An interesting column on advertising jingles and how they stick in the memory by Roger M. Grace a couple of weeks back was partly lost on natives of the northern part of the state.

While we could identify with Dinah Shore and her urging to “See the USA in your Chevrolet,” and every Californian, north or south, was aware of the “Go see Cal, go see Cal” chant for Cal Worthington (and, of course, his dog of many shapes and sizes, Spot), those based strictly in Los Angeles failed, if you’ll pardon the pun, to strike a familiar note with many.

But those of us who grew up in Sacramento and the Bay area have our own memories.

How about that takeoff on the “muffin man” song, “If your car sounds like an old tin can, take it to the Muffler Man, take it to the Muffler Man, Gene Lockhart is his name.” For being memorable, it beat Midas by a mile.

Then there was that Oakland clothing store which later morphed into just plain “Smith’s,” which started out with a pitch to the working man and his family by promising, “You know you can charge it at Money-Back Smith’s, so why not buy it now?” With a promise like that, why not indeed?

Sacramento had some home-grown talent with “Better buy Bonnie for your bow-wow for Bonnie is by far a better buy,” which huckstered a locally produced dog food marketed by E.A. Bahnfleth, a city councilman who may even have served as mayor at one time.

Of course, some of those old-time jingles would be lost completely on disbelieving younger people who would scoff at Pepsi-Cola’s claim of “twice as much for a nickel, too, Pepsi-Cola is the drink for you!”

“A soft drink for 5 cents?” they’d ask. “You gotta be kidding.”

Does anyone else recall the musical program — Fred Waring? — on radio that also brought baseball scores and was introduced by, “Baseball, baseball, America’s favorite game, where the spectators shout, ‘He’s a bum, throw him out!’ and the umpire’s always to blame,” or Barbasol’s “Easy Ed” McConnell singing, “O’er the cheek, o’er the chin, you don’t have to rub it in, as your razor goes gliding along.”

Sparkling days they were … with “that Oxydol sparkle!”

A recent magazine article regaled the reader with an account of historic catches of baseballs dropped from buildings, planes and blimps with rather astronomical heights involved — up to 500 and 600 feet. The catchers who attempted them risked life and limb quite literally, although there was an occasional humorous incident.

One of those came in 1916 when Brooklyn Dodgers manager Wilbert Robinson, then 52 years old, essayed to catch a ball dropped 500 feet from a plane over a spring training camp in Florida.

The balls dropped were badly off target, and, with no more available, the designated dropper grabbed a pink grapefruit and pitched it over the side. To “Uncle Robby,” waiting below, it looked like a baseball, and this one was right on target, exploding in his mitt.

And exploding is the right word, as reddish pulp and juice splattered Robinson. That worthy panicked, rolling on the ground and yelling, “Help! Help! I’m bleeding to death!” Of course, his players all ignored him. They, too, were rolling on the ground. In hysterics.

Of far greater consequence was a near fatality — and I have a clear recollection of this one — 23 years later at Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay.

The instigator was the PR man for the San Francisco Seals of the Pacific Coast League, ex-pitcher Walter “The Great” Mails, the self-styled “Imperial Duster,” who thought it would be just dandy for a player to catch a ball dropped 1,000 feet from an airplane over the World’s Fair site.

The patsy in this improbably stunt was one Joseph Conrad Sprinz, a 37-year-old journeyman catcher for the Seals. His backup was 46-year-old Larry Woodall, his Seals teammate and a onetime Sacramento Solon.

The big event was set for Aug. 3, and the buildup was impressive. The SF papers — Examiner, Chronicle, News and Call-Bulletin — were full of it. So were The Bee and Union in Sacramento.

A crowd of 2,000 watched — at a safe distance, of course — as the first two balls, hurtling downward at an estimated 145 miles per hour, were off target. But the third was homing in on the pocket of Joe’s glove. Well, almost on the pocket.

Unfortunately, it missed by probably an inch, striking the edge of the mitt and veering directly into Sprinz’s face.

Sprinz writhed in agony, his jaw shattered in a dozen places, eight teeth knocked out, other injuries.

It was his 37th birthday.

Joe Sprinz survived, but it was three months before he was well enough to leave the hospital, the survivor of what’s been termed “the greatest catch that was never made.”

Come spring, Joe Sprinz was right back there behind home plate at Seals Stadium, handling the slants of Sam Gibson and “Old Pard” Ballou. Fully recovered? Well, I guess.
Enough, anyway, that he caught 118 games in 1940.

It’s also debatable that it shortened his life, not by very much anyway. When he died across the bay in Fremont in 1994, he was 92.