiling my ban on excessive swag. He bought a Yankee jersey, a Yankee warm-up jacket, several Yankee caps and a Yankee wall clock the size of a capitol rotunda. He began parading around Syracuse like the illegitimate grandson of Lou Gehrig, dropping obscure Yankee players into conversations. (Instead of “Oh, shit!” he’d exclaim, “Hensley Meulens!”) Without me, the guy wouldn’t even have known we had a farm club in Columbus. Now, he was Mr. Yankee, the Man in the Cap, the Back Page Know-it-all – and everything that ever went wrong with the Yankees, everything, was my fault. "You said we always win,” he’d grumble. “Nobody can guarantee wins,” I’d reply. “Life doesn’t work that way.” “You said we always challenge for the pennant.” “I said we try to challenge for the pennant.” “Thirteen extra wins a year. That’s what you said!” “That’s the average. You can’t expect it every year.” “As opposed to thirteen losses!” “Wait a minute. I didn’t recruit you! You came to me!” “HEY, EVERYBODY, LOOK AT ME! I’M BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN IN A HALL OF EDDIE RABBITS!” We'll end there on a high note, but you can read the whole thing in Hart's book.

Tweet of the Month

There's a lot of fun drawing challenges circulating the internet lately, like the six fan arts challenge making the rounds in comics circles. But the undisputed champ of Twitter-based art challenges has got to be the #TomPeyerFanArt challenge, which tens of people from all over our follower list have participated in. There was some truly impressive contenders, but in our eyes the unassailable winner is this little beauty scribbled up by none other than Richard Pace, the artist behind SECOND COMING. Warning: the sheer size of the image below is bound to break your internet.