Author: Larry Dierker

SATURDAY, JUNE 14 ● Houston, vs Twins

Judy stayed up to commiserate with me last night, so I was a little bleary-eyed when I arose at 9 a.m. I had to be at Norton Ditto at 10 to pick up some clothing and to be fitted for another sports coat. There were quite a few customers, and I spent a lot of time talking baseball, though that was not my predilection.

Owner Dick Hite kidded me about the billboard of me and Rudy Tomjanovich that he put up along the Loop near the Galleria. In the photo, Rudy has his elbow resting on my shoulder. He makes me look like a pipsqueak. I know he is only a few inches taller than me, but I don’t mind.

Through some miracle of trick photography, I was made to look thin. I would much rather look short-and-thin than tall-and-fat. In the juxtaposition of photographs, Rudy came out looking like a giant, and I looked like the beanstalk.

“We had them do the proportions so it would look right,” Dick said with a smile.

“You got it just right,” I said.

Next Thursday, we are going to play golf and have dinner. Rudy and his wife Sophie might join us. It will be interesting to see what Dick thinks of the proportions when he sees them in living color.

 

I got back in time to pick up Ryan and head for the Dome with Cubby. Ryan’s team, the Stars, is going to a clinic that takes place before batting practice. We arrived half an hour before the clinic, so I could catch Ryan in the bullpen. His arm is finally feeling better; I guess his growth-plate problem is subsiding.

I thought he threw the ball pretty well, and he seemed to enjoy it. Probably felt like a big shot, as a lot of the kids who were there for the clinic saw him getting the special attention. Vern came out and checked his mechanics. Then we played some long-toss.

Ryan spotted his team as they came out into the outfield, and he ran to join them. “He’s blessed with a good arm,” Vern told me. I was proud to hear it, but I don’t think he has an arm like I had at that stage.

I could always throw harder than any other kid in my neighborhood – or, later, in high school. Ryan is definitely above-average, but there are several other kids around who throw harder. That’s all right, though. Darryl Kile didn’t even make his high-school team, and now he is our best pitcher. Each kid develops at his own pace.

The important thing for Ryan, or any other kid who wants to be a ballplayer, is perseverance. There is so much failure in baseball that a lot of good athletes quit in favor of another sport. I think he has a chance to be pretty good. I hope he stays with it, but I will not pressure him.

           

D.K. was our pitcher tonight. That made me feel pretty good about our chances.

The feeling didn’t last long.

Knoblauch singled for openers, then Matt Lawton followed with a homer. In effect, we were beaten after the second hitter of the game, but it didn’t seem that way.

Biggio hit a solo homer leading off the first. We had several chances to break through against four Twins pitchers, but we never got another run.

In the meantime, Kile settled down and pitched a fine ballgame. I took him out for a pinch-hitter, down 2-1 with one out in the bottom of the seventh. Bill Spiers delivered a pinch hit and raced to third on Biggio’s single. Thomas Howard ripped one up the middle, slightly on the third-base side. Pat Mears was playing up the middle, and he turned it into an easy 6-3 double play.

Twice earlier we had first-and-third with one out. Sean Berry ripped one off the pitcher’s glove, and it deflected to Knoblauch for a double play. The other time, James Mouton hit a line drive up the middle, and the pitcher stabbed it and then got Bagwell to end the inning.

We weren’t playing our best, but we were a lot better than last night. Unfortunately, Russ Springer and José Lima failed to hold the line. We lost 6-1. It was our third loss in a row, but it felt like ten.

FRIDAY, JUNE 13 ● Houston, vs Twins

This Friday the 13th could give a fellow triskaidekaphobia (fear of the number 13) – at least, a fellow wearing the livery of the Astros. Our interleague rivals in this historic game, the Twins, thought it was their lucky day.

About the only silver lining I could see in this one was that Chuck Knoblauch had a perfect day. Chuck is a native of Houston. He attended Bellaire High School, where he was coached by his Dad, Ray. Ray was such a good coach that Bellaire was a perennial powerhouse. Families would move across town so that their aspiring ballplayers could be coached by Ray Knoblauch.

Chuck went on to Texas A&M, then signed with the Twins, whereupon he became one of the stars of the game. I know it was a great thrill for him to play so well in front of his family and friends. And to be honest, I didn’t mind him tearing a hole in our defense, because our defense — the pitching and the fielding — was so bad that the Twins would have won easily, even if Chuck had gone hitless.

This was clearly our worst effort of the year. And our worst player in this, our most pitiful showing, was the returning hero, Derek Bell.

I had heard from Gerry that Derek was unhappy during his rehab assignment with New Orleans. I guess he didn’t get the star treatment down there: no special favors, no posh locker rooms. And to make matters worse, he didn’t even have his Bentley, so he couldn’t recline properly on the way home. Gerry said that he complained constantly, and he kept asking to go back to Houston to work out on his own.

Before we left on the trip, he told me that he could be ready in a week, but he thought it would be better to take couple of extra days to make sure.

“Besides,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to have to break back in in LA, against their pitching staff.”

Now there’s a real team player for you. Proud enough to own two Bentleys but still humble enough to fear the Dodgers’ pitching staff.

Since he did not take serious batting practice while he was in Indianapolis with the Zephyrs, he wasn’t ready — even for the soft-tossing Twins pitchers. He did manage to get a hit, but he also managed to screw up several plays in right field, his preferred position. On the second one, a slicing fly ball, he got twisted around and almost fell down.

Bill turned to me and said, “Watch this. Tomorrow he’ll want to play center again.”

 

We lost the game 8-1, and I was a little testy with the reporters. Not too much this time. I guess I was more subdued than anything.  What am I supposed to say about how I like interleague play? I wouldn’t like World Series play if we played like this. Honestly, there was no way to judge the Twins. They could be a great club, but we made so many mistakes it sort of darkened their spotlight.

I know Gerry and Drayton like to stay positive and upbeat. Most of the time it is easy for me to do this, because I’m generally a happy guy and my expectations of myself my not be as high as Tony La Russa’s or Jimmy Leyland’s. But no manager above T-ball could be satisfied with what we did tonight.

I told the press it was our worst game of the year. What else could I tell them? They were watching the game.

 

Drayton was right there in the front row tonight. He had to be aching. With each loss, our financial future dims. And with a loss like this, even the owner gets blamed.

I remember when we lost nine in a row last year. The talk shows killed us. People were blaming the players, the team, the general manager, the manager, and the coaches. I made a comment one night that we broadcasters would be next on the firing line. That very night, a caller ripped into the announcing team.

 

We have now lost two in a row, and we are two games below .500, but only a game out of first place. Still, there is growing unrest, and I don’t think it is totally unfounded. We have been bumbling along for six weeks now. The tough travel is behind us. Our injured players are coming back. We have no good excuses.

It’s time to play ball.

THURSDAY, JUNE 12 ● off day in Houston

Up and at ’em at noon! Breakfast of Champions. Out the door, golf clubs over the shoulder. Today Cubby and I are guests of the Duncan family.

Carlos is a Virginia grad, like Mike. Better still, he has played the investment game better than Cubby or I played baseball.

Houston Country Club is his course. It is one of the most prestigious courses in the city. Carlos’ friend Titus was the fourth, and by far the best, player in our group. He fired a 73 at us, and it could have been better than that if he had sunk a couple of makeable putts.

I hit one 300 yards on the second hole. That was my last good shot.

Cubby played reasonably well, so I couldn’t use the lack of sleep as an excuse. As we came up to the 16th tee box, I told Carlos, “This is a great-looking hole, but I don’t think any of them will suit me better than the 19th today. I could plop down, have a cold beer, and forget this round in a hurry.  I might have to demand a rematch so you can see that I’m not really this bad.”

“I’ve been there, myself,” he said.

I suppose most golfers have gone to The Land of Lost Swings and Missed Putts. It was not first time for me, and it will likely not be the last.

Judy and Jan met us at by the pool, and we had a few cool beverages with Carlos and Titus and the Duncan entourage.

           

Judy and I left the country club for the distinctly unclublike, yet equally convivial atmosphere of the Mucky Duck saloon. We met Dave and Stephanie Labossiere, Rob and Kelly Matwick, and our old beat writer Neil Hohlfeld and his wife, Lynn, for an evening of acoustic music.

The headline attraction was Lucy Kaplansky. She wooed us with soft ballads and lullabies, attacked us with protest songs, and endeared herself to us with self-deprecating humor and twinkling eyes.

This evening was on Dave. He admires female folk singers, and Lisa is one of his favorites. I was drinking Guinness at $3 a pint. I reached capacity at two pints about 30 minutes before the end of the show. I did not have trouble falling asleep when we got home.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 11 ● Los Angeles, vs Dodgers

One day, many years ago, pitcher Tom Dukes was sitting in his locker, smoking, just prior to an early day game. He said he was having a Mexican breakfast: a cup of coffee and a cigarette. That image stuck with me. I think about it occasionally when I have to get out of bed and do something important right away.

This morning, we all met with Dad’s accountant and lawyer to discuss estate matters. I thought we were going to make decisions regarding the allocation of estate property. Instead, we got an overview of the plan and were left with the task of assigning assets.

As meetings go, I consider this one a waste of time and money. I shudder to think of the fees that we will pay for the two hours we spent talking strategy.

The gist of the matter is that they are the professionals, and they should make a recommendation and explain it to us so that we can either sign off on it or make adjustments. What we covered today should have taken no more than ten minutes on the telephone.

Not to worry. Dad left Mom with a nice nest egg. No matter what she does with it, it should allow her to live comfortably for the rest of her days.

The one thing that really bugged me was the IRA tax. Under current tax law, the $1.2 million that Dad saved for retirement will be taxed at about 75 percent. “You’d have about $300,000 to split once Uncle Sam took his share,” the lawyer told us.

This will not kill us, but it is killing families who have small businesses. The estate tax is so severe that they have to sell their businesses to pay the tax. Then they have to find new jobs. And this is supposed to be the greatest form of government in the world? Work all your life, pay taxes, save part of what is left for retirement and to pass along to your heirs. Give most of it back to the government when you die.

I understand there is talk of reforming the estate tax to help people with small businesses: farmers and the like. I hope they pass legislation to that effect before Mom dies. I think they will have ample time; she looks a lot better today. And she was attentive and alert during our meeting.

           

I saw my old broadcast partner, Dewayne Staats, at the ballpark today. He is covering the game for ESPN along with my old teammate, Dave Campbell. Dewayne’s wife, Dee, had a brain tumor removed about six months ago. She still hears ringing in her ears.  We are getting to the age where mortality taunts us. 

I’m hoping Dewayne finds his way back into our broadcast booth; I think he would like to get back to everyday work in baseball. It’s nice to do assignments for ESPN; it allows a little extra time at home in the summer, which is nice when you have young children. 

Dewayne and Dee have two girls, both lovely, both just a few years away from moving out of the house and into their own lives. He doesn’t need to be home as much in the summer anymore. Besides, the Astros are still his favorite team, just as they were when he was a young lad growing up in East Alton, Illinois.

 

Tonight’s game was all Dodgers. They pecked away at Mike Hampton, and finally chased him in the fifth inning. Mike did not appreciate being removed from the game in the fifth inning, behind 4-3 with a man on third and two outs.

If I had been pitching, I would want to stay in too.  After all, how much worse could it get? Your ERA is going up, regardless. If you get the next out, you have a chance to get lucky. The team might just have a big inning and make you a winner. Why not stay in?

In this case, it was because I did not have confidence in his ability to make good pitches. If he gets going, and starts pitching well, I’ll leave him in games like this. Ramón Garcia got the last out of the inning.     

Ramón, however, did not strand his own baserunners. Neither did Mike Magnante, nor Jose Lima. It was garbage time in the end. We never threatened to make it a game.

 

After the game, we took off for the LA airport. Got there about 12:15. It took an hour to get off the ground, though. We don’t fly American much, and I can see why. We had trouble on the other end too, standing around on the tarmac in Houston from 6 o’clock until 6:30.

Barry Waters was fit to be tied.

“I’m going to have to stop by church on the way home,” he said. “With some of the language I used on that guy, I’ll probably have to say a hundred Hail Marys.”

“Dennis Liborio was pretty loud too. I hope the girl who was unloading the bags didn’t hear him. I’m not sure he realized it was a girl.”

 

When we got to the Dome, I had one more job to do: send Ken Ramos back to the minors. We met in my office and talked briefly. He understood, and he was not mad, but he did want to know why I had not given him at least one start.

“I probably should have, Kenny,” I said. “But I’m a rookie manager, just like you’re a rookie player. Sometimes when you’re new in a job, you press a little bit. I think you were pressing a few times at the plate. It’s only natural.

“There were several times when I thought about writing your name on the lineup card. Each time, I thought about Gerry and Drayton. I don’t manage for the writers or the fans; I don’t care what they think. I do care about the general manager and the owner.

“If we were on a roll, winning 8 out of 10 or something like that, it would have been easy. But the way we have been struggling, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’m sorry I didn’t get you in there. But don’t give up. I know you can hit big-league pitching, and you do too. We might need you later this year. And next year is expansion.

“You have conducted yourself like a true professional, and I appreciate your effort. Good luck. I hope to see you back here soon.”

As I left my office, Kenny was with Barry Waters, trying to get in touch with his wife so that she wouldn’t drive to Houston as planned, but wait for him in New Orleans instead. They weren’t having any luck. I fear she was already on the road.

TUESDAY, JUNE 10 ● Los Angeles, vs Dodgers

Breakfast on the lanai. More dry, sunny weather. Not too hot; just right.

I wouldn’t want to live in LA. It has grown into a chaos of humanity that is a little disturbing. But this leafy enclave my folks have created here is mighty nice. Ryan loves to visit. With the pool, the guest house, and Laura’s three girls, he lives like a king.

 

I swam a mile after breakfast, then Rick and I went on a grim errand. He asked me to go along, because he thought he might break down. I had no such fear. In fact, he was considering hiding the ashes from Mom, for fear that seeing them would throw her deeper into despair.

I had another slant on things.

“If it were me,” I said, “and Judy died, I would want to have a nice urn, maybe something that was a favorite of hers. And I would want it in a special place in the house where I would see it from time to time and feel that she was still there with me.”

“That’s great,” Rick said. “That’s a totally different way of looking at it than I had.  Maybe Mom will feel that way too. I hope so.”

The secretary at the mortuary was alone in the building when we arrived. It was her first day on the job. Actually, I think her concern over whether she was doing things the right way softened the delivery of the death certificates and ashes. In trying to help her with the paperwork, we actually got the goods in the car and headed home before we had a chance to dwell on the contents of the packages.

Rick put the ashes in a closet in Dad’s office. Later, he told Mom where they were, in an offhand manner. She didn’t seem upset, but who knows how she really feels?

I’ll say one thing: she’s getting her girlish figure back the hard way. She’s still not eating.

           

Tonight we played a better ballgame. We won the battle 6-3, but we may have lost one of our best soldiers in the process: Shane Reynolds had to come out after three innings. He has had a sore knee for a while. Now, it seems he may need surgery. No wonder he hasn’t been pitching well. He never told us how much he was hurting.

I have done the same thing myself, but it is not good for the ballclub. We may have been able to win some of the games he pitched if we had started Ramón Garcia, for example. You think you are going above-and-beyond for the team when you play with an injury. Most of the time, you are hurting the team while you do further harm to yourself.

José Lima, Mike Magnante, Russ Springer, and Billy Wagner collaborated to hold down the Dodgers. The big blow was struck by Biggio, with the bases loaded in the eighth inning.

“Let’s see if Biggio can hit the jackpot,” I said to Bill, hoping he would try to hit rather than work the count as he often does. Well, it wasn’t a perfecta, but almost. He hit the first pitch, a 95 MPH fastball form Antonio Osuna, off the top of the wall in left-center, clearing the bases.