Author: Larry Dierker

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24 ● Houston, vs Cubs

I strapped on the Rollerblades today and took off with the energy of emancipation: Free from the suffocating Houston summer weather; free from knee injury (almost); free from the pressure of holding off the Pirates (almost).

Actually, my knee is still a little sore, and we do have to win one or two more games to clinch a playoff spot.  But I felt so pumped that the 80-degree weather lured me far away from home.

When I turned to come back, I realized that I had been moving swiftly — not because of great leg strength, good form, or superior conditioning. It was the wind that carried me away, and now the same wind would fight me every inch of the way home.

I suppose this was a symbolic lesson, better described by Yogi Berra when he said, “It ain’t over ’til it’s over.” Anyone who has ever dealt with a contractor can tell you that getting 90-percent finished is only halfway. The last steps can be the most difficult.

In my case, I was totally spent when I hit a bump in the road about 300 yards short of my house, and I tumbled awkwardly to the ground — right in front of our mailman. It was embarrassing, and I certainly didn’t want any sympathy, so I got up as quickly as I could and skated the rest of the way, sucking wind.

 

It was 1:30 when I got home, and Cubby was due at 2:00 — which means 1:50, and which also means that he will never be a contractor.

I was sweating like a beast, and knew it would be senseless to take a shower before I cooled down. I waited 15 minutes and told Judy to ask Cubby to wait. He arrived at 1:50, and we left at 2:00, but I was still sweating, so I rode halfway to the ballpark with my Hawaiian shirt off, eating a tuna sandwich.

We talked about the expansion draft and the possibility of making a deal with an expansion team in advance. I understand several deals were made prior to the last draft.

A team would say to the Rockies, for example, “If you can draft this guy, we will give you this guy for him.” 

All of these considerations have nothing to do with what we are really interested in: winning the game tonight while the Pirates lose, drinking some champagne, and spilling a lot more.

 

Dave Mlicki was to pitch for the Mets against the Pirates tonight. I had high hopes. Dave has Darryl-Kile-type stuff, but he has been bounced back-and-forth between the bullpen and the rotation.

He is capable of shutting anyone down if he throws good strikes, but he has yet to become a winning pitcher.

He is the type of guy I would like to get in one of those expansion deals: a guy whom the Mets might ask a lot for in a straight-up deal, but whom they may not be able to protect in expansion. 

At any rate, I was more interested in his present than in his future.

 

The Dome was half-full when I took the lineup card out to Bruce Froemming.

“I heard you guys were going to draw 40,000,” he said. “You’ll be lucky to get 30.”

“They’ll be here,” I said, confidently. I knew from experience that if people were sitting in the upper levels of the outfield, the crowd would be large.

“They just never seem to figure it out. They arrive at game time, thinking they’re just going to walk right in. Check the crowd in the third inning. You’ll see.”

By the third inning, almost 42,000 people were there, and we were down 1-0 on a homer by Brooks Kieschnick.

Chris Holt was pitching a steady game. His performance during the last month has been excellent, and he has almost nothing to show for it. His ERA is half-a-run lower than the league average, and he is 8-11, destined to be 8-12. This is because he has drawn some tough opponents. Tonight it was Mark Clark, the former Met.

In the fifth inning of our game, a roar went up for no apparent reason. Actually it was a good reason: the Mets had just posted a six-run inning to take a 7-1 lead over the Bucs. Go Mlicki, go!

The Cubs got another run on a solo homer by Tyler Houston, and the Mets held firm. Clark had us shut out until Bagwell drove in a run with a single in the seventh inning. 

Down 2-1 with two innings left, I felt confident. Tonight might be the night. Just about that time, the Pirates scored two runs in the eighth. The Cubs tacked on another run. All of a sudden, we had turned into the wind. We failed to score in the eighth, and the Bucs posted two in the ninth. Now it was 7-5 Mets and 3-1 Cubs. I honestly think the crowd was watching the scoreboard more than the game.

When the final score of 7-5 went up, the crowd erupted. All that was left was a three-run rally and the bubbly.

I pinch-hit Tank Howard for Ausmus leading off. Brad fumed. Howard popped up. Bobby Abreu followed with a single, and Biggio singled right behind him. Derek took a called third strike after swinging at two pitches in the dirt. In his defense, the last pitch looked high and wide.

Bagwell was issued an unintentional-intentional walk; they weren’t going to let him beat them with a home run. The pitcher’s spot was due, and I pinch-hit with Sean Berry. Sean got two good swings before he hit a sharp ground ball to short to end it.

          

We didn’t get the clinch, but the Mets’ win assured us of at least a tie. One more win and we’re in there. The press contingent jammed my office again. The overflow headed for the locker room and returned after the first wave departed.

The questions-and-answers went well. The Pirates’ loss made it easy. Now that we can clinch with one win, it seems a foregone conclusion. Still, I must remember the lesson of the wind, and stay focused.

I had the forethought to bring two shirts tonight, in case one got soaked. I hope it gets soaked tomorrow.

 

Ashley, Craig, Chris, and Sharon waited for me to come out. I didn’t know they were waiting, and I was surprised to see them. They asked if I could come by to get my birthday present. I figured Judy would go straight home and go to bed, because she and Ryan have to wake up early, so I joined the crowd and got my present: three antique ivory figures from China.

One is the god of wisdom; one is the goddess of compassion; the other is the god of luck. I proposed to use the latter god for tomorrow, and the others in the future, whenever necessary.

“Use the wisdom on the Cubs tomorrow,” Chris said. “Save the luck for the Braves.”

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 ● Houston, vs Cubs

Papaya, passion fruit, mangos — all sweet and delicious — crowned the bowl of health-nut cereal Judy prepared for me when I got up at 9:30. Beats the hell out of bacon and eggs in the locker room.

I retired to my study to write, and I was interrupted by Julia a few minutes later. She had come to give me my birthday presents, and she was in a terrific mood.

This child has lived a hard life in her 21 years. She started with colic, spent six months wearing braces to straighten her legs, struggled in school, and succumbed to nearly every temptation of the teenage years. She is finally getting it together now, and the beautiful child within her is coming back out with age.

“I got you this Doctor Seuss book, because it reminded me of when you used to read to me,” she said. On the inside, she wrote I’ll read this one to you if you like.

I told her that José Lima reminded me of a Dr. Seuss character, and she didn’t really understand until I leafed through the book and found a Lima lookalike: elbows akimbo, rump and legs trailing, eyes popping out.

She started to laugh. “That’s him,” she said. We both laughed until we had tears in our eyes.

Judy was doing volunteer work at Ryan’s school, so Julia and I had some special time together. I haven’t done nearly enough of this, and I suspect that an absent Dad may have led to some of her problems.

I wasn’t there for Ashley, either, so I am not wringing my hands with guilt. But I am so happy that Julia is finally starting to blossom, and I am looking forward to spending a lot more time with her.

When she was in her teen years, I made several hapless attempts to be her friend. We went on outings together, but our physical proximity did nothing to close the vast chasm of misunderstanding and mistrust that lay between us.

Now the words come easily. I feel thrice blessed.

 

It was still pouring down rain when Cubby and I entered the Dome at 2:30. My visit with Julia put me a paragraph or two behind, but it was worth it — and now the imminence of our long-awaited reward stared me in the eye like a hypnotist.

I knew it would be a long wait until game time. After I prepared the lineup, I did a quick workout and started the vigil.

Gerry came by to talk about playoff details, and how we should handle the celebration. I think we both felt uneasy about counting unhatched chickens, but we had no choice but to prepare. Talking with him helped pass the time.

I took out my Big Bamboo amulet, put it in my pocket, and made my way to the dugout. The crowd was small, as I expected, but an expectant hum filled the air. The umpires came out, wearing their street clothes; their bags were lost in transit.

“How the hell am I going to argue with a guy who looks like he’s on a Sunday picnic?” I asked Bruce Froemming. He just laughed.

“Same way you always do,” he said.

 

The Cubs touched Kile for a run in the first. We matched them on Biggio’s triple and a grounder by Derek Bell. They scored again in the third. Bagwell hit a massive homer to centerfield to tie it again in the fourth. Kile wavered again in the fifth, but he cut his losses to one run. We were down 3-2 when Biggio connected in the bottom of the frame.

Bagwell and Biggio; Biggio and Bagwell. It’s a familiar refrain. I shudder to think where we would be without them.

In the top of the sixth, Luis Gonzáles made a fabulous catch on Scott Servais. What would have been a leadoff double became an out. After that, Kile stiffened and the Cubs went down in order.

Richard Hidalgo doubled to start our half of the sixth. Spiers moved him to third with a grounder. Tony Eusebio singled Richard home, and we had our first lead. 

Ricky Gutierrez singled up the middle. With men on first and second, I put on the bunt sign for Kile, even though I knew it would take a perfect bunt to get Tony to third.

The Cubs charged, and Kile took ball one. The way they charged in on the pitch left the infield wide open. I was so dubious of our chances to sacrifice that I took off the bunt. Kile responded with a single to center. Cubby waved Tony home, and the play was close. I believe they would have had him, but he kicked the ball out of Servais’ mitt.

Kile went to the whip with the 5-3 lead, and he didn’t have any more trouble until Mark Grace led off the ninth with a single. Sammy Sosa, a dangerous home-run hitter, came up as the tying run.

I had Wagner ready in the bullpen, but Sosa is a free swinger, and I felt better about Kile keeping the ball in the ballpark.

In our dugout, you could practically hear the hearts pounding and the nerves humming. The crowd fell silent.

Sosa chopped the first pitch to third, but Spiers had only one play. Grace advanced to second, we got the first out.

Kevin Orie was due. He is a great breaking-ball hitter — and to be honest, Wagner was probably my best option. Scott Servais was on deck, and he has hit Kile and Wagner well. I went to the mound, and Kile assured me that he was still strong.

“You’ve got the next two hitters,” I said.

D.K. jumped ahead of Orie, but he eventually walked him. Now the tying run was on base, and Dave Clark came up to hit for Servais. I would have let Kile face Servais, hoping for a double play, but I wanted Wagner for Clark, and I really didn’t care if they pinch-hit with a righthanded hitter.

I strode to the mound and summoned Wagner.

“Guess you changed your mind,” D.K. said.

“Servais was your man,” I said. “Now it’s up to Billy.”

Darryl wasn’t mad. He has become such a great competitor and a great team player — always ready to go on, never angry when I take him out.

“Go get ‘em, kid,” I said. And Billy got ’em: Ryne Sandberg, hitting for Clark, and rookie Miguel Cairo. Both on strikeouts. The crowd went wild.

 

When we got to the clubhouse, it was the bottom of the ninth at Shea Stadium and the Mets had runners on first and second with two outs. The Pirates had a 5-4 lead. I told Rob to hold off the press off for a minute, and I stood in front of the TV with all the other guys.

Edgardo Alfonso hit a grounder to first; the Bucs won again. Our magic number dropped to two and Gonzo yelled, “The hell with the Mets! We’ll win it ourselves.”

The way we’ve been playing, I was inclined to believe him. 

The press contingent was large enough to fill my office. I went on and on about Bagwell, Biggio, and Kile. Most of the reporters left, except Fran Blinebury of the Chronicle and David Liss from Houston OnLine. David is a hard-working guy; he probably covers more games and asks more questions than anyone in this city, but sometimes he can get a bit tiresome.

“What about Bagwell and Biggio, and what they mean to this team?” he asked.

“David, I’ve just answered that question twice. You heard my answers. Why do you want to make me say it again?” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said, averting his eyes.

I could tell that my sharp reply hurt his feelings. Fact is, I have been a bit short with the press a number of times this year. I usually regret these comments, even as I utter them. But this is the first time I have been fractious after a winning game.

Fran relieved an awkward moment by asking another question. I guess I should just chalk it up to the pressure. I suppose the heat I feel is also felt by our players and the people who cover the team — especially the young guys like David, who are really caught up in the race.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22 ● Cincinnati, vs Reds

With a 12:30 game today, I rolled out at 8:00. Not exactly the way I would choose to start my birthday.

During the season, baseball comes first. Well, almost. A death or birth in the family might rate a leave of absence these days. Used to be that even the birth of a child was no excuse.

“You’ll see ’em soon enough,” they would say. “Besides, they won’t know who the hell you are anyway.”

This birthday started with an error. I finished Goat Brothers and started Keep the Change. I left the loose change on my bedstand, and the book too, along with my reading glasses. I’ll call the hotel tomorrow, but I am not expecting to get anything back. I would say I am about 1-for-10 in recovery situations.

 

I went back to Batsakes, got my hat from Gus, and left an Astros cap for Charlie. The morning air was crisp and clean — a harbinger of autumn, an intimation of the coming season of baseball glory.

I quickened my pace, bouncing on my toes as I approached the stadium. The unfinished crossword was still on my desk. I concocted my lineup and attacked the crossword over breakfast of bacon, eggs, and grits. The grits brought a smile.

I have long thought Cincinnati to be a Southern city out of place in the north. Its current designation as The Queen City and its old nickname, Porkopolis, do nothing to discredit this image. The Germanic settlers who crowded the downtown streets celebrating Oktoberfest seem somewhat provincial. But the way I see it, there is more Houston than New York in this, the birthplace of professional baseball.

I was comforted when I was able to complete the crossword with only three “guess” letters. Perhaps this would be a glorious birthday; I could sense a blowout in the making, with Mike Remlinger on the mound for the Reds.

Remlinger, a former number-one draft pick of the Giants in 1987, is lefthanded, and he has explosive stuff. But he has been a mistake-waiting-to-happen throughout his career. I figured he would walk a few batters and give up a home run or two.

On our side, Shane Reynolds, on an improving trend and facing a lineup decimated by injuries, was primed to pitch a good game.

Only a few guys took batting practice. Tim Bogar, with a cast on his left arm, did the pitching, and the guys were giving him the business every time someone hit a home run.

As I changed shirts to go down for the game, I couldn’t help but notice the levity in the clubhouse. All systems were “go.”

So it seemed.

 

Biggio led off with a double. Bell moved him to third with a ground ball to second. Bell got the hero’s welcome for his unselfish hitting. I was glad for the spirit, but in the first inning against a guy like this, I would prefer the swashbuckling approach to the more-conservative, “get him over, get him in” approach. Bagwell did get him in, however.

We took the field with a 1-0 lead and held it. Shane looked a little shaky, though. He was nibbling at the corners of the plate; not a good sign.

The Reds got a run in the third on a double by Pokey Reese. It could have been worse, but we turned a nifty 3-6-1 double play to end the inning as the potential lead run was crossing the plate.

We got another run in the fourth, and we should have had two. Hidalgo homered, for openers. With one out, Tony Peña doubled, with Ricky running on the pitch. Ricky would have scored if a fan had not interfered by reaching over the railing for the souvenir. It was an automatic double, on umpire’s discretion. I didn’t argue, but this is a bad rule.

It would be one thing if a Reds fan prevented the Reds from scoring, but think about it this: What if we announced that fans in the Dome should try to deflect any extra-base hit by our opponent, to make sure that it is only a double and that a runner couldn’t score from first?

It was their fan who interfered with our score.  I believe the umpire can allow the run to score, on his discretion, but they never do. They just treat it like a ground-rule double.

Reggie Sanders led off the sixth with an infield hit. He moved to second on a clean single. Shane struck out Oliver, trying to bunt. But then the umpires called a balk for Shane not stopping at the “set” position.

This is not a call you can argue, but it is a chickenshit call. I don’t care if it is called for us or against us; it just isn’t right. Shane had no intent to deceive the runner, and his pause at the set position was no different than on a dozen other pitches during the game.

If the umpires want to enforce this rule, they should do it early in the game, where it doesn’t have a major impact.

Once again, we lucked out. Bret Boone hit a towering fly ball to deep center. Richard Hidalgo made a terrific catch, and the Reds had to settle for one run.

We had been stranding baserunners throughout the game. Had numerous chances to break it open, and we could not get a key hit.

In the bottom of the seventh, our defense cracked.

Pokey Reese bunted down the first-base line on our new pitcher, Mike Magnante. I don’t know if Pokey noticed the knee braces under Mike’s uniform, but it was a good play — and when Mike threw the ball away, it became a great play. Jon Nunnally dropped a sacrifice bunt, and Reese went to third. We brought the infield in, and Chris Stynes hit a swinging bunt down the third-base line. Spiers tried a desperate throw home, but he threw the ball away. The lead run scored and Stynes went to second.

Magnante got the next out. Springer came in and got the last out.

In our half of the eighth, Ricky fought for a walk, leading off. I pinch-hit Chuck Carr for Tony Peña. Everyone thought I was going to have Chuckie bunt. But I had other ideas.

Belinda is a sidearm pitcher, and Chuckie is a pull hitter. With first base occupied, I thought he might be able to pull the ball into right field and advance Ricky to third. When Chuckie took the first pitch and didn’t square around, some of the guys in the dugout were mad; they thought he had either missed or ignored a sign. When he hit the next pitch into the right-field corner, they were happy.

Trader Jack McKeon brought his closer, Jeff Shaw, into the game. He has only blown a couple of saves all year, but with second and third and nobody out, this was almost a Mission: Impossible. It became just that when Bobby Abreu hit a liner off Shaw’s knee, and Shaw had to be carried off the field. We tied the game on that hit and took a three-run lead when Bill Spiers doubled.

Wagner closed the deal, and we whittled our magic number to three.

 

This game, more than any other since the first game at Denver, had me by the nape of the neck. I felt like there was low-voltage electricity coursing through my body. My thinking mechanism was working, but my neuro-emotional buffers were shot.

When I got back to my office, it took a minute or two to compose myself. One of the reporters wished me a happy birthday, and I told him that I felt as if I had gone from 50 to 52 in one day. 

The first question was about Bagwell. He stole his 30th base today to become the first full-time first baseman to hit 30 or more homers and steal 30 or more bases.

The 30-30 club and the like are products of PR directors and TV. producers. No one ever thought about these “clubs” when I was playing. The arbitrary goals of hitting .300 and winning 20 games were well-established, but even these numbers can be misleading.

For example, when Mike Scott won the Cy Young Award in 1986, he pitched 275 innings with an ERA of 2.22, but he won “only” 18 games. In 1989, he won 20 while pitching 229 innings with a 3.10 ERA.

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER, 21 ● Cincinnati, vs Reds

This is my last day to be 50 years old. It feels pretty good, but a win and a Pirates loss would make it even better.

This is also the penultimate road day of the year — a time to take stock of the cumulative fatigue of another campaign.

Sure, we may do some more traveling in the playoffs; but that will just be a short stay and right back home. If we get that far, we’ll fly on the wings of adrenaline, and jet lag won’t catch up with us until the we are eliminated or coronated.

I already have some great plans for the offseason: getting in shape, skiing, a Christmas cruise, and of course, planning for next year: the expansion draft, the free-agent market, trades, winter ball. A full plate.

 

 

The only thing that bothered me this morning was the Sunday crossword.

I arrived rather early, and our assistant trainer, Rex Jones, was starting to work it. I remembered that I had worked one yesterday, and I decided to do it again — not superstitious, mind you, just in the mood for a crossword.

The problem was that we took batting practice, and I had to do some interviews and take a couple of phone calls. As a result, I didn’t get back to Rex until 30 minutes before game time. I started thinking it was important to finish the puzzle, but it was larger and more difficult that yesterday’s. We worked away, and had it about two-thirds finished when I had to go to the dugout. It was just ten minutes before the game.

 

I had a nagging feeling that this was not going to be a good day; don’t ask me why. I just had that feeling.

When I saw The Chief get them out 1-2-3 in the first, I felt a stronger sense of foreboding, because two of the outs were line shots.

I looked up at the scoreboard, and I noticed that the Pirates were up 7-1 on the Cardinals after three innings.

The Reds scored a run in the second on a homer by Willie Greene. Chief seemed to settle down after that, but he was running a lot of deep counts, so I knew I was going to have to dip into my bullpen before the game was through.

We tied the score and then took the lead. The big hits were delivered by Ricky Gutierrez and Sean Berry. These two guys may never win Gold Gloves, but they can hit.

We chased Mike Morgan and built an 8-2 lead in the sixth inning. It could have been better, but Bidge got caught rounding third on a good play by Pokey Reese. Cubby was a little late giving him the stop sign, and Bidge glared back toward third. When Cubby came back to the dugout, he admitted that he was a little late.

“I probably should have stopped him to begin with,” he said. “If the ball had trickled through, he could have scored anyway.”

Chief loaded the bases and got out of it in the bottom of the sixth, but he had already thrown 120 pitches, covered first a few times, and hit a double. He was spent, although he wouldn’t admit it.

I brought José Cabrera in to pitch, and he flirted with wildness, but held the line for two innings. I was hoping John Hudek could finish up, but he got wild and I had to make a move.

Vern asked if I wanted Magnante and Springer to get loose.

“No,” I said. “Just get Wagner up, throwing easily.”

Luckily, Wagner doesn’t know how to throw easily.

Hudek went 3-2 on the next hitter and gave up a solid single to center. We were still up 8-3, but there were two men on, and their best home-run hitter, Willie Greene was up. If Greene connected again, our lead would be cut to two runs. If I brought Billy in then, a walk would bring the tying run to the plate.

I looked down toward the bullpen, and Ash was waving his cap. Billy was ready.

I suppose I could be accused of panicking. If it were earlier in the year, I would probably try to get the last two outs without using my closer. But we only need four or five wins at this point, and this game was two outs from the win column.

Billy came in, struck out Greene, and got Reggie Sanders on a fly ball to left. He threw only six pitches. My premonition of doom was unfounded. Our magic number dropped to four. 

 

After the game, the writers did not ask me about using Billy too soon; perhaps they shared my doubts.

Vern and I took a run along the river. We had a beer. I had a cigar. Life was good. 

Just about that time, Bidge popped his head into my office.

“What did Cubby say?” he asked.

“About what?” I said.

“About the play at third,” he said.

“He didn’t say much. Just said that he should have stopped you sooner. That he could have held you and still scored you if the ball had gotten through. It wasn’t a big deal to me,” I said. “I just think when you’re aggressive, you are bound to get caught from time to time.”

“I just wondered,” he said, as he bebopped out of the room.

 

Later, I had dinner with Gerry and Matt. The subject of Bidge and Cubby came up again. This has been going on since spring training.

Matt and Bidge are close friends.  Matt was in line to be manager, but instead they gave the me the job. I would not have taken it if I thought Matt could get it. I like Matt, and I respect his baseball savvy. I also regard him as a friend. If you don’t like Matt Galante, you have a problem. He’s that kind of guy.

Matt was eminently qualified for the manager’s job, but I was assured that he was not going to get it. He was willing to coach third base for me, but there was sentiment in the office that we should make a clean sweep. Matt got swept out, and I know this hurt Bidge and a few other guys on the team.

But how do you think Cubby feels? He is just as qualified to coach third; knows the game as well; works as hard. He has paid his dues, and he has had several interviews with teams looking for a manager.

Matt comes to town and is immediately surrounded by a huddle of our key players. Cubby sees Matt talking to Biggio; Matt talking to Kile; Matt talking to Bagwell and Spiers. It’s not Matt’s fault that people like him. 

But it isn’t Cubby’s fault, either.

 

I have the impression that Bidge blames Cubby for the times I have called him into the office to try to get him to accept our leadership. I don’t think he blames me, even though I am the one who felt the need to meet with him. It’s kind of a shame, really.

Cubby is not the most-diplomatic guy in the world. I know he has tried to work with Bidge, but I don’t really see a good relationship developing. If Bidge were a little older, I would expect him to get over it — to let it go. In many ways, he is one of the most mature and professional players I have ever seen. In other ways, he’s still a kid.

I filled Matt in on some of these things during dinner. He wasn’t surprised.

“He’s tough,” is all Matt could say. “He can be really tough.”

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20 ● Cincinnati, vs Reds

We decided not to take batting practice today, and the writers decided to sleep in as well. As a result, I had plenty of time to relax before this afternoon’s ballgame.

I went with a righthanded-hitting lineup against righthander Bret Tomko. I had never seen him pitch, but the numbers say that he is better against lefthanded hitters.

After I finished filling out the lineup, I started filling out a crossword puzzle in the Cincinnati Enquirer. It was labeled “advanced” but I was able to finish it without help and without the slightest concern that any of my answers were wrong. I took this as a good sign.

 

Matt Galante is in town for the series, and I visited briefly with him. He has such an easy way with people. I wish he could have been a part of this season. By all rights, he should have been considered to manage the team. But he wasn’t, and now he is on the outside, looking in. Still, I have the impression that he wishes us nothing but good. If we get a ring in the end, he should get one too. He is a class act, all the way.

 

Mike Hampton started for us and retired the Reds on seven pitches in the first inning. He was as sharp today as he was dull in his last start.

Tomko showed why he has a winning record, throwing fastballs to either corner at will. He did make a mistake, however, in the fourth inning, and Baggy took him deep into the mezzanine.

We were able to add single markers in the fifth and the sixth, and Hampton held the Reds to one run through eight.

In the ninth, he walked the leadoff man, and he never really came close to the strike zone. I brought Russ Springer in to face Reggie Sanders, and Russ got him on a fly ball to left. Then he struck out Eduardo Pérez. The save was one out away from his grasp, but he couldn’t find the strike zone. When he walked Joe Oliver, Jack McKeon — who replaced Ray Knight and was just given a contract to manage the Reds next year — pinch-hit with Jon Nunnally.

Nunnally is the one guy I feared on the Reds’ bench today. He is a powerful lefthanded hitter, and Russ throws fly balls. So does Billy Wagner, but at least Wagner is lefthanded. Billy came in, and Russ came out. Nunnally was withdrawn and Mike Kelly, a powerful righthanded hitter, came on to hit. I liked this matchup better, but I was still worried.

Billy got strike one, which is critical to his success. The count went to 1-2 and then Kelly hit a soft popup to Biggio to end it.

Hampton got his 14th win. He needs one more to make my prediction of 15 wins, made back in May, stand up. More importantly, Wagner got his first save in more than a month. If we can get him a couple more saves before the end of the year, I will feel a lot better about beating the Braves in the playoffs.

Our magic number is five now, and it could drop to four if the Cardinals can beat the Pirates tonight. Go, McGwire, go!

 

I took a run along the Ohio River after the game. It was a cool, balmy day, and it felt good to move around and sweat a little bit. I did a few sit-ups when I got back to the locker room. It won’t be too long before I can get back on a regular workout routine.

I haven’t gained any weight in my sedentary vigil this summer, but I have gone soft. I was a bit surprised how easy it was to run today, after running for the first time in a long while yesterday. Perhaps it won’t be too painful to get back in shape.

I hope I don’t find out until November.

 

Walking back to the hotel, I passed through a great, milling mass of celebrants. No, it wasn’t our faithful following, up from Texas for the series. Nor was it a pep rally for the Bengals. It was much bigger than that. In fact, I doubt Riverfront Stadium would hold all the people who were in Cincinnati for Oktoberfest.

From what I hear, this is the largest German festival outside Germany. Beer and brats were the menu of the day.

It was a movable feast, and it moved to the tune of an oom-pah band positioned just across from our hotel, in the middle of Fountain Square. From my room on the sixth floor, it looked like a human mosaic in progress — bright colors flashing in the last slanting rays of the day.

I was struck by two memories of my father as I watched the crowd.

One was when he took Rick and me to dinner at a German restaurant in downtown LA on the way to a Dodgers game.

The other was my first football game. I can’t remember if it was a USC game or a Rams game, but I have a vivid recollection walking from our car to the LA Coliseum, passing the museums and the campus and being caught up in the swelling excitement of the crowd that grew thicker as we approached the gate. I remember that we sat near midfield, but almost at the top of the upper deck.

I was frightened at first — thought I might fall to my death.

 

These days, the thoughts of my father come easier. There is still a lingering sadness, but it is mixed with the warmth of our close-knit family. I thought about how Ryan would feel entering Turner Field in Atlanta if we make the playoffs. How he might remember it when he is grown and has kids of his own. 

 

Gerry and I entertained Dale Robertson and Carlton Thompson of the Chronicle at the Maisonette, Cincinnati’s premier five-star restaurant. We had a wonderful meal, and were in such a good mood when we left, that we stopped for a few beers and played darts on the way back to the hotel.

It was almost midnight when we crossed Fountain Square. The revelers were all gone, but their debris was ankle-deep in places, and we had to weave our way through it — which seemed only natural, in the spirit of the occasion.

“This type of thing is important,” Gerry told me as we headed upstairs. “You can’t control the press, but you can try to have a personal relationship with them. That way, at least they’re not out to get you all the time.”

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19 ● Cincinnati, vs Reds

Vern and I met with Gerry this morning to talk about our pitching rotation for the rest of the season and into the playoffs. We agreed that José Lima would be dropped from the postseason staff when we cut down to 10 pitchers.

We also agreed that it would be best to use D.K. and Hamp the first two games in Atlanta, if we have the luxury of setting a rotation.

If we don’t have that luxury, and we make it on the last day with Darryl on the mound, we will have to go into the postseason in rotation, with Chris Holt starting game one in Atlanta.  That might not be the worst thing in the world. He is just a rookie, but he has a lot of poise. Lately, he has been our best pitcher.

 

I went down to Batsakes Hat Shop for my free shoe shine, and to get a scouting report on the Reds.

It seems that Gus, Charlie, and the boys have given up on the Reds. I got a little tidbit on Reggie Sanders, and a good spit-shine on three pairs of shoes. The whole thing will cost me 12 tickets, which means writing four names on a list. I also got a hat in the bargain.

When I got to the ballpark, I had Dave Labossiere crack my back and put the electric stimulators on my neck. I have been feeling a little nervous, and once again, I don’t know if I am worrying about my health, or if it is the pennant race, or both.

I went out and did a little jogging with Vern, hoping to sweat the stress away. It seemed to work pretty well, but my neck got a little stiffer, and I couldn’t raise my voice without getting a pain in my throat.

I started the game as the quiet man, and our hitters took the same approach.

 

Dave Burba had good stuff, and we went meekly the first few innings. Meanwhile, Chis Holt was snakebit. He was not as effective as he has been, but he was extremely unlucky. He gave up more choppers and bloopers than the law allows, and he got down 5-0. He did last six innings, which is a testament to his relentless, plodding style.

We came back and made a game of it as I tiptoed through their lineup with a bend-but-don’t-break prevent-type approach to bullpen management. By the time we got down to it, I was able to yell, even though I still had a stiff neck.

The turning point of the game came when we had Gonzo at the plate in the eighth inning, and Bagwell tried to steal second. He was safe on a close play, but the umpire called him out. I couldn’t argue, because I really couldn’t tell from my perspective. Gonzo hit the next pitch over the centerfield fence, and we lost 5-4.

The big question afterwards was whether he was safe or out — or, indeed, whether he should have been running in the first place.

Because Gonzo only hits about two or three homers a month, I said that I was hoping Bagwell would steal. Their pitcher, Stan Belinda, is slow to the plate and their catcher, Joe Oliver, double-clutched. I didn’t think Oliver had a chance, but he made a great throw — right on the money.

The replay showed that the tag was on Bagwell’s chest, and his foot was on the bag. The umpire had no way to see the tag; he was on the infield side of the play. His view of the tag was completely blocked, as usual.

I have no quarrel with the umpire. Even if he had been on the outfield side, it would have been a tough call. When a guy is running full speed and slides in a cloud of dust and is tagged on the shirt as his feet go into the bag, the umpire has to guess. There is no way he can see the bag and the tag at the same time. Still, if I were king of baseball, I would require the umpires to position themselves behind the bag.

If I were king of baseball this year, doubling as manager of the Astros, I would dictate a devastating extra-inning loss for the Pirates. That is exactly what happened, as Mark McGwire hit his 54th home run. I believe he still has a chance to tie or beat Roger Maris’ record, and I would like to see it — in any other year. This year, I will be happy to watch the replay.

I’m glad we don’t play the Cardinals again. And I’m a little leery of competing with them next year, too. If they put together any kind of pitching staff, they will be hard to beat.

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 18 ● Pittsburgh, vs Pirates

If there is anything worth seeing in downtown Pittsburgh, it has somehow escaped me these 32 years.

This trip, I wasn’t looking for diversions anyway. Baseball is the only thing now, and the baseball was just as bad tonight as it was good last night. The way the Pirates have been mimicking us in the second half, I should have expected it.

Our first batter, Craig Biggio, struck out on three pitches. We went out 1-2-3. Their first batter, Tony Womack, fouled off four 3-2 pitches and finally walked. They went 1-2-3 too: three runs in the first inning off our ace pitcher, Darryl Kile. They beat Pedro Martinez a few days ago, showing no favoritism for one Cy Young candidate or the other.

Kile never recovered from the first inning. His Cy Young dream got a sudden wakeup call. I think it may help him if writers quit asking him about the award — which they won’t. 

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17 ● at Pittsburgh, vs Pirates

We arrived in Pittsburgh at 10:30, and even though I was bone-tired, I wasn’t sleepy. I suppose the enormity of this series with the Bucs had me wired.

I read Goat Brothers until two a.m. and finally wrestled myself to sleep. I didn’t get up until 10:30, which left a little less time to worry about the game.

In my mind, this was the most-important game of the year. Jason Schmidt was pitching for them. He has a great arm, but for some reason, we have hit him hard. Shane Reynolds has been a Pirate-killer.

I liked our chances going in, but going into the ballpark, there were some ominous signs. A picket line was set up outside the stadium. Our cab driver told us that the ushers had gone on strike.

As we entered the stadium, dark clouds loomed overhead. It started to rain.  That’s when I learned that the grounds crew was honoring the strike. I walked out to the field to see if the tarp was on. It was. We would have to hit in the cages.

This is not the ideal scenario. When you start a series on the road, you like to get out on the field and get used to the setting. In a series like this, you like to run around a bit and burn some nervous energy. What’s more, I had Richard Hidalgo in center, and he has never played on wet turf.

Playing line drives in the outfield can be tricky when it’s wet. The ball sort of hydroplanes, and it seems to pick up speed. Balls skip by veteran outfielders under these conditions; for a rookie, it could be a nightmare. Fortunately, Shane is a ground-ball pitcher.

 

Most of the players were at the park by 3:00. The game was pushed back 30 minutes for ESPN. The wait seemed endless as I sat in the dugout, watching the steady drizzle. Finally, the rain stopped.

I went back to my office, and the stadium operations manager came in to tell me that another rain cell was coming, and that the game would be delayed until 8:05.

I walked over to share this information with Shane. He looked distressed.

Earlier this year, he had a fine game going in Miami when the rain came. He tried to come back out and pitch, and he got hammered. Shane is a creature of habit. On the day he pitches, he has a routine that is organized practically down to the minute. He is the last guy I would choose to deal with an uncertain start time.

After the last downpour, the skies cleared. A makeshift grounds crew started removing the tarp. Here in Pittsburgh, where rain is a constant companion, the tarp operation is mechanized. I could tell right away that the new crew didn’t know how to operate the rolling machine. I was afraid they wouldn’t be able to get it up in time for the game to start as rescheduled; that would bother Shane a lot.

After two or three tries, the tarp was finally removed. It looked like it was ripped in the process, and I was hoping it wouldn’t rain again. Luckily, it didn’t.

 

Luis González got us started with a homer in the second inning. You would have thought it was a game-winner the way the guys reacted in the dugout, with high-fives all around.

I wasn’t so giddy; Shane looked a little shaky to me. It wasn’t his stuff I was concerned about; it was his body language. He just looked nervous out there, like he was expecting something bad to happen.

Instead, something good happened: We scored four runs in the third, and the last two were lucky. One came on a close call at the plate that went our way and started an argument that came close to getting Jason Kendall and Gene Lamont ejected. Umpire Bill Hohn showed admirable restraint, letting them blow off steam and stay in the game. The last run came on a misjudged pop fly.

Shane seemed to be hitting his stride, and I was feeling good about the game, but the Pirates have been a miraculous team, and they still had a lot of outs left.

When we added another run in the sixth and two more in the seventh, it looked like it was over. That’s when we had a little scene in the dugout.

Spiers was on second and Hidalgo was on first. The count on Gutierrez went to 3-2. Bill asked me if I wanted to start the runners and I said, “Yes.”

Biggio was nearby, and he pitched a fit.

“Somebody’s going to get killed,” he said.

So here we were again, with the question of how much is too much. When do you call off the dogs and quit trying to score? Our guys obviously thought the time was nigh. Spiers missed or ignored the sign to run. Gutierrez hit a chopper to third. Joe Randa fielded the ball and ran at Spiers. Then he threw to second for the force on Hidalgo, and they got Billy in a rundown. He stayed in it long enough for Ricky to advance to second, but he didn’t move up.

With two outs, Brad hit a line drive to left-center. Turner Ward cut it off just in front of the warning track. Ricky jogged into third; he didn’t even consider trying to score. Brad stopped at first. Normally, he would have gone to second. Then Shane made the last out. If Billy and Richard had run on the 3-2 pitch, we would have scored two more runs.

I could tell Biggio was agitated when he ran out to his position. I was hoping my point wouldn’t be proven in this game, but it was. We won the game, and that’s the only thing that matters.

As it turns out, this little scene gives me something to talk to the players about. They are always concerned about embarrassing the other team.  I don’t want to rub it in either, but with three innings left, a lot can happen.

Yesterday afternoon, we scored nine runs in the space of three innings. Tonight in New York, the Braves scored nine runs in the first inning. If our lead had been ten runs, or if we had only two innings left to play, I would have been content to call off the dogs. I still thought we would win the game, but I was not happy with the actions of our players.

In the bottom of the eighth, the Pirates scored two runs on a homer by Al Martin. In the ninth, Dale Sveum hit a two-run homer with one out. Now it was 8-4. I brought Billy Wagner into the game, and he walked the first batter. Mark Smith, a home-run hitter, came up to pinch-hit. If he had connected, our lead would have been two runs, and they would have the top of the order coming up with just one out.

I didn’t feel desperate, but I wasn’t comfortable, either. I doubt Biggio, Spiers, Gutierrez, and Ausmus felt much better.

Billy got the last out, and we moved 4-1/2 games in front of the Bucs and reduced our magic number to seven.

It was a great win, but the receiving line was far from exuberant. I hope this lesson will help us as we move through the last eleven games of our schedule.

 

After the game, a group of mediaphyles gathered in the hotel bar. I got to talking to my old pal and longtime beat writer Neil Hohlfeld. Neil is here to write columns for the Chronicle. He was taken off the beat several years ago because he knew too many people in baseball and knew too much about the game. When you have played baseball for many years, as Neil did growing up, and then covered it for most of your adult life, you come to know that the art of playing baseball well and understanding the game is a lifetime venture.

You realize how difficult it is to pick up a ground ball between hops; how fast you have to think and act to hit a pitch coming in at 90 MPH; how hard it is to make a quick, accurate throw from deep short. When you know how tough it is, you tend to be less critical. This is what cost Neil his job. He was not a shill for the team, but he was not a gossip-monger or a hatchet-man, either. 

Anyway, I liked having Neil around because he liked to drink beer and talk ball. It was like old times, talking about the game and catching up on the progress of our respective families. I haven’t even seen his youngest son. We agreed to get together whenever this madness is over.

 

Our conversation wound its way around to this journal, and I expressed my ambivalence about having it published.

“I don’t want to jeopardize my managing career,” I said. “But if it’s worth publishing, this is the year. You only have a rookie year once, and you only fight for a championship every so often.

“The problem is that there I have written things that will piss people off. I have talked to most of the guys I have criticized, but that was private. It could be a dicey situation. If I publish it, guys will worry about what I might write next. 

“You can’t do it,” he said. “Keep it for yourself. Don’t publish it.”

“You’re probably right,” I said. “It’s not like I need the money. It’s just that I think a lot of baseball fans would enjoy it, just as I have enjoyed so many books about the sport.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “But you can always publish it later, after you get fired.”

We both laughed and went on to different subjects.

About fifteen minutes later, Neil said, “You know, I’ve been thinking about your journal, and maybe you could do it, if it was edited carefully. Even without the stuff that is critical of players or owner or whomever, it could still be good. I’d read it for you if you want me to, and mark the danger zones. I’d do it for free.”

I was nonplussed. After reading the article that Darryl Brock gave me about publishing houses, I have not been confident that I would get hands-on help from a baseball/literary person, at any price. Now I had the perfect person — for free. No one knows the sensibilities of the clubhouse better than the beat writer.

Yes, I think we will get together when the string runs out. I’ll make sure of that.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16 ● Houston, vs San Diego

Up and at ’em, one more time. I finished paying the bills at one a.m., smoked a cigar, and read myself to sleep at 2:30.

Judy forgot to wake me up, so I could say goodbye to Ryan; the alarm clock did the job at 8:30. Cubby was to come by at 9:30, and he arrived right on time at 9:20. 

I had finished my bowl of cereal, which made the driving a lot easier, but I had not quite finished the sports page. I did read enough to learn that the Pirates had beaten the Expos in extra innings, to cut our lead to 3-1/2 games. With a two-game set in Pittsburgh dead ahead, a win today seemed critical.

 

Gerry called just before game time. Seems Drayton was dismayed over last night’s game. It wasn’t so much that they beat us, but that they did it without Gwynn, Finley, and Joyner in the starting lineup.

He told Gerry that we played like a high-school team, and asked him what would happen to us if we didn’t start Bagwell, Biggio, and Bell.

“Tell him I didn’t start Biggio three times, and we won two of those games. And I didn’t start Bagwell twice, and we won both games.”

“I wish I had thought of it at the time,” he said. “He keeps stressing that we have to have bold and energetic leadership, and I keep telling him that we are on course.

“I have told him honestly that I feel we have a team that should finish 10 to 15 games above .500, if things go well. But with Berry and Bell not driving in runs and with Reynolds contributing only seven wins, and with Wagner having trouble closing, we are doing about as well as we can expect.”

“I’ll go along with that,” I said.

“Well, he doesn’t,” he said. “He says that we have to play with more confidence. I don’t quite know what to tell him anymore.”

“I think we have confidence,” I said. “But how can you ever be sure? One time a pitching coach came out to the mound when I was in trouble and he said, ‘You’re not concentrating.’”

 “How do you know?” I asked him.

Gerry smiled. “I’ll remember that one too,” he said.

Confidence and concentration are concepts we all understand and feel, but I’m not sure we can detect these things in others. Body language offers a clue, but how do we really know? We don’t.

 

Ramón Garcia started out just like Hampton. Did he lose confidence when he gave up a hit and a walk before the small gathering of spectators had settled into their seats after the National Anthem? Maybe a little. Did it defeat him? No.

He struck out Tony Gwynn, Ken Caminiti, and Wally Joyner in order, and the little crowd roared. Chief walked back to the dugout like Alexander the Great.

We promptly came to bat and scored three runs on doubles by Bell and González, a walk to Bagwell, and a single by Richard Hidalgo. Ramón put the first two runners on in the second, but he pitched out of it again.

We scored four more times in the second as Sean Berry cleared the loaded bases with a double.

The Padres finally scored a run in the third. When we scored six more in the fourth, I started substituting for Bagwell, Biggio, and Bell. I ended up using 19 players; Bruce Bochy used 21. That’s 40 players in all — not a record, but way above average for an 8-1/2-inning game.

Manny Barrios gave up two runs in the seventh Inning, in his major-league debut. I like this kid. He’s got a lot of life on his pitches, and he has a great attitude. He probably needs one more year in the minors, but when he arrives, we’ll have something that has been missing from our bullpen all season: a ground-ball pitcher. 

Oscar Henriquez pitched the 8th and struck out two. José Cabrera struck out the side in the ninth.

After the game, I was talking to Gonzo.

“You know what was wrong with the Padres today?” I asked.

“They played all their stars?” he guessed.

“No,” I said. “They couldn’t read Spanish.”

He looked confused.

“You know how pitchers try to put a lot of English on the ball?” I said.

He started to smile.

“Well, we were putting Spanish on it today.”

Indeed, we used four pitchers — all Spanish, and all with great stuff. And with Tony Peña behind the plate, we had a secret weapon.

When one of the pitchers got a little wild, Tony would stand up in front of the plate, scream out a challenge in Spanish, and then fire the ball back at the pitcher at full speed. It was amusing to watch him do it. We could all hear him, loud and clear, but none of us, save Cheo, knew what he was saying.                          

 

Our last and most-important trip of the year got off with a balk. The pilot started down the runway, then pulled up to a stop. This was a little disconcerting, but it wasn’t too bad; we never really got up a full head of steam.

My concern was that there was something wrong with the plane, and that we would be delayed. 

As it turned out, the problem was potentially deadly: another plane came in for a landing on a runway that was perpendicular to ours. 

We got aloft on our next try, and we made it to Pittsburgh without incident. We saw the lights of Three Rivers Stadium, and we were hoping for good news on arrival. Instead, we learned that that Pirates had beaten the Expos 8-2.

So here we are, 3-1/2 games ahead, with a two-game series to play. When we leave Pittsburgh, we will have only ten games left; they will have nine. If we sweep, we are practically home-free. If we split, we are still in good shape. But if we get swept, we will be caught in the doldrums, while the Pirates’ ship is moving in briskly to pillage and plunder.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15 ● Houston, vs San Diego

 

Judy and I stayed up late, and Cubby came early, as usual.  

Sometimes I wonder if he is bored around the house. Seems like he always shows up about ten minutes before our agreed-upon departure time.

The extra time came in handy today. I had to stop by Norton Ditto’s and sign some baseballs for a promotion. Cubby is a clothes horse; I introduced him to Dick Hite, and they started talking about labels and styles.

It was almost 3:00 when we got to the Dome, and I knew the crowd was going to be small, because there weren’t many autograph hounds in the area. I signed for ten or twelve of them, then made my way to the clubhouse.

Dennis Liborio told me that a young fellow named Ty was waiting for me outside. I remembered telling him that I would meet him at 2:30 to help with the taping of a promotional announcement he was doing on the Astrodome Museum. I guess a young man has to start somewhere, but I can’t imagine getting too charged up about a museum for a stadium that is about to be replaced.

Not that it is a bad idea; the Dome will still host events after the Astros leave, and the museum will reflect the many events that have been held here. But still, you’d think the museum idea would have been done years ago — not now.

That’s the way it usually is, though. We either get more runs than we need, or not enough. When I get to the park early, I usually have nothing to do, or too much.

Today, it was too much.

 

Gerry came down, and we spent a considerable amount of time talking about the incident involving Tank and Bill. We came to no real conclusion. Gerry said I could fine Tank for cussing at Bill, but I can only fine him $499 without facing a grievance procedure. Any fine will piss him off, and it won’t make Bill any happier.

Perhaps I should be more confrontational, but fighting the player’s union is like fighting a skunk: there would be little satisfaction, even in victory.

We decided to do nothing.

 

I still hadn’t reviewed the scouting reports and matchup information on the Padres. Batting practice was already underway, and I had to do a live shot with Channel 11 at 5:15. I went down, came back up, and by the time we had our meetings to discuss the Padres, I had almost finished studying them.

I have generally found the scouting information to be accurate, and the matchups to be useful, but information has its limits in the game of baseball.

For example, we may tell a pitcher to start a certain hitter with breaking balls, and to throw fastballs inside when he is ahead in the count. But what if the pitcher is José Lima or José Cabrera? They don’t throw many breaking pitches.

And what if we throw breaking pitches and get behind in the count?

Most of the time, the pitcher goes with his own strength, rather than following the scouting report — and with good reason. He must have confidence in himself, first and foremost. If the report suggests something he is capable of doing, great. If not … well … just pitch.

A lot of the players don’t even listen to our presentations.

 

Mike Hampton had a lot of confidence going into tonight’s game. Coming out in the fifth inning, he had none left, and he was down 3-0. He just couldn’t seem to get the ball where he wanted it, and the Padres touched him for eight hits.

John Hudek nearly wiggled out of the mother of all jams: bases loaded, nobody out. He got Wally Joyner to hit into a 1-2-3 double play, then got Greg Vaughn on a pop up. Unfortunately, his first pitch to Vaughn got by Ausmus, and a run scored.

Pete Smith was pitching a flirtatious game for the Padres. He tantalized our batters with pitches just beyond the edges of the plate — pitches so tempting and irresistible that we eventually bit, even though we could never quite sink our teeth into them.  

In the first inning, Smith walked the bases loaded and escaped unscathed. Bagwell manufactured a run in the third when he singled, stole second, and scored on a base hit by González. It was Baggy’s 29th steal of the year, and he got it with more with smarts than speed. The throw had him beat, so he slid to the outfield side, dodged the tag, and grabbed the bag with his left hand as he went by, spinning himself around.      

In the seventh inning, we staged a rally. I pinch-hit with Bobby Abreu, and he walked. Biggio singled. Bell hit a deep fly ball, advancing Bobby to third. Biggio stole second, Bagwell walked, and Bochy brought a lefthander in to pitch to González.

I don’t like to hit for my regulars, but I did. Tony Eusebio was my choice, even though he is a double-play candidate. Tony ripped one to deep short, and Craig Shipley knocked it down but had no play.

Now we had the bases loaded, with the tying run on second. Bochy brought in a righthander to pitch to Berry, and I pinch-hit with Spiers.

“Look where Vaughn is playing,” I told Bill. “If Billy hits one halfway decent, it will go right over his head.”

Billy hit one halfway decent, but on a line, straight to Vaughn on one hop. If it had been off to the side at all, it would have plated two runners. As it was, Cubby had to hold Bagwell at third.

So far, my countermoves were working. This trend came to an end when I hit Howard for Hidalgo. Tank popped out. Ricky struck out. I used up almost all my bullets and I didn’t get the kill.

When Ausmus walked to open the eighth, Bochy went to his closer, Trevor Hoffman. Hoffman slammed the door, and we lost 4-3.

 

It was as tough a loss as we have had all year. Getting so close and not getting closure is worse than just getting stomped.

Going in, it looked good: Hampton against Smith. Most of their good hitters out of the lineup.

That’s why I would never bet on baseball. There is just no way to predict what is going to happen.