The Ultimate, Shocking, Stunning, Completely Hidden Clue to the End of Succession
There has been so much written about the end of Succession.
But when every pundit has a different theory on who’ll get the chair, when New York Magazine Vulture resorts to a weekly power ranking of the characters, when VANITY FAIR gives Succession predictions more coverage than Harry and Meghan, it’s hard to believe mere mortals will be able to outguess the brilliance of Jesse Armstrong.
I myself have always had a tough time anticipating endings: with destinies in constant turmoil and evolution, I’m disoriented. Given the swirl of conjecture out there, it seems I’m not alone. Perhaps the smartest thing to do is to give up: to just wait until the master reveals his magic.
That was my state of mind last Friday, April 14th , as my son and I stopped at Cooperstown, NY for a visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Succession Episode 4 wouldn’t be airing until Sunday at 9 PM and, trust me, my TV would be on. But Friday: that belonged to me and my son. Not the Roys.
My son Tom is a remarkable young man. Strong and optimistic. Interested and interesting. His super power — as they say of people today — is appreciation. His great loves are Broadway and baseball: two very different activities, but both played out on a stage. And whether he is at the theater or ball field, he soaks it all in. Tom cheers on life in its wonderful variety.
He and I went through the Hall that day, marveling at the torrent of statistics, wowed by blurbs crystallizing storied careers, gaping at endless videos of epic hits and unthinkably athletic catches. A father and son immersed in affection for the comfort and communion of America’s Pastime: a connection untethered to the much sharper, harder and sadder relationships of Logan Roy and his children.
And as we went from room to room, suddenly it happened: a clue to this consuming show dropped like a bloop single onto this Field of Dreams.
As I looked over an unassuming display case housed amid far more extravagant exhibits, a case one could easily miss amid the bright colors of uniforms and the myriad photos of distant and current heroes, I saw a simple printed card tucked in the bottom left corner. It described an old ticket stub that sat just above it, calling out a small bit of trivia from over 100 years ago:
UNASSISTED TRIPLE PLAY: BILL WAMBSGANSS
The fan who held this ticket saw Cleveland second baseman Bill Wambsganss turn the only unassisted triple play in World Series history, retiring three Brooklyn Dodgers on one play, October 10, 1920.
Wambsganss?!? An extra S, sure; but Wambsganss? That unthinkably clunky and unmoored series of letters?
Triple play?!? Kendall. Roman. Shiv. Boom, boom, boom! Yer out.
Unassisted? Well, Karl and Frank sure aren’t going to get behind Wambsgans. And Greg the Egg? C’mon.
Wambsganss Unassisted Triple Play. There it was. The coincidence of my seeing it even less probable than the play itself.
How could Jesse Armstrong, this Emmy Award winning, Academy Award nominated, Shakespearean-scaled man, born in Shropshire England, have known this fact?
I have no idea.
But I am going to believe he did. Because isn’t this how the cosmos should give itself up to us? Go — Tom — Wambsgans!
I looked across the room to tell my son. But he was smiling and swinging to an old time recording of Take Me Out to The Ballgame: ogling the grandeur of the World Series Trophy set near a wall showing the 27 Championships of his beloved Yankees: immersed and enchanted in this fabulous shrine and totally uninterested in whatever dark game the Roys had been playing.
I let him be, and I took the photo below: proof I had stumbled onto a treasure where absolutely no one could have been expected to find it.
But the real treasure, of course, was the day with my son: a day of pure joy at being together: of sharing appreciation for this amazing history and its lore: a day of no judgements nor ambitions nor conflicts: none of the deep, yet sadly hilarious, tragedy of the Roy family. Just a moment of father and son amid the sunshine and green grass that have always been the best part of the real American Dream.
