Don't read this if you have one of those big, bleeding hearts. Don't read this if you're a sucker for an up-by-the-bootstraps story of guys who never give up, even if they have reason to. Roger Owens doesn't want your sympathy or your tears. Owens merely wants your money and your laughter.
And don't read this if you're one of those poisonous sorts who scoffs at inspirational Horatio Alger stuff. Owens doesn't need your cynicism. Owens wants your $5.50 and maybe a smile. The $5.50 pays his bills. The smile soothes his Vaudevillian soul.
For more than 50 years, Owens has been flinging peanuts to Dodgers fans, more than 4,000 games by his own estimate, firing wisecracks at wiseguys and making their girlfriends laugh. His kingdom, his stage, is the loge level between home and left field. Along with other baseball treasures -- Bill Veeck, Bob Uecker, Vin Scully -- he takes the game to a higher level: He makes happy people happier.
"I'm the only pitcher in the majors making less than $1 million a year," he jokes. "I work for peanuts."
He's certainly no secret, this master salesman. A ballpark requires a lot of folks to work the levers -- electricians, chefs, horticulturists. Vendors are probably the most public faces among these support troops, and Owens is their Koufax, their alpha hot dog.
He has peddled his wares and his corny jokes to Dodgers fans for 51 years, first in the Coliseum, then at Dodger Stadium. His trademark: a behind-the-back pitch he almost always throws for a strike. "I throw a fast nut, a curve nut and knuckle bag," he brags. Monday night, near as I could tell, the guy threw a perfect game.
"Last year I only missed two throws," he says. "Probably cost me the Cy Young."
Over the years, his skills and chutzpah have attracted outside work. The Bellagio flies him in for sports-themed Vegas events. He's visited Tokyo to pitch peanuts, and has appeared on TV and in movies. In 1977, Owens shelled a presidential inauguration (Jimmy Carter, of course).
"Where I get my power is in my wrist," he says, explaining the secret behind his snap throws. "For a senior citizen, I'll put a little arch on it. I even allow for wind conditions."
At 66, he seems a storybook character, all mirth, hijinks and hyperbole, the kind of creature ballparks attract like mice. About once every 10 years, he says, he snags a foul ball. "About 15 years ago, one landed in my peanut basket," he says.
