For the past fifteen years, George Tabb, a famous and at times infamous punk rocker, has been writing a first-person column for Maximum Rock n' Roll and for the New York Press. Lead singer of the cult punk band Furious George and viewed by many as the David Sedaris of punk, Tabb has received thousands of pieces of fan mail each year since the column began, from all over the world—many asking “When is the book coming out?” Finally, the book they're waiting for is here.

One of a handful of Jews in the rich suburban Anglo enclave of Greenwich, Connecticut, (and still under 100 pounds in his junior year of high school, Tabb was routinely kicked around by the other kids—one blind, another one with one arm—as well as his father. "Playing Right Field" refers to an early experience of the author and his brother, Luke, who played Little League baseball together; they were forced to share one team t-shirt between the both of this because his father the multi-millionaire was too cheap to buy one of each of them. George and Luke chose right field because hardly any balls ever got hit out there and they thought it would be safe and provide them with lots of space.

The book will include many stories, all true – and some very hard to believe. Each story has a strong sense of morality, and the book will be fun as well as very educational. Using the idea of “right field”, the book will trace Tabb's growing sense of isolation and rebellion from birth through near the end of tenth grade.

Born in Brooklyn, mostly raised in Greenwich, Connecticut, until the age of 16, George Tabb learned all too well about rage. His father’s, and, his own. Being the eldest of six children, and sentenced to play right field in his elementary school’s little league team, Tabb knows all too well the feeling of isolation. His parents got a divorce when he was 5. At almost 17, Tabb drove a car for is second time, from New York to Tallahassee, towing two horses with his brother, Sam. There he learned about sexual liberation according to “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”, and how to be a slave on his father’s now infamous Water Oak Plantation. Tabb then attended The University Of Florida, where he was taking post-graduate classes by the end of his freshman year. He also started one of punk’s first hardcore bands, Roach Motel, who went on to tour with Black Flag, Dead Kennedys, etc. After departing college rather hastily, Tabb moved in with his mom in New York’s West Village where he continued to build his name as a punk rock icon, with bands like False Prophets, Letch Patrol, The Gynecologists, Iron Prostate and Furious George. He also served in The Ramones for a short time. Tabb still plays and tours, and now does a lot of writing.

John Strausbaugh lives in New York City.

12-city author tour: New York, Hartford CT, Washington DC, Baltimore, Gainesville FL, Austin TX, Phoenix, Tucson, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, Vancouver, Montreal, Toronto (and let us know if you can help!)

And so it began.
The violence, the beatings, the bashed bologna sandwiches, and of course, the bus fights.
After my first four year stint in Brooklyn, New York, as a bed wetter and overweight blanket baby, my parents moved us to Muttentown, Long Island, where they quickly divorced (my mom leaving my dad). What followed was a quick move to Greenwich, Connecticut, where my dad "obtained" custody of us kids by bribing a judge. That’s how his world worked in the late sixties era of insider trading and bullying big business.
But things were a bit different in Greenwich.
But not totally.
Sure there was big business, and bullies - but the one thing the richest suburb in The United States lacked was Jews. Sure there may have been a handful of them, but they hid themselves well amongst the pasty faces of the blonde-haired blue-eyed masses. Greenwich didn’t like Jews, but for some reason, my father liked Greenwich.
Maybe he wanted to give us a better education.
Maybe he thought he’d network well with the corporate kings of America.
Or maybe he just wanted to show off his obscene amount of cash by buying 14 acres of prime real estate to house his antique car collection, his seven horses, and new trophy wife who already had two daughters.
The one thing that became clear over time though, is that if he was thinking of us, it was only to move us as far away from my mom as possible. Myself, and my brothers, Lucas (Luke) and Samuel (Sam). Us boys, and my two stepsisters, Diane and Tina, and future half-sister, Stephanie, seemed only along for the ride. Of course with my father, Lester, at the helm, and Cybil, my stepmother as first-mate, the positions we filled were just lowly pirates. But we’ll get to that. Later.
For now, we’ll start with the bus. Or better yet, the bus stop. Where we’d hike a mile to each morning. My father had told us we had it easy. That he "hiked" five miles to school every morning.
In Brooklyn, New York.
Right.
Years later I found out it was five minutes.
Whatever.
*
So there I was, in the 2nd Grade, and every morning at the corner of Londonderry Drive and Stanwich Road, our bus stop, when it started.
He would be there, ready. Waiting for me. And later, for my brothers.
His name was Mark.
Mark Healy.
My introduction to the next decade of my life.
And I’ll never forget the first three words he spoke to me from behind his wavy blondish hair and steel blue-green eyes.
"You’re a Jew!"
And then, came the fists.
*
The Tabb boys learned early on how to fight.
Or flee.
Having been born before Luke and Sam, the way I saw it was I had no choice. If they didn’t pick on me, they’d go after them. So I learned to fight.
Well, get beat-up.
And always having been small for my age, kicking my ass wasn’t much of an accomplishment. But the shit-heels in Greenwich thought it was. And, apparently, so did their parents.
Especially Mark Healy’s.
"You’re nothing but a dirty Jew," Mark would say to me most weekday mornings. Thankfully, we had the weekends off.
"Dirty?" I would ask him, totally confused.
I could understand the "Jew" part. A little. My grandfather once explained to me why we had to wear those funny little hats at some family get togethers. But the "dirty" part threw me for a loop.
I took lots of showers. And still do. Filth and I don’t get along.
"Yeah," Mark would sneer, "you’re nothing but a low-down, curly haired, hook-nosed dirty Jew boy!"
And every time I’d try to ask him what he meant, it was always too late. He’d grab my Batman lunch box, with the Bat-Cycle on the outside of the thermos, and smash it open on the concrete of Londonderry Drive.
"You’re mommy packs lunch for you," he’d say, "and I unpack it!"
He would then always take out my bologna sandwich, with mustard on one side, apple, and three Oreo Cookies and toss them as hard as he could into the woods.
My stepsister, Diane, would just stand there in shock.
Then he’d pour out my Kool-aid, and toss the empty thermos and lunch box.
I would just look at him with my wet blue eyes.
"What ya gonna do about it, Tabb?" he would ask.
I wouldn’t say anything. What could I say? He was in 6th grade and I was in 2nd. Plus he was at least a couple of feet taller than me.
"You gonna cry you little pussy?" Healy would continue.
Of course I tried not to, but my tears would always betray me.
Finally, I’d usually tell him to "Stop it!" and then the poundings would begin. He’d tighten his fist and punch me as hard as he could in the nose.
The largest and easiest target.
After I’d start to bleed, he’d laugh, then kick me in the stomach, followed by a right hook to the chin. That’s when I’d usually bite my tongue or lip, and bleed some more. By the time the school bus would arrive, I’d be lunch less and swollen-faced.
Loosend-up for round two.