Author: Larry Dierker

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 30 ● Atlanta ● Playoffs, Game 1 vs Braves

I left for the ballpark at 9:00 with Vern and Cubby. Had bacon and eggs upon arrival. I felt calm; no nerves yet. I wondered if the jitters would come, or if being the underdog would allow me to relax. No way to know.

More interviews, batting practice, a crossword puzzle. Then a meeting with the umpires.

An article in USA Today stated that the umps were going to take a no-tolerance approach to the playoffs. It listed nine infractions that would be cause for ejection: 1) Spitting 2) Spraying of tobacco 3) Physical contact or arguing within arm’s length 4) Threats 5) Animated, energetic gestures 6) Insults 7) Abusive language 8) Extended arguments 9) Throwing of objects.

The only one of these that bothered me was the part about the gestures. What am I supposed to do — stand with my arms at my sides, and speak quietly?  Arguments are part of the entertainment of baseball; always have been. The umpires know this, but somehow they just don’t get it. They want respect, and they deserve it — but like it or not, they are actors.

I don’t like it one bit, myself. I would prefer to just stay in the dugout and accept the calls. But if I do go on the field, I need to show our fans and our players that I care.

I can wave my arms wildly and say, “I really didn’t see the play, but I had to come out here for my players’ sake.” As far as the fans know, I am calling the guy every name in the book. This seems to be what they don’t like: the impression that they are being berated.

Civil arguments are great in the courtroom, but this is the ballfield. The umps are way off-base on gesturing.

Crew chief Harry Wendlestedt pooh-poohed the whole thing.

“This wasn’t supposed to be in the paper,” he said. “It’s really no big deal. We’re going to call it the same as always.”

From what I can gather, this is just further fallout from the Roberto Alomar spitting episode last year. I guess umpires are like elephants: they have long memories.

 

By the time I got back to my office, it was time to take the field for introductions. Still no nerves. I looked up at the luxury boxes behind first base as I jogged out to the third-base line. I spotted Judy, with her bushy silver mane, right away. There was Susan, Rick and Ryan, Chris and Sharon, Ashley and Craig, and Howard.

I waved, and they waved back. We turned to face the field. The whole team along the third-base line, facing the flag.

Then came the Braves. Bobby Cox was on one side of home plate. I was on the other. He came over to shake hands. I was still smiling; no nerves. This was clearly one of the happiest moments of my life. The playoffs were great when I was announcing, but this was special: on the field, in uniform.

Maddux was up with his pitches in the first inning, but he got us 1-2-3. Bagwell smashed one to left, but it had too much topspin and Ryan Klesko, playing deep, made the catch easily. Vern stepped in next to me when we took the field.

“D.K. warmed up good,” he said. “He was really sharp.”

Our strategy was to jam Kenny Lofton and throw him breaking balls. Darryl jammed the piss out of him, but he looped the ball over third base for a lucky double. Keith Lockhart pulled the ball to get Lofton to third, and Chipper Jones fouled off three or four tough pitches, finally lifting a fly ball to left to get the run home.

Maddux threw a lot of high pitches in the second, but we didn’t make him pay. Ryan Klesko hit a home run to make it 2-0. Maddux was up in the third, and in again in the fourth; so much for my great advice. Maddux kept making mistakes, and we stood there, looking for nasty stuff on the corners.

I remember hitters doing the same stupid thing when I was pitching — at least, when I was pitching well. They think you are going to make them look bad, so they swing at pitches on the corners, hoping to hit the ball before they strike out. When you throw a ball down the middle, they just watch it go by in disbelief. They swing at the pitches you want them to swing at, and they hit the ball weakly. Then they take the pitches they could hit hard, and curse themselves.

The trick is to make enough good pitches and win enough games to get the reputation. After that, everyone helps you — even the umpires.

Hitters will tell you that the umpires call strikes for Maddux, Glavine, Smoltz, and Neagle that they don’t call for other pitchers. I’m sure this is true. When a pitcher can consistently hit a spot just off the corner, and the catcher sits out there and crimps his mitt in toward the plate, the umpire eventually starts calling strikes.

Why don’t they do it for other pitchers? They do, for the good ones. It just so happens that the Braves have four of the good ones, so it seems like the umpires favor them. If all of our starters could hit those spots, inning after inning, game after game, year after year, they would get the calls too.

 

We did manage to break through in the fifth inning, in an unusual way. Tony Eusebio hit a chopper up the middle for a base hit. I gave Ricky Gutierrez the hit-and-run on the first pitch. It was high, and he swung under it, but the Braves’ catcher, Eddie Pérez, was so surprised to see Tony running that he threw the ball high and wide.

Ricky moved Tony to third with a grounder. Brad walked. I had D.K. bunting and the Braves charged hard on the first pitch. On the second pitch, Darryl exercised his option to slash and he hit the ball up the middle, driving Tony home.

That was our last sniff. Maddux started keeping the ball down, and we got a few scattered singles. The final score was 2-1.

 

I went to the interview room after the game, and the scribes were pretty easy on me. Back in my office, I met the TV cameras head-on.

I was getting kudos for my surprise steal of second with Tony. I guess I should have taken credit, but instead I explained that it was only a botched hit-and-run play.

 

I barely had time to shower before the bus left for the hotel. Just as I took my seat on the bus, Drayton stepped aboard.

“Does this bus have assigned seating?” he asked.

“More or less,” I said. “More by habit than by design.”

“Where should I sit? In the back?”

“No, you should sit right here — next to me,” I said, sliding over.

I expected the third degree, and I got it — sort of. Drayton was drained, but still full of questions: kind of like a car that won’t stop running, even after you’ve taken out the ignition key.

He is known for his energy and enthusiasm, and he is legendary for his ability to sustain it on almost no sleep. I think I discovered his secret on the way back to the hotel.

The ballgame crowd mixed with the 5 o’clock rush, so it took us 25 minutes to cover the three or four miles from Turner Field to our downtown hotel.

“Do you think the guys will have their confidence tomorrow?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “They’re quiet now, but they’ll be fired up in the morning. That’s the great thing about baseball. You always have another game coming right up after you lose. We’ll take a little … ”

I looked up, and he was nodding off, so I stopped talking. The bus came to a stop, and he popped out of it with another question.

“Has Hampton pitched well against the Braves?”

“Off and on,” I said. “He’s had some real good games. Shut them out last year. But they’ve … ”

I looked over, and he was dozing again. The bus stopped.

“What are you going to tell them tomorrow?”

“I’m going to tell them to enjoy this experience, to play hard and have fun, to be aggressive … ”

Off he went. The bus stopped.

“How do you like Turner Field?”

“I like it. Not as much as Coors Field or The Ballpark at Arlington, but I … ”

This was clearly the most-unusual conversation I have ever had.

I remember Art Howe telling me that Drayton would sometimes ask him a question and then ignore his answer. Now I understood.

I would hate to think that I had the same effect on viewers when I was broadcasting the games.

But I did not think for a minute that Drayton was snubbing me; I just felt that he was exhausted by his busy schedule, and by the game. He was operating on autopilot, and his SOP is to interrogate. I don’t think he cares how you answer his questions; he just wants to force you to think about things that he considers important.

I have always wondered why so many guys fall asleep on the bus after day games. I do it myself. Nobody falls asleep after a night game. I still don’t know the reason for this phenomenon, but I now know that it is not limited to uniformed personnel.

 

I got the hero’s welcome when I got back to the room. We had a couple of beers and opened a bottle of wine. Ryan was watching the game between the Giants and Marlins, giving us updates. We all went to the Chop House in Buckhead for dinner.

We were in pretty good spirits to begin with, dressed for a luau. Rick started calling Buckhead “Bucktown.”

“This is one of the most-exclusive neighborhoods in Atlanta,” I said, “and you’re making it sound like a deer lease.”

“Maybe Davy Crockett came through, killing all the deer, and they changed it to Buckhead,” he said. But I still like Bucktown. What do you think, Ry?”

“I don’t care,” Ryan said. “I just want know why we are going to the Chop House. It sounds like a Braves place.”

“That’s why we’re going.” Rick said. “We’re going to take over the Chop and Bucktown too. Then we’re going to scalp the Braves tomorrow.”

Most of the patrons of the Chop House were wearing coats and ties. The ladies were elegant. We looked like Chevy Chase and John Candy with a host of party-crashers.

We seemed to be getting the cold shoulder until someone recognized me. After that, we were seated and got the royal treatment: good food, good wine, good service.

Once sated, we lost our rebellious resolve and returned to the Westin hotel. We went to the rotating lounge on the 70th floor for a nightcap. Rick, Craig, and Chris talked business; I visited with some of our players and broadcasters. Judy, Susan, and Sharon shared secrets. Ryan comingled. 

 

Back at the suite, Rick and Ryan resumed their card game, which devolved into a random throw for distance. Judy read Body and Soul. Susan worked on a necklace. I let The House of Mirth drag me down again.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 29 ● Travel to Atlanta

Judy got about three hours’ sleep, and I got five. I figured we would snooze on the way to Atlanta, but everyone was excited, and we found ourselves in the middle of an airplane chat session.

I apologized to Cheo, and he just laughed.

“I’ll take you to a Cuban restaurant when we get home,” he said. I think you need some black beans for your brain. You been thinking too much.”

Of all the coaches, Cheo is clearly the most-popular with the players. He has always been that way. When the spirit on the ballclub is running high, he is right in the middle of it. When we are a little down, he may start yelling in mock defiance. He has been invaluable in the role of the liaison with the Latin players.  I may have to ask Cheo to take on extra responsibility next year, because Bill might not be back. He told me that he is tired of all the traveling; that coaching isn’t as much fun when his back is hurting and he can’t hit fungos to the outfielders.

“If we go all the way, I’ll probably be back,” he told me. “Otherwise, I may not. I haven’t decided yet.”

I’m sure Cheo would do a good job with the outfielders, but Bill would be hard to replace. His many years in the game, and his stoic personality, lend a sense of strength and assurance to the club. His willingness to get in someone’s face creates a zero-tolerance attitude.

If I were him, I would be more inclined to come back if I didn’t reach the Series. But I am not him — that’s for sure.

It would be a helluva hole to fill. And besides, we won’t get to go skydiving. There was a party after I was hired, and a guy I didn’t know talked to me about skydiving.  I thought I might like to try it, and I mentioned it to Bill. He told me that if we won the World Series, he would go skydiving with me. 

 

Our suite in Atlanta had two bedrooms and a pulldown bed. I left instructions at the desk for Rick and Susan to cancel their room and stay with us, and then I left for the workout.

We had our meeting before we took the field. I told the hitters to look for mistakes against Greg Maddux.

“He’s only walked 20 guys in 240 innings this year. No one can do that without throwing a lot of pitches over the middle of the plate,” I said.

“Don’t give him too much credit. He makes his share of mistakes up in the zone. Be ready. And don’t be surprised if I put the hit-and-run on. He likes to pitch righthanded hitters low-and-away. Be ready to hit-and run.”

The team seemed loose during infield and batting practice. I spent my time answering the same questions over and over again:

 

Yes, I think we can beat the Braves.

We will have to outpitch them.

I don’t expect to score a lot of runs.

Holt will pitch Game Four, unless both Kile and Hampton have low-pitch-count games.

 

Those are the answers. You can figure out the questions.

One of the writers told me that there was a good piece on me and the team in the New York Times. Turns out the SI piece made the cut too. I’m glad it didn’t come out in time to jinx us during the season.

Now all we have to do is overcome the SI curse and the Braves.

 

Judy had been frustrated in her attempt to get a workout. The treadmills at the hotel exercise room were in use. She tried a health club down the street, and they wouldn’t let her in. She tried the hotel again; no luck. When I walked in the room, she was doing sit-ups. If she had slept more than three hours, she might have been bouncing off the walls.

Howard and Judy Cohen picked us up at 7:30 and took us to the Palisades restaurant. We dined on Chilean sea bass, mussels, and salad, as we talked about travel opportunities in the Mediterranean, children, and dogs.

Judy asked if there was a good place to jog near downtown. Howard’s face twisted, hard in thought. If she had asked about a restaurant in Sicily, he would have had a ready reply.

Finally, he said, “I know a place that would be delightful. It’s even fairly flat, and you don’t get much flat land in Atlanta. We’ll take a walk there after dinner. It’s on the way.”

The neighborhood where we walked is one of the oldest in Atlanta.  It is just across Peachtree Street from the art museum.

A thin mist veiled the neighborhood in an otherworldly glow. The houses squatted like giant boulders. Long-armed ancient oaks, draped in Spanish moss, loomed like goblins on All Souls’ Night.

Judy expressed some misgivings about running the curving streets of this neighborhood. She probably imagines getting lost, swept back into another place in time.

 

Rick and Susan greeted us with wine and cheese. Rick and Ryan started a game of cards. We used to call it Topps, after the gum company.

One player throws a card out on the floor, 6-10 feet away. The next tries to “top” it. When a card is topped, the winner gets all the cards. This game is much more interesting with baseball cards. But for now, playing cards are fine.

 

I retreated to the bedroom and my new book, The House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton. This story isn’t the least bit funny in the beginning — but it is sufficiently boring to put me to sleep quickly.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 28 ● Houston, vs Pittsburgh 

I awakened in time to read Alan’s feature while I ate cereal with passion fruit. Both were good. I was a little embarrassed by the part about my tobacco-chewing habit. But I have had people tell me that I am spitting half the time on TV, so I can’t really complain. It is hard to avoid scrutiny in this business.

Cubby didn’t come by until 10:00, because we had neither batting practice nor infield scheduled. Instead, we had an unannounced fan meet-and-greet at each of the four Astrodome entrances.

I put out a cast of seconds, hoping that another win would be the perfect tonic for Fan Appreciation Day. And that the Bagwell-and-Biggio issue would fade to gray.

 

Drayton came to chapel. He is really fired up about the playoffs. It’s about time he gets to strut a bit; he has spent a lot of money and time trying to rescue this team for the city. If we can beat the Braves in the playoffs, he will start getting back some small percentage of his losses.

The crowd at the north gate bubbled with joy. I could feel the warmth — an almost-palpable joy emanating from the ungainly cross-section of humanity that was heading for the bleacher seats. In the bleachers, propriety is actively ignored.

The craziness of the crowd and Drayton’s rectitude provided a vivid contrast, with one thing in common: the feeling that we are all a team, and we have won. Heady stuff. The stuff that can be more than a little disturbing — even intimidating. Knowing how many people are counting on you, and how much they care. How discouraging it is most years, when the long season ends and the playoffs begin — for somebody else.

 

When I got back to my office, the first thing I did was wash my arms, up to the elbows. Many species live in the sea of humanity, and I thought it possible that some had migrated to my little piece of shoreline.

I found several messages on my desk. There was a fax from Bob Bruce, the pitcher who started the first game the Astros ever played. A telegram from Ruth and Nolan Ryan. A fax from Solly Hemus and his Amazon River traveling party. They had done the river and ascended to Machu Picchu, whereupon they celebrated our victory a day late.

All these things gave today’s game the feel of an exhibition game. Bagwell and Biggio wanted to make cameos to keep their playing streaks alive. I substituted freely in the fourth inning.

At one point, Bagwell pinch-hit and Biggio came running up to me and asked if he could pinch-run for Brad. I was going to bring Tony Peña in for Brad anyway, so I said, “sure,” without really thinking about it.

Bagwell made an out, and Biggio was stranded. It was a piss-poor way to use Biggio. I wasn’t real happy about my judgment, and especially my malleability.

This is the same area where I have trouble with Julia. She gets these impulses, and she springs them on me, looking bright-eyed and eager — and I cave in, against my own instincts.

It is an area for self-improvement, that’s for sure. 

 

Later, I ran out of players, and the Pirates made a comeback. They tied the game in the eighth, and we had to play eleven innings. I was forced to let a pitcher hit, to prevent the possibility of having a pitcher play in the outfield.

We lost 5-4, and I felt mildly annoyed with myself. I hadn’t been as intelligent and economical as I should have been with my substitutions. I might have been able to milk out a win in the ninth if I had saved Biggio.

I took Sunday for a holiday, and that’s what it became. We lost a game in the process; it goes on my record.

I clearly recall a similar realization from my pitching career:

The first few years, I got a little lax when I had a big lead. After negotiating a few contracts and measuring myself against the other pitchers in the league, I made a conscious decision not to allow any easy runs, regardless of the score.

I was looking ahead to Atlanta, and I’m sure the players and the staff were too. But that is not a good excuse.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 27 ● Houston, vs Pittsburgh

Long before our game with the Pirates, Alan Truex stopped by for an in-depth interview: a retrospective on my first season.

I could tell that he had spent a considerable length of time preparing his questions, because they came cascading in sequential order. I was impressed.

For one thing, he has not been known for his early arrivals at the ballpark. And for another, he has not been suspected of being a baseball fan; something must have happened along the way. 

I suppose that if you dangle the lure long enough, the fish will bite. I think we have Alan hooked.

As he rattled off questions that took me back to spring training and forward to now, I realized that he had, indeed, been tapping his toe to the Astros beat — and his animated expressions convinced me that he had enjoyed the dance.

As a broadcaster, I endeavored to catch would-be fans in the web of the game — to help folks understand its beauty and the epic nature of the long season.

I look forward to seeing what Alan comes up with. I have a hunch it will be pretty good.

Lucky for me, Bagwell and Biggio told me that they wanted to play a few innings today. I had just about convinced myself that I would have to take a stand on my lineups, despite Drayton’s concern for the fans.

As I told Truex, “These are not throwaway games. We have a purpose, and that is to play the guys who need to play, and rest the guys who need to rest.” I was glad to see that show up in the paper, and I hoped that Drayton had read it.

When Baggy and Bidge told me they wanted to play, I wrote Derek into the lineup too. I figured he would want to do whatever they wanted to do.

Wrong. He is still having some discomfort in his left shoulder from the diving catch he made against the Cubs.

I had to change the lineup after batting practice. Chuckie Carr got the start in center field, and he went 2-for-5. Biggio went 0-for-2 and Bagwell 1-for-2 with an RBI and a run scored. They were out of the game by the fourth inning, and we were ahead 3-1.

After that, the floodgates opened, and we rushed through with eight runs. Shane Reynolds looked good in a five-inning tuneup. Magnante, Springer, and Martin finished off the game in style. We won 8-1.

 

If I could choose a way to go into the playoffs, I couldn’t script it any better. We have been winning games with good pitching, with timely hitting, with solid fundamental defense — and we are doing it under the pressure of the race.

Now that the race is over, we are still winning on momentum, and we are getting our part-time players involved in the victory march.

I know the Braves could rain on our parade, but I don’t think it will happen. They may beat us, but I think they will know they have been in a fight.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26 ● Houston, vs Pittsburgh

We turned out the lights at 3:30 this morning, and I got up at 11, feeling like a million bucks. Judy was doing her motherly duties: washing and folding clothes, operating on rote in the happy limbo-land between sleep and dream.

“I’m going to have to get a nap if I am going to make it to the game,” she said.

“The heck with the game,” I said. “Take a nap and skip the game.”

“The only thing is, I think the wives are having a party, and I should be there,” she said.

I can only look upon Judy as a godsend. We met by the swimming pool of an apartment complex near the Dome. She lived in Memphis at the time, and was just passing through Houston, visiting a friend who happened to live in the same complex. The day I met her was the second of three she was planning to spend.

As it turned out, she stayed a few extra days, until our homestand was over. I loved her right from the start, and she liked me pretty well too. But we had to be pretty persistent to keep the romance alive.

We exchanged letters and phone calls; I invited her to join me in Cincinnati; I went to Memphis at the end of the season.

She was reluctant to start another relationship, after a failed marriage. I was on the rebound too, but I felt no such fear. I kept putting the heat on her, and she finally moved to Houston a few months later.

 

When I reflect on the seminal events of my life, I feel the helping hand of God. I am probably one of the weakest Christians in the world, and by all accounts I should be one of the strongest.

To have been born to a happy and loving family; to have been given the wonderful gift of baseball; to have Judy placed in my path at a time when my shoulder was sore and I was spinning aimlessly in a sea of debt; all these things to be thankful for, and now this: the chance to fulfill the ultimate goal of a labor of love. How can I still question the eternal goodness of life?

I can’t, but I still do.

 

I waited for Ryan to get home from school because he was asleep when I got home last night, and I wanted to share last night’s experience with him before I left for the ballpark. He was a little groggy too, but the sparkle came back when he recounted his aftergame activities. I gave him another big hug and headed for the park.

When I arrived, Joe Drape of the New York Times was waiting in my office. His assignment was to do a feature story on me; I was flattered: Sports Illustrated and now the Times. I don’t know if the SI piece is going to run, but I will have some memorable bookends to the story of my first season. First, Murray Chass in the spring — and now, Joe Drape in the fall.

 

My problem tonight was to field a lineup that would give The Chief a chance to win, while resting most of our best players. The only position I couldn’t fill with a worthy replacement was first base. For this assignment, I called upon “old reliable,” Luis Gonzalez.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you the night off,” I said. “I just don’t have enough infielders.”

He said it was all right, but I could tell he was a little hurt. It wasn’t that he minded playing; it was just that he was the only regular who was asked to perform — and in that way, it was like I was telling him he wasn’t as good as the others. I tried to think of a way to solve this problem, and I couldn’t. We would just have to live with it.

 

During batting practice, Gene Lamont came over and congratulated me. His heart had to be aching after he led the Pirates to a Cinderella season, only to be left with a midnight pumpkin.

Lamont may win the Manager of the Year award. He would be a worthy recipient, but I know he would trade the award to be in my shoes.

This is sort of a touchy subject with me. Like so many big-league managers, Gene spent a lot of time in the minor leagues, and on the coaching lines, before he finally got his chance. By comparison, I am a charlatan.

It’s not that I feel apologetic about my sudden ascent; it’s just that I can understand the frustration of guys like Cubby, Davey Lopes, and Chris Chambliss, who have served full apprenticeships, and who have been interviewed to manage, but have never been chosen.

 

Chief started slowly, but he got a couple of good breaks when the Pirates stumbled on the basepaths. Gonzo made a great scoop on a double-play throw from second-baseman Russ Johnson.

There was a man on third with one out, and Russ was playing second base for the first time in his life. His pivot was clumsy and his throw was wild, but Old Reliable saved the day.

Gonzo is such a great guy to have on a team! I hope we can get him back next year.

After the fourth inning, I moved Randy Knorr from catcher to first base, and brought Tony Peña in to catch. I walked down to the end of the bench and told Gonzo he could shower up and go home. He laughed.

“Are you shittin’ me?” he said.

“No,” I said. “You’re the only regular who had to start. This is your reward.”

“I’m not going home,” he said. “I want to stay here with the guys.”

I knew he would say that, but I think he appreciated the gesture.

Russ Johnson was the offensive star of the game. He singled, stole second, moved up on the overthrow, and scored on a perfect squeeze bunt by Luis Rivera in the fifth inning. Then he hit a solo homer in the seventh.

Oscar Henriquez pitched a scoreless eighth. Billy Wagner slammed the door in the ninth, striking out the side and hitting 100 MPH on the radar gun. We won the game 2-0.

 

After the game, I got a call from Gerry. It seems that Drayton was accosted by several fans in the expensive Diamond Level seats. They told him in no uncertain terms that they had paid not paid top dollar to watch minor-league ballplayers. Drayton didn’t have a ready reply.

He could have pointed out that Bagwell and Biggio need rest before the Atlanta series. He could have told the fans that the Pirates were playing the same type of lineup.

Instead, like any good retailer, he felt obligated to serve the customer. He called Gerry and asked why we weren’t giving the fans a good show.

Actually, I think the real fans enjoyed getting a glimpse of the players who may be Astros stars of the future. But from Drayton’s perspective, the real fans are the ones who spend the big money on Diamond-level seats.

I don’t blame him. We are going to need all the money we can make, to field a good team next year.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25 ● Houston, vs Cubs

When I awoke yesterday, I knew we could win our division if we won our game and the Pirates lost theirs.  As it turned out, we both lost. They don’t play today, so our fate is in our hands. I knew there would be no scoreboard-watching; no divided attention.

To be honest, I fear the Pirates. They are no match for us in terms of talent and experience, but they are fearless. They have everything to gain and nothing to lose.

When I was pitching, I felt the same way about The Big Red Machine. If I beat them — which I did several times — it was a feather in my cap. If they beat me, it was no big deal, because they were expected to win every time they took the field.

If we make the playoffs, the spikes will be on the other foot.

The Braves, confident and poised as they are, will feel some pressure because they will be so heavily favored. I think we will have a psychological advantage if we can temper our adrenaline rush with a fair amount of poise. 

But first things first:

 

Cubby came by at 1:50. I took my tuna sandwich with me, just as I did yesterday. It bothered me a little to repeat the steps of a losing day, but I wasn’t too upset, because the sandwich was on wheat bread today — it was on a croissant yesterday.

Yesterday, I bladed before leaving. Today, I planned to work out at the ballpark. These small changes should more than offset the tuna.

I did make sure to hang my street clothes on the left side of my locker, and put my underwear on top of my shoes. No sense tempting fate.

 

Gerry came up while I was on the treadmill, and he told me he wanted me and my coaching staff back next year. I was happy to break the monotony of running in place and join him in the coaches’ locker room for the announcement.

The meeting was brief. All of the guys seemed happy about it. I thanked them for their valuable assistance, and got back to the jogging.

 

Alan Truex came by, and we had a nice chat — sort of a season-in-review session for the Sunday Chronicle. He went through a laundry list of milestones, and I commented on each.

It seems this magical whirlwind of a season has swept him into the vortex; he was quite animated. Seemed to be honestly enjoying talking baseball.

I hope this apparent change has had a ripple effect in the community. Judging by last night’s crowd, I think it might.

In the upper deck in center field, a large, black tarp was covering something that would be unveiled if we won. In the locker room, plastic was rolled up over the tops of the lockers, so that it could be unrolled to cover them when the bubbly started spewing.

Everything was set — including Mike Hampton, tonight’s starting pitcher. Mike was in the training room an hour before game time. He looked across the hall into my office, and he caught me picking my nose.

“Pick a winner,” he said.

“I did, and it’s you,” I replied.

Making sure I had my Big Bamboo talisman in my left-rear pocket, I headed for the dugout about five minutes earlier than normal. When I met with the umpires to exchange lineup cards, Cubs manager Jim Riggleman said, “Good luck, man. You’ve done a helluva job.”

There is nothing more gratifying than praise from your peers. I really appreciated his comment, and I thought briefly about how difficult it must have been for him when the Cubs lost their first 14 games. To be way behind that soon, and never really catch up, makes for a long season.

Jim is a classy guy, and the Cubs have been perceptive-enough not to blame the bad start on him. I still think the Cubs have some problems, but they are not that far away from having a good team.

 

The fans came out again: 36,000 of them. They cheered loudly during the introductions, and they gave Hamp an ovation when he retired the Cubs 1-2-3 in the first. In our half of the inning, Biggio walked, and when the count went 2-0 on Bell, a discernable hum emanated from the crowd. Bell hit the next pitch to short for a double play. Bagwell struck out.

“That’s all right,” I told Bill. “When I was pitching, I wasn’t that thrilled about a big early lead. I preferred to pitch in a close game, and get some runs near the end.”

“I hear you,” he said. “I like it that way, too.”

I looked up in the stands and saw Judy, Ryan, Ashley, Sharon, Chris, Craig, Chris, and Julia. Most of them were wearing their best luau gear.

The second inning was uneventful.

In the third, we scored on a walk and a two-out double by Biggio.

We scored again in the fourth, when Bagwell led off with a double and came home on a sacrifice fly by Gonzo.

Hampton was cruising along, mixing his pitches, getting outs with ease until the Cubs broke the spell with a run in the seventh. But the seventh was to be our inning — the breakthrough inning of the entire season.

Spiers and Gutierrez drew walks off Jeremy González to get it started. González is a talented rookie, but the crowd was starting to get to him. He tried to get the next pitch in there, but Ausmus was ready, and he drove it to left-center. I knew it was an extra-base hit, and I was hoping it would go out.

“Get up!” I yelled. It did, and we were up 5-1.

Late runs: just what Bill and I talked about in the first inning.

But we weren’t finished yet.

Hampton popped out. Biggio drew a walk. Bidge got beaned by González his last time up. Luckily it was a glancing blow, and he was not injured. Instead, he was even more possessed with passion than ever. He stole second, and then made three attempts to steal third. Derek fouled off the first two; the third one was in the dirt, and Bidge was safe.

Derek followed with a double to right. Bagwell was hit by a slow curve. Gonzo got an infield hit. Hidalgo walked to force in a run. Spiers singled to plate another. The crowd was delirious.

We had an 8-1 lead. The division title was six outs away.

Hampton put down the Cubs in the eighth, and Biggio and Bagwell gave the crowd one last hurrah: Bidge walked, and Baggy tripled him home.

The last play of the game was a shot into the hole at short by Sammy Sosa. Gutierrez dove and snagged it, threw from his knees, and got him by an eyelash.

Hampton was right: I picked a winner. The players streamed onto the field — all except Tony Eusebio and Tank Howard, who paused momentarily to dump a bucket of ice water on my head.

Because I knew we were going to win, I had a little time to think about what I wanted to do. I decided to shake hands with the coaches first; that what I was doing when I got doused. The baptismal moment made me feel like it was important to be with the players first.

But by the time I got to the pileup around second base, it was pandemonium. Fans were rushing down onto the field, and the players started peeling off and heading for the locker room.

I went over to Judy, Julia, and Ryan for hugs and kisses, and then back to the dugout for a radio interview with Jim Deshaies. Fans were racing pell-mell around the diamond. Silver and gold confetti fell like snow from the top of the Dome. A gaggle of fans lined up in front of the dugout, facing me. They were bug-eyed, stricken with joy.

 

I told Deshaies that I had been thinking about my father a lot the last few innings, when I knew were going to win. I was also thinking about my 32 years with the team, and how few special moments like this we have had; about the fans — especially those who have cheered, mostly in vain, for so many years. And how, because of the long and largely-uninspiring history of the team, there has never been a World Series in the Dome.

I imagined what was going on in front of me to be the final moment, the World Series Championship celebration. I know it is a long shot, but that is my desire.

We have won the long war, but the most-intense battles are still ahead. I was already thinking about the Braves.

 

When I got back to the locker room, it was effervescing. As I was being interviewed by Bill Brown, José Lima poured champagne on my head. I was glad I had my hat and glasses on. Even though my vision became blurred, the sting of the bubbly didn’t reach my eyes, and the stickiness of the grape didn’t muck my hair. At least, not at first.

As I stepped down from the platform, Tank lifted my cap and poured the champagne on my head. Someone handed me a bottle, and Gerry came up and hugged me. Then he grabbed the bottle out of my hand and took a couple of swigs.

I spotted Biggio across the room, smoking a cigar the same way he had run the bases earlier. An inch-long ember glowed amidst the spewing smoke. In the midst of the billowing cloud, I saw his perfect white teeth flashing from one ear to the other. One arm was raised high with a bottle of bubbly. I started in his direction, and he met me with a leaping hug.

Ain’t nothing halfway about Biggio.

Everywhere I turned, there were reporters. I must have answered the question How do you feel right now? twenty times, but there was no good answer. I could only say that there was a warmth in here, and point to my heart.

I explained that it wasn’t exuberance or excitement that I felt; it was a more-peaceful feeling — a deep satisfaction.

The players were passing out Cuban cigars. I took a handful to my desk, and when I returned, most of the players were going back out to the field.

The plan was to have the players take a victory lap and high-five the fans. But so many of the fans had gone berserk — tearing out the flower beds in the outfield, climbing the screen behind home plate, running the bases, sliding into home, piling all over one another — that it was touch-and-go as to whether we should go back out.

It took about half-an-hour to clear the field, and when I got back out there, Bagwell was making the rounds, pressing as much flesh as he possibly could.

I saw Tal Smith, and we hugged each other. I would like to have a picture of that; he is even more reserved by nature than I am.

Ryan came running across the field to meet me. His eyes were sparkling, and he was out of breath. I picked him up and hugged him.

I later learned that he had been down on the field with the mob, and he had run all the way around several times. When they started herding the fans out the wagon gate in center field, he was worried that he would be separated from Judy. Mike Magnante spotted him at that moment and took him to the dugout.

Before it was over, I had hugged just about every player, and most of the front-office people.

Drayton asked me if I had imagined this when I took the job.

“You better believe it,” I said. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I did imagine it. That’s why I took the job. And the job is not over yet.”

When the tumult finally played out, I joined the coaches for a glass of wine. Throughout the celebration, I had not tasted a drop of champagne; I prefer to bathe in white grapes and drink the red. The merlot went down easily.

We talked a little about the season, and then for some unknown reason, we got to talking about Chuckie Carr. Among Gerry, Barry, Mac, and the voluble Perfessor, we killed another half-hour speculating on Chuckie’s potential value next year.

I don’t know how in the world we got off on that subject, but it finally dawned on me that this was a sign that it was time to go home.

I stopped by my office to pick up a victory cigar, and I found a note from Jim Riggleman:

 

Congratulations. You and your staff did a great job. Good luck in the playoffs.

           

It was 12:45 when I arrived home, and Judy was on the couch, half asleep.

“I tried to wait up,” she said. “But I barely made it.”

Judy is such a great partner — such a wonderful wife. She had been up since 6 a.m., and she had to get up at 6 again this morning. But when I went outside to smoke my cigar and have one more glass of wine, she joined me. She told me about what had happened to Ryan after the game, and then she told me a story that brought a tear to my eye.

Before the game, a check for $10,000 was delivered to the M.D. Anderson Hospital for cancer research. A cancer patient about Ryan’s age threw out the first ball, and he could only get it halfway home, using all his strength.

The force of the effort landed him on his keister, and Ash ran out to help him up and to sign the ball for him.

During the game, he was sitting right in front of Judy. When we returned to the field, Biggio spotted the boy and came over to sign his baseball.

“You’re my hero,” the boy said.

“No, you’re my hero,” said Biggio.