THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 27 ● Kissimmee

Just one day left before the games start. I’m starting to get a little nervous about actually managing. Not real nervous; just a little.

I’m also a little concerned with the pitching. It’s not the control I’m worried about; it’s the stuff. The truth is, we have not been walking batters or fielding poorly; the hitters have simply been pummeling the pitchers. This is the fourth day in a row.

The alarming thing is that they are not just hitting fastballs: they’re hitting everything.      

I’m beginning to wonder if our pitchers have good stuff. I feel comfortable with our offense and our fielding; but without pitching, we are going nowhere.

I have to keep reminding myself that it is early, and many of these guys have performed well in the past. I suppose all of the National League managers, except for Bill Russell of the Dodgers and Bobby Cox of the Braves, feel the same way. Pitching is at a premium these days.

The price of a good player like Luis González is relatively low, because there are so many good hitters in the game. But the price of pitching is high. Few teams have it, and almost everyone needs it.

During the stimulated game, Gerry came by to discuss club rules. He had given me a copy of last year’s version to use as a model.

I was astounded that there were three pages of regulations. I am not, by nature, a litigious sort of guy. Disciplining myself has never been a problem. But now I might have to lay down the law for others, and I know that this will be unpleasant.

I believe that there are no rules that can prevent undisciplined behavior. If a guy was repeatedly unruly, I would prefer not to have him on the team. But that is not a realistic attitude. These people are also valuable property, and we can’t just let them go because they misbehave; we have to try to correct them.

Upon reviewing the rules, I was not so troubled. Most of them concerned access to the clubhouse by media and family members.

One of the things I was interested in changing, and had already talked to Gerry about, was the policy regarding beer. For the past few years, the team has not provided beer in the home clubhouse, or on the airplanes. This is logical in the sense that it prevents players from driving home with a snootful.

It can also have a deleterious effect. With no beer on the plane, the players smuggle hard liquor aboard. With no beer in the home clubhouse, the guys who don’t lift weights head for home in a hurry.

It used to be that many players would sit around having a beer or two, talking about the game. Without the juice, the postgame chat sessions came to an end.

I feel there is a compromise position that is reasonable. When the team is on the plane heading anywhere but home, two beers per man could be provided. After all, the team gets off the plane and into a bus and is dropped at the team hotel; no one drives a car.

At home, two beers per man in the clubhouse could help bring the team together without risking a problem driving home.

Gerry agrees with me and has approved beer and wine on the plane, except when we are flying home. He says he will have to get the home-clubhouse rule approved by Drayton.

Well, at least that’s progress. Back to the future, as they say.

I did scratch one rule from last year: No fighting among teammates. Fact is, I got a great laugh out of it.

I got this mental image of two young athletes, fully loaded with testosterone, squaring off in the flash point of rage, then suddenly stopping themselves by remembering the team rule on fighting.

“I’d like to fight you, but it’s against the rules,” one combatant would say. “Darn, you’re right,” the other would reply. “I guess we’ll have to put this off until after the season.”

Deron Snyder came by to visit after the game. He has been a constant companion these last few days. He is writing a feature on me for Baseball Weekly. He seems like a nice-enough guy; low-key and respectful.

But now I learn that this will be the cover story, and that it will be accompanied by a front-page spread with me, Bagwell, and Biggio.

I do not want this type of coverage, but I can’t seem to avoid it.

Now a disquieting thought comes to me: If we start out really well or badly, the attention will only increase. I hate to root for a mediocre start, but that’s probably the only thing that will get this publicity monkey off my back.

I am hoping for a good start, but in view of the competition, I am not expecting it. Mediocre is the most-likely scenario. But I can’t play mind games. I have to focus on the present. And presently, the hitters are murdering the pitchers again.

I’ve already penciled in our lineup for the opening game against the Indians at Winter Haven. I hope this lineup will survive the spring. A lot of it depends on Pat Listach and Bobby Abreu. Here it is:

Craig Biggio 2B

Pat Listach    SS

Jeff Bagwell 1B

Derek Bell  CF

Luis Gonzalez LF

Sean Berry    DH (3B)

Bobby Abreu RF

Brad Ausmus C

Russ Johnson 3b (New Orleans)

Shane Reynolds P

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 25 ● Kissimmee

Photo day at the ballpark. I don’t know how long this drill has been in the spring-training package, but it was great. It was at least as good as the stimulated game, if I do say so.

Starting at 8 o’clock, players and staff members reported to Station 1 to get their white home jerseys on a first-come, first-served basis. Station 2 was for the Houston Chronicle; Station 3 for the Associated Press; Station 4 for The Sporting News; Station 5 for Baseball America; and so forth. There were about 15 stations in all, and it only took about 15 minutes to run the gauntlet.

I was talking with some of the coaches when it all began, and I didn’t get started until about 8:40, when almost everyone else had finished. When our staff meeting started at 9:00, I was there to open the discussion.

After we reviewed the procedures for the stimulated game — which Cubby had labeled the “simulated” game in the workout itinerary (some things die hard) — we turned to signs and procedures for pickoff plays.

This stimulated a lively debate.

There are several ways to do these plays. The plays the infielders generally prefer are different from the ones the pitchers are comfortable using.

Matt Galante and our minor-league infield and baserunning coach, Dickie Thon, demonstrated their favored techniques for the “daylight” play. That’s where the shortstop shows his glove to the pitcher (bare hand, in the case of the second-baseman) and the pitcher turns and throws to the bag, or just fakes a throw.

As a former pitcher, I wasn’t sold on their routines, and I explained why. The main reason was that I was uncertain as to when I should throw the pitch.

As a pitcher, I am most concerned with the batter. I want to have some sort of rhythm when I deliver; I want to know for sure when I can go home with the ball. With an infielder juking back and forth and throwing his glove or hand out at any moment, I am uncertain as to when I should pitch.

More than once, I started to pitch just as the infielder gained advantage and raced for the bag (the “daylight” part of the play). This left a gaping hole on one side of the infield as the pitch crossed the plate. Over the years I have seen this play backfire many times.

“There’s a way you can solve that problem,” said Steve Swisher. We were teammates in spring training 1977 in St. Petersburg with the Cardinals. I was released late that spring, so we never got to know each other well. But I liked him then, and I felt a certain uneasiness about him now.

In the few days we have spent together, he has proven to be a hard-working and eager member of

Swisher as a Padre

our coaching team, but also quite intense. I sensed that Swish (nicknamed because of his surname, rather than his hitting problem), like a lot of other coaching veterans, seemed a little bitter about the way big-league jobs were handed out.

Maybe it was just my imagination; maybe it was the insecurity that comes when you don’t know the basic procedures of running a workout. Whatever the reason, I felt a little more friction with him than with some of the other coaches. This time, he came to the rescue.

“This is how we did it last year,” he said as he stepped into an open area to demonstrate. “The shortstop comes in close behind the runner, like this. Then he breaks one of three ways. Back to his position; toward second; or toward third. If he backs off, the pitcher throws the pitch. If he goes to second, the pitcher turns and throws, as in the daylight play. If the shortstop crosses over and runs toward third, it’s the wheel play or the pickoff with the second baseman, depending on which play is on.”

It was elegant, simple, foolproof, and had a good chance to succeed.

The best part was, the pitcher would have a clear idea of what he was supposed to do in each instance. There should be no mixup with this method.

I liked it. So did most of the staff. There were a few more questions, and then we decided that we would go with it.

I was really beginning to feel good about this staff. They weren’t shy about expressing themselves, but they didn’t seem set in their own ways.

During stretching and throwing, I was asked to do some interviews for a New York-based cable show on baseball. The crew set up on Field 3, and we did the deed in about 15 minutes. When I drifted over to a pitchers fielding drill, I noticed that the crew was interviewing some of the players. They had not moved from their initial location, and they now were in harm’s way.

After the workout, I told our PR man, Rob Matwick, that we had the potential for another injury. He said he would try to keep them off the fields in the future.

It’s always something.

And lately, it’s been too much “me” for my liking. I know my hiring has novelty value, and I know I can’t dictate the news. But I wish I could redirect the attention to the players. Bagwell and Biggio are probably glad I am getting the treatment they usually have to endure. And truthfully, I don’t mind, because I think I can put a positive spin on the Houston Astros.

Still, I will be glad when this runs its course.

Today’s stimulated game ran like clockwork. Everyone, except some of the abused pitchers, was happy with the results.

Tom McCraw, who was working the extra men on the other field, was particularly pleased. “We’re getting some good work in,” he told me when I asked. “I’m really making some progress with (Brad) Ausmus.”

I noticed that Strech Suba was shagging balls for Tommy, using a golf cart to move around the outfield.

“Could Stretch keep up with you?” I asked.

“Damn right,” he replied. “It was a thing of beauty.”

The Big Bamboo

The highlight of the day was still to come. It was a night game, so to speak. It was a Parrot Head extravaganza, featuring Jimmy Buffett. Our plan was to rent a limo and have it pick us up at one of the all-time Parrot Head dives: The Big Bamboo. We were to go backstage and meet the star and present him with an Astros jersey with his name on the back and the number A-1-A (after the famous highway in Florida).

“We” consisted of my old boss, Jamie Hildreth; our traveling secretary, Barry Waters; and Rob Matwick. At the last minute, Houston Chronicle columnist Fran Blineberry secured a ticket from the paper’s music writer, and he came along. Fran, Jamie, and I were Parrot Heads from way back. Rob and Barry are too young to go all the way back to the early 1970s, and they are not quite beachy folks, but they were up to the occasion.            

As it turned out, we didn’t get the limo, because it was going to cost $500. Buffett was not in a great preconcert mood. It was the end of his tour, and he probably felt like we do at the end of a long trip at the end of the season. Mike Utley, his road manager, took the jersey to him, but Buffett never came back to grant us an audience.

Nonetheless, it was a terrific night. Food and beverages were complimentary backstage, and the concert was typically great. I suppose the Florida audience picked the old boy’s spirits up. He was a little pudgier than the last time I saw him, and a little thinner up top. But he still came on with the energy of a swashbuckling pirate, and the charm of a devilish child.

When he launched into Fins near the end of the first set, we all jumped up and joined in. After a 15-minute break, he got up and went for another hour and a half.

As we left the arena, I asked Jamie if he had an address for Mike. I had an invitation in mind for Jimmy if I had a chance to see him.

In one of his songs, I’m Growing Older But Not Up, he says

I’m no Pete Rose, I can’t pretend

In another, he says,

I never had the clout to knock one out

When hitting was the name of the game

Standing on third as the coaches conferred

Next to my real claim to fame

Just give me the steal sign

And I’ll make home plate mine

And I’ll make sparks fly around your head

Well, my line was going to be

Look, I know you’re no Pete Rose

And I know you don’t have the clout to knock one out

But if you want to steal home,

Just strap on your A-1-A jersey

And report to one of our exhibition games

And I’ll arrange the theft.

It may be hard to get it together in the short time we will be here in Florida, but perhaps I will last out the year and we will pull off the heist next spring.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 24 ● Kissimmee

This day started with the sound of an alarm at 6 a.m. Under most circumstances, this would be a shock to my system; but given the uplifting quality of the wedding, and my desire to get back in the saddle, it was a pleasure.

I arose singing Jimmy Buffett songs and arrived at the ballpark at 6:30. Cubby came in about the same time, and we went to work on the teams for the “stimulated” (instead of “simulated”) game that morning.

I named it a stimulated game because there was a rule against base-stealing, which allowed the pitchers to work quickly. We stayed with the animal format on the offense, adjusted the defense, and gave the pitchers five minutes each on the mound, figuring they could throw roughly 20 pitches in that time.

Vern came in about 7:00 and gave the plan his blessing. The only thing we were concerned about was the changeovers on defense each 15 minutes. Because the extra players would be taking batting practice on another field, we had a small migration each time a new team came up to hit.

As it turned out, the defensive teams took a few minutes to get into place. Most of the players had to be told where to go. That resulted in some pitchers warming up on the mound for several minutes after they had already tuned up for 15 minutes in the bullpen. For starting pitchers, this was not a problem, but it was certainly an excessive amount of time for the relief pitchers.

Whatever the reason, the hitters won the day. Each group scored in multiples, and few pitchers escaped the onslaught.

After the workout, I met with the coaching staff to discuss the game. I was happy to hear that they thought it was a good drill, for the most part. I suppose they had all experienced enough of the typical intrasquad game blahs to be juvenated by the upbeat change of pace. Still, modifications were necessary to make the game flow better.

Five minutes seemed to be not enough time for the starters, but about right for the relievers. But using the time system proved clumsy, because some of the pitchers reached their limit in the middle of an at-bat. By the time these at-bats were finally resolved, the pitchers sometimes had spent an extra minute on the mound.

The six-man offensive units worked well, except that some hitters came up twice, some three times in 15 minutes. We decided to warm up the relievers for 8-10 minutes and give them 15-20 pitches; we’d warm up the starters 15 minutes and allow them to throw 25-30 pitches.

We also decided that the game would start when the first pitch was thrown, and the players on the other field would report for assignment 13 minutes later, so they would be on hand for the changeover.

FRIDAY AND SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 21-22 ● Kissimmee and Houston

I felt a little guilty this Friday morning. For one thing, I was leaving before the end of the workout to go back to Houston for my daughter’s wedding. For another, I was bailing out on the second day of full-squad workouts.

Ashley has always been a most-considerate and dutiful daughter. Her mother and I divorced when she was only two years old. My first wife, Nancy, worked a lot, and Ashley was a latchkey child. Somehow she raised herself to be a model of decency on her own.

When she agreed to marry Craig Klaasmeyer last summer, she asked me when I would be going to spring training. I told her it would be the end of February or the beginning of March. The wedding date was set for February 22, and by the time I became manager, she had already paid deposits on the church and the Museum of Fine Arts for the reception.

I felt pretty safe leaving the workouts in the capable hands of Bill Virdon and the rest of the staff. And I also felt somewhat pampered to be flying first-class. It wasn’t so much the service I enjoyed, but the space. I didn’t even have a drink. But I was able to spread out my statistical information for the teams we would play in April, so I could set a pitching rotation.

At 6’4” and 230 pounds, I don’t fit comfortably into a coach seat. But I got so comfy on this trip that I even took a nap.

If I didn’t feel regal at this point, I did by the end of the weekend.

The rehearsal dinner was hosted by Craig’s father and mother at the Ritz-Carlton. I started a series of toasts that lasted well into the night. We adjourned to the lobby bar, where I found a cigar I had been longing to smoke: an Arturo Fuente Hemingway. It was a masterpiece. I was, indeed, a happy man. Judy and I carried the celebration into the wee hours of the morning.

We awoke about 10 a.m., and after gathering ourselves around the newspaper for an hour, we headed for yet another reception — this one at the River Oaks Country Club. Broad glass windows, two stories high, opened onto the first tee and the 18th green. It was a lovely, springlike, sunny day, and the Klaasmeyer clan from Nebraska and the Dierkers from California could not have been witness to a better slice of Texas.

After the party, my mother and father, my brother and his wife, and Judy and I all went to watch Ryan play the first-round game of his basketball tournament. Naturally, they won in a breeze.

Ryan will turn twelve in a few days, and we all marveled at how he was growing up. Summer before last, he went with my folks on an Alaskan cruise, and he almost blew it by refusing to wear a coat and tie. Now he was sporting a blazer and slacks, and real hard-leather shoes. He had his hair slicked down and was clearly, in his own mind, the most debonaire of the bride’s contingent.

The wedding came off without a hitch. It was a beautiful ceremony, highlighted by a stirring performance by The Houston Children’s Chorus. The reception was wonderful as well. Astros president Tal Smith and his wife Johnnye were there, along with vice-president Bob McClaren and his wife Dana.

Everyone congratulated me on hosting such a fine affair. In truth, it was Ashley who did the planning. She and Craig even paid half the freight.

Ashley is an attorney now, and Craig is an investment banker. They are going to Hawaii and Napa Valley on their honeymoon. But it isn’t their financial success that I am so proud of; it’s their relationship. I have seldom seen two people so google-eyed head-over-heels in love.

They never shed a tear and neither did I, though I came close when the children sang The Lord’s Prayer at the end.

 As Craig and Ashley exited the museum and descended the steps to their waiting limousine, revelers from both sides blew bubbles of joy. As they stepped into the limo, I gave Ashely a little kiss.

“Enjoy your honeymoon in the West,” I said. “I’m heading East to revisit mine. I’ll see you back here in a few weeks, when reality sinks in on Opening Day.”