Author: Larry Dierker

MONDAY, JUNE 9 ● Los Angeles, vs Dodgers

It was sunny this morning, and we decided to go to the beach. Even though Mom is in low spirits, she couldn’t resist. Dad didn’t like cold water, let alone the cold salt water of the Pacific Ocean. He wasn’t real wild about sand, either. I suppose his antipathy traces to his youth in Pittsburgh.

Mom grew up in Southern California. She is a fine swimmer and a beach-lover. It has been many years since she has plopped down on a towel in the sand and enjoyed the salt air and the soothing roar of the surf.

After a while, she went walking with Susan. Rick and I went, like lemmings, to the sea. The water was warm for these parts: 72 degrees. The waves were sort of choppy with the onshore wind, but we managed to ride a few of them anyway.

Just when we were about to swim to shore, a school of dolphins passed by. In all the years I bodysurfed at Zuma Beach, I never saw a dolphin. But Rick says he sees them occasionally near his home up the coast in Oxnard.

I was a little scared at first. Who wouldn’t be, with those fins slicing through the water? But he saw them about the same time I did and said, “Hey, look at the dolphins. It’s our lucky day. They’ve come to surf with us.”  They didn’t stick around for the rides, though; they just kept heading north.

I don’t get to bodysurf much anymore, and I doubt I would enjoy it as a daily ritual as I did in the summers of my high-school years. But I still enjoy the rough-and-tumble, rollicking rides. The cold water invigorates, the rolling surf captivates, and the sun anneals the experience so that you will remember later on when your trapezius tingles.

 

On the way home, we stopped by a crab shack for lunch. Mom ordered clams, but she didn’t eat many. Rick, Susan, and I had squid sandwiches, and they were great. It would be difficult for me to lose weight by swimming. When I jog or play racquetball, I am not hungry afterwards. After swimming, I am ravenous.

The conversation was lively. We laughed a lot, and Mom was right in the middle of it. Later, Rick said it was the first time she has shown any zeal for life since Dad’s stroke.  It was good therapy.

 

The night did not follow the course of the day. Chris Holt was sluggish, and the Dodgers clubbed him hard. It didn’t help that we also played shoddy defense. We took a 3-2 lead in the third inning, but it didn’t last long. The final score was 8-3.

When I got home, Mom was still up. We talked for a while, and then she went to bed. Rick and I adjourned to the yard — me with my cigar, both of us with wine. Susan likes to taste cigars. She has to get there for the first puff, however, as she is, for some unknown reason, repulsed by the slobber. She stayed up just long enough to get a whiff of my Fuente 8-4-6, then she hit the hay.

 

We lasted another half-hour, talking mostly about Dad.

SUNDAY, JUNE 8 ● San Diego, vs Padres

This turned out to be a real nice day at the ballpark. Darryl Kile continued his progress toward the All-Star game with a five-hit shutout. If you had told me that he would do this in spring training, I would have said you were crazy. But that’s the beauty of baseball. As my old broadcasting partner Milo Hamilton is wont to say, baseball is the most unpredictable game in the world.

We got a bonus today when three players who have not been hitting well, hit home runs as part of our 9-0 win. First it was Sean Berry, then James Mouton, and the last and longest was launched by Tony Eusebio.

 

After the game, I headed for LA. I was in a cheerful mood, listening to Oldies and singling along. When I came over the grade on the 405 freeway, the San Fernando Valley spread its arms to hug me like relatives at a family reunion.

At this poignant and unexpected moment, I welled up with tears, and a few spilled over. It was the first moment of sadness I have experienced since Dad died.

The emotion passed, and I was buoyed when Rick, Susan, and Mom greeted me enthusiastically. I have been calling home just about every day, and things seemed to be going well — at least, over the phone.

After we talked a while, it was clear that there are more bridges for Mom and the rest of us to cross before we recover from Dad’s passing. At several intervals, Mom and Rick got misty-eyed. Their grief brought mine to the surface again.

 After Mom went to bed, Rick confessed some concern for her.

“She’s still not eating much, and she’s having trouble sleeping.” he said. “I guess I thought she would bear up to it a little better, but she has been weak. We’ve never seen that side of her, but I should have known. I mean, living with someone for 50-plus years and then losing them, it has to leave a big hole.”

The Valley sky was remarkably clear as we sat by the pool and reminisced. I smoked a Hemingway cigar, and it was delicious. The moon was a sliver and the soft, blue glow from the swimming pool bathed us in the mood of our musings.

We talked about Dad’s ashes.

“They were supposed to come on Friday, but the guy was running late,” Rick said. “He called about six o’clock and I told him to forget it. I guess he’ll try to do it tomorrow. I hope it doesn’t upset Mom too much. The death certificate hasn’t come yet, either. I just hope the finality of these things doesn’t get to her.”

I am so grateful to Rick for spending these critical days at home. Once, when my sister Laura Lynn was having marital problems, he called me from Hawaii and said that one of us had to be with her for a few days, because she was so distraught that Mom was afraid she might do something foolish.

It was the last day of the baseball season. After six months of constant travel, working days, nights, and weekends, I was not thrilled about making another trip. I was looking forward to a vacation, but he was already on one. I could see why he thought I was the man for the job, but I still resented him living it up in Hawaii while I was on a mission of mercy.

As it turned out, those few days were the best I have ever spent with my little sister. We went for long walks in the mountains, talked about important things, got to know each other a lot better. Now, Rick is doing the family duty while Laura and I must work.

There is so much strength in the family unit. I would guess that most of our country’s social problems are directly related to broken homes. We Dierkers have been lucky.

SATURDAY, JUNE 7 ● at San Diego, vs Padres

This was a good day in every way but one.

Dave and I went to Mission Beach to do some blading. It was overcast and cool. An onshore wind had the ocean churning out a percussive backbeat. Navigating upstream along the concrete boardwalk was a little tricky. I nearly pitched headlong into a rush of exercise freaks. They probably viewed me as the salmon — and a lunker at that.

It must be frightening to face 6’4” and 230 pounds, careening out of control. More frightening for them than me.

I have been clumsy and absent-minded all my life. Little accidents are part of my image. That’s how I got my nickname: Sluggo.

We skated for an hour-and-a-half. Near the end, I was exhausted. I became careless, hit a crack in the pavement, lurched to the side, twisted, and came down plump-on-the-rump in a patch of geraniums.

“This is a nice place to take a break,” I told Dave when he came back to check me out. I guess Dave is the ideal blading partner for me, because he is the Astros’ trainer.

The game with the Padres was a nail-biter, just like the day before.

Rookie Heath Murray was wild in the first inning, and we got to him for three runs. Donne Wall looked sharp, and he breezed through the early innings with only a solo homer by Wally Joyner marking his slate. We continued to put the pressure on Murray, but he kept dodging bullets.

Tony Gwynn homered in the fifth to make it 3-2. The next inning, Donne wavered, and the Padres tied the game. I brought Ramón Garcia in with one out and men on first and third.

Well, actually, I thought I was bringing in Garcia.

When Ramón started warming up, he was on the mound closest to the seats. We got Blas Minor up to throw, because we preferred him against lefthanded hitters. Garcia moved over, and Minor stepped onto the mound Garcia was using. So when I went to the mound to get Wall, I motioned for the righthander. The umpire asked which one, and I pointed to the mound by the seats. I thought Alan Ashby already had the message by phone that we were going with Garcia; apparently he did not get the news. My eyes bugged out when I saw Minor cross the foul line.

I wasn’t sure if I could change horses at this stage, but after thinking about it, I decided that it would not be good for either pitcher, let alone for the team, to make a radical reversal. I wasn’t even sure the umpires would let me switch; I just acted as though I wanted Minor all along. Can you imagine the look on Vern’s face when I got back to the dugout?

“I screwed up,” I said. “I thought Chief was on the right.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bill said. “It doesn’t make that much difference.”

One of the reasons I didn’t try to reverse myself was that it was sort of a coin-flip call anyway. Minor promptly threw a double-play ball to get us out of the inning, and there were high-fives all around in the dugout. 

           

Gonzo opened the sixth with a homer, and we went back on top. Ray Montgomery got a hit to left, and tried to advance on a bobble by Rickey Henderson. The throw was there in time, but as Quilvio Veras applied the tag, I saw the ball. When Greg Bonin called Montgomery out, I shot out of the dugout like a sprinter.

As I approached second base, Monte was trotting off the field as if he had accepted that he was out. Now I wasn’t so sure, and I was venturing farther out, like a swimmer caught in a rip tide.

By the time I finally got to Bonin, he was 30 or 40 feet into right-centerfield. He was in a world of his own thoughts, and he was shocked to hear my voice. When he turned, I was yelling.

“He didn’t have the ball! The ball was on the ground,” I said.

“What?”

“The ball was on the ground,” I said, pantomiming what I thought I had seen.        

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was. I saw white. I saw the ball. You were on the other side. You must have been blocked.”

We continued in this vein for a minute or so. He wasn’t going to change his call. He hadn’t seen what I saw.

As I turned to go back to the dugout, I looked at Veras. He had a sly smile on his face. And guilty eyes. Caminiti was smiling as I passed third base.

Cubby said he thought Veras had juggled the ball, and that Cammy said Veras “snow-coned” it (caught it in the end of the web of his glove). The guys in the dugout weren’t sure; some said they saw the ball, some didn’t.

When the inning was over, I walked to the other end of the bench, where several pitchers were looking at a TV monitor.

“He snow-coned it,” Chris Holt said. “I can’t believe it didn’t shake loose when he tagged Ray.”

Here I was, up 4-3, with egg on my face. I could see the headline in the paper the next day:

 

BLIND MAN MANAGES ASTROS

 

Well, at least I got my first real knee-jerk tirade out of the way. I didn’t cuss Bonin. Fact is, I was so flustered, I couldn’t even remember his name. 

Minor got into trouble in the seventh, and I brought Mike Magnante in to pitch. Mike got two outs, but the tying run scored in the process.

In the top of the ninth, we got men on first and second with nobody out. Bruce Bochy played his ace, Trevor Hoffman. Hoffman got out of it.

At this point, we were strapped for pitching; the only relievers available were Garcia and Wagner. Billy has had a little tenderness in his elbow lately, and I didn’t want to use him until we had a lead.

Chief pitched well in the ninth, and in the tenth for that matter. The Padres hit three grounders through the infield, then pinch-hit with Scott Livingstone. If we got him out, Hoffman would be finished, and we would have the strategic advantage.

I turned to The Perfessor.

“Isn’t this great?”

“What?”

“This,” I said, spreading my arms out toward the field. “Just being part of this. It’s great.”

“You got that right,” he said with a smile. “This is what it’s all about.”

It didn’t stay “great” long. Livingstone hit a 1-2 pitch through the left side of the infield, and we lost 5-4.

FRIDAY, JUNE 6 ● San Diego, vs Padres

Dave and I picked up where we had left off, blading the morning away. I got a car so I could taxi the coaches to the ballpark. We leave way too early to consider taking the team bus, and a taxi here runs $25. I paid homage to Dyonisis at the Cuban Cigar Factory and the Wine Bank. I purchased Hawaiian shirts for Bill and Mac.

We left for the park at 2 p.m. and arrived there at 2:15. I had plenty of time to get my uniform on; we didn’t take the field until 5:15.

I used to think it was a glamorous life to sit in the locker room, playing cards with my underwear on. But that was 25 years ago. Now I wonder what to do. I’ve lost interest in playing cards, and my pregame duties, such as making out the lineup card, only take a few minutes.

I suppose I could expand the process to include what guys have done on turf vs on grass, in the daylight vs at night, at home vs on the road — but why bother? The guys who play every day are going to play anyway. They are our best players. The guys who don’t play every day haven’t been up enough to generate any meaningful statistics. The samples are just too small. 

 

THURSDAY, JUNE 5 Cincinnati, vs Reds

There ought to be a law against night games at 7:30, followed by day games at 12:30. We finished at 10:30 last night. Last time I looked at the clock beside the bed, it was 3:15. I may have dozed for a few minutes, as I had been laying there since 1:30. I knew I wasn’t sleepy when I lay down, but what are you going to do when you have to have your bags packed and in the lobby at 9? Who are the people who make these schedules?

I guess the owners are beginning to favor the 12:30 time, because of the business crowd. So start the game the night before at 7:00.

One thing about it: you’re finished before you know it. It’s almost like a split doubleheader.

 

Shane had a tough time with it, too, even though he is generally an early-to-bed, early-to-rise guy. He just couldn’t get the outside corner pitch from Steve Rippley. Rippley was not kind to Cincinnati starter Pete Schourek, either.

I talked to Jim Deshaies after the game, and he said it was not a good day to be on the mound: “I found myself trying to figure out how I could pitch with Rippley’s strike zone, and I never came up with any good ideas.”

The amazing thing is that there weren’t many walks, and the final score was only 6-5.

Biggio led off the game with a home run for us. Too bad he didn’t hit it later, when he lined out with the bases loaded to end a rally.

Rallies have taken on new meaning for us the last few weeks. They are becoming striptease dances. We tantalize our fans by taking little bits and pieces from the opposing pitcher. Just when it seems we will strip him clean, the music stops, and the lights go out.  We seldom score more than two runs in an inning, though it seems we have numerous chances to bring down the house.

At least Shane was throwing better today. His velocity was back to normal, and he had a good split-finger pitch. He still gave up four runs in five innings.

Ramón Garcia gave up the last two runs, and the second one beat us. Actually, James Mouton gave up the last run. He overthrew the cutoff man, allowing a runner to move up to second. That runner scored on a single, and the next hitter went out.

Making matters worse, Mouton had a chance to tie the game the next inning with a runner on third and only one out. He swung at the first pitch and hit a weak foul pop-up to the first-baseman.

It is becoming more and more difficult to play Mouton. He is tentative about stealing, and that is his primary asset at this point. His defense has been average until lately, when he has gone for the “hero throws,” allowing trail runners to move up.

Ray Montgomery got two more hits today. When Derek Bell comes back, Ken Ramos will likely go down. But what if Chucky Carr comes up? It could be Mouton. I would hate to see this, because he is a hard worker and a good, solid family man. But our bottom line is wins. When you lose 6-5, there are usually some plays that could have reversed the score. 

           

When we arrived in San Diego, it was still daylight. Dave Labossiere and I went Rollerblading along the waterfront. I was proud of him; he is usually conservative when we skate. And since I skated him into some cobblestones, where he fell and broke his wrist two years ago, I thought he would demur. But he loves to skate, and he couldn’t resist.

We — the ballclub — need to be a little more reckless. Maybe I’ll have Dave talk to James Mouton. You never know.