Author: Larry Dierker

SUNDAY MAY 25 ● Denver, vs Colorado

Up and at ’em. 8:30 a.m. No rest for the weary. Not even eight hours. Maybe tonight. Maybe not. Another day game in San Francisco. And then another. An off-day for the memorial service, and then a flight back to Houston. Thursday night, we play the Padres.

On Thursday, there will be no wakeup call. Hope I do wake up.

 

I got to the park at 9:30, and I learned that Bobby’s injury was more serious than I had thought.

“It’s pretty swollen,” Dave said. “I don’t think he’ll be able to swing a bat for at least a week. We’re sending him back to Houston to have him checked.”

I talked to Tim Purpura, who in turn talked with Gerry. We decided not to go shorthanded for a week or more. Instead, we called up Ray Montgomery and put Bobby on the disabled list. There goes my right field defense, and a lefthanded bat. Bobby wasn’t swinging all that well, but he was better than those who will replace him.

 

Chris Holt took the ball for us this afternoon. It is tough to have the right “attitude for the altitude” in Denver — especially if you are a rookie pitcher.

We gave Chris a 4-0 lead in the first two innings. But then we quit, and they started. Chris was a little wild — in and out of the strike zone. He walked a few batters and gave up 11 hits. When I relieved him in the sixth, it was 5-4 Rockies.

All things considered, it was not a bad performance. I’ve seen veteran pitchers do a lot worse. José Lima did Chris a good turn, retiring Kevin Young with the bases loaded to end the inning.

We had numerous chances to add runs and win the game, but we just couldn’t get the big hit. Luis González was especially feeble; he could have driven in three runs by just hitting fly balls. Instead, he hit popups — and it is hard to tag up on an infield fly.

Sean Berry dipped below the Mendoza Line (batting average below .200) again. He failed to register even a single hit, and he is now batting .195.

Sad to say, our pitchers are making better contact than some of our hitters these days.

 

When Gerry and I tinkered with the team last winter, it was with the idea of spreading the offense so that we wouldn’t have to depend on Bagwell and Biggio day after day.

Well, guess what? Bagwell and Biggio are the only two players on the team who are producing runs.

Brad Ausmus is hitting way better than we thought he would, but without power. I moved him to the second-spot in the lineup today, and he did well. But that’s not enough.

We need to get some production from Berry, González, Howard, and Eusebio –not to mention Bell, when he comes back.

The pitching has exceeded expectations. But we don’t have the kind of staff to carry the load all year long, in the absence of hitting.

 

We loaded the bases with two outs in the ninth, down 8-5. Perfect place for a grand slam. Howard was the scheduled hitter, and the Rockies had a journeyman lefthander by the name of Mike Muñoz on the mound.

I talked with Bill and Mac, and I decided to pinch-hit with Listach. This was a desperate measure, because Pat hasn’t been playing at all. He has been swinging well during batting practice, but this was the ultimate pressure spot of the game.

In terms of personality, Howard is far superior to Listach in this role.  Thomas is confident; Pat is constantly looking over his shoulder. But Thomas just isn’t swinging well at all, and he hasn’t seen many lefthanded pitchers this year.

When I called him back, he threw his bat down and stormed into the clubhouse. This is unprofessional. He should stay in the dugout and pull for Pat.

This type of behavior would really make some managers mad, but it doesn’t bother me all that much. I like a guy who wants to perform, and who is mad when he doesn’t get a chance.

There were several occasions when I was no gentleman when I was removed from a game. If the guy still has an attitude the next day, then that is a problem. In the heat of the battle, it is not — at least, for me.

 

I was a little disappointed in an exchange between Mac and Pat before the at-bat.

“What does this guy throw?” Pat asked.

Mac got out his scouting sheet.

“He throws a lot of breaking stuff,” he said. “Likes to backdoor you with the curve ball. He cuts his fast ball in on you, and sinks it away. He likes to change speeds a lot.”

This scouting report made Mike Muñoz seem like Tom Glavine. Actually, Muñoz has been up-and-down between Colorado Springs and Denver for the last three years. He’s a fringe pitcher who has little else going for him other than his lefthandedness.

If it were me, I would have told Listach, “This guy doesn’t have shit. Get a good pitch to hit and knock his ass out of the game.”

Listach got a good pitch to hit. In fact, he got several. He ended up hitting one of them in the air to short. It was so weakly hit that it had the arc of a fly ball to the outfield. It just didn’t go that far.

So we went down — not with a bang, but a whimper.

SATURDAY, MAY 24 ● Denver, vs Colorado

I awoke from a stupor to the jingling sound of the phone at 8:30. I started a pot of coffee, then went for a newspaper. Opening to the sports section, I learned that we had lost 8-7. The Rockies clobbered Donne Wall, and we fought back but came up short.

When I got to the ballpark, I had to walk across the clubhouse, and the players steered clear of me as if I had leprosy. Sorry about your Dad, they said, averting their eyes. The coaches, who have reached the age where they have dealt with death themselves, welcomed me back and made me feel better.

I told Bill that I wanted to talk to the team before batting practice. I wanted to clear the air.

 

I know you guys feel bad about my father. But I want to tell you that I am OK. Nobody wants to lose a loved one, but these things happen as you get older.

It was a heartbreaking time for the family, but it was also a heartwarming time. All the children and grandchildren were there, so my Mom had a lot of support. She is doing well, and she wanted me to come back and be with you guys. My brother and sister are still there with her, and I will be able to be back home for the funeral next Wednesday on the off-day.

I have noticed that some of you guys seem uncomfortable, because of the situation. This bothers me, because we have a job to do here today. I don’t want you guys to be thinking about me; I want you to be thinking about beating the Rockies.

I was going to save this speech for when we got home, but I will tell you now:

This stretch of schedule that we have played is the toughest I have been through in 31 years with this team. I am proud of the way we have played, even though I know we can play better.

Once we get through with this road trip, the schedule gets easier. Sure, we play some tough teams, but at least we don’t have so much tough travel.

We are approaching a stretch of games where we should be able to make a move forward. But we can’t limp into it by falling apart on this trip.

Coors Field has been tough on us, and Candlestick won’t be any easier. But we have to win some of these games if we want to hit the homestand with some momentum.

What I am saying is: forget about me, and redouble your efforts. It’s time for us to make our move.

That’s all I have to say.

 

Well, that must have been the greatest speech of my life. We went out and beat the Rockies 7-0.

Bagwell and Biggio hit home runs, and Darryl Kile pitched a masterpiece. He even survived a 40-minute rain delay.

Springer pitched the eighth inning; he hit 97 MPH. Wagner hit 98 in the ninth. The only thing that put a damper on the game was Bobby Abreu coming up with a sore wrist.

With a 3-2 count in the eighth, he grimaced after he fouled off a ball. Dave ran out to check on him, and after a moment, I came out to see what was going on. Dave told me that Bobby had been complaining of a sore wrist for a couple of days, and that he had aggravated it to the extent that he couldn’t swing.

“Can you throw?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said.

“OK,” I said. “Just bunt the ball if it’s a strike. I need you in the game for your defense.”

The 3-2 pitch came, and Bobby swung, grounding out to second base. Later, I heard that he swung because he thought the Rockies would throw at him if he tried to bunt with a 7-0 lead; this is preposterous. Anybody who was watching the game, including Don Baylor, would know that he was bunting because of an injury.

Hopefully, Bobby will be all right in a couple of days. His hitting has tailed off, but his defense has been pretty good. Fact is, Bobby and Derek have been our best defensive outfielders — and that doesn’t say much for the rest of them.

Gonzo is fundamentally sound, but he can’t throw. Outfield defense is one of our weaknesses, and we can’t afford to have Bobby out for any length of time.

 

When I got back to the hotel, Judy was full of news. She had breakfasted at a coffee house and read the local tabloids, circling cigar clubs that featured jazz and swing music. She also bought tickets to a film that was showing at an art cinema.

We had dinner at McCormick’s Fish House, and we walked two miles to the theater. It was in a somewhat seedy area near downtown. The film was a documentary on Cuban music, featuring the mambo sound of composer and bassist Israel “Cachao” Lopez and his many contemporaries. Most of them were past-prime-time players at the time of the filming, but it was a fascinating study on a style of music I have come to enjoy.

Judy is a wonder when it comes to finding unexpected pleasures. She is also a connoisseur of the offbeat experience.

She tried to coax me into a local cigar bar after the film, but after walking a couple blocks deeper into the urban jungle, I bridled.

“I’m not ready for this neighborhood,” I said. “Maybe I’ve just lost my spirit of adventure, but I just don’t feel like dealing with all these freaky people.”

“It should be on the next block,” she said, “It’s supposed to be swing music. It’ll probably be a bunch of old people, like us. How bad could it be?”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking down the street at a bunch of young hooligans standing outside a bar. “I just know that I don’t want to walk any further down this street.”

“OK,” she said. “Let’s just go back. Maybe we can catch a cab.”

Almost as if on cue, a cab appeared at the corner. She started toward it, but I said, “Let’s just walk.”

She looked at me like I was crazy — and at this point, I would have to plead guilty. But I knew she wouldn’t mind. She’s always up for exercise.

On the way back to town, we approached a cheap hotel, just as a rough-looking character came out of the door. I guess I had her feeling uneasy at this point, because she crossed to the other side of the street.

We made it back without incident, and we spent an intimate night together in the cigar bar of our own hotel suite. She even found a French station on the radio.

C’est la vie.

FRIDAY, MAY 23 ● Los Angeles

I guess it was around five o’clock when we went to bed again. I got up at 10:00 and was the last to rise. We had waffles for breakfast; no one ate much.

Mom had been on a starvation diet since Dad’s stroke; we were beginning to worry about her health. We kept suggesting that she eat something, but she wasn’t even drinking her white wine in the afternoon. That was a sure sign of her distress.

I suppose she will eat when she is ready. Hope it is soon.

           

We met with Ed Perrott at the mortuary, and he walked us through the details. The ceremony would be officiated by a Lutheran minister who is my mother’s partner in a folk-dancing club.

We decided that after the minister spoke, we children will all say something, and ask anyone else attendance to speak if they feel the urge. It will be held at 10 a.m. next Wednesday morning. I will fly in from San Francisco on a scheduled off-day, and return to Houston that night.

A long stretch of road work — 19 of 21 days — will come to an end when we finally get home. After that, the schedule gets a lot better for the team.

Thank goodness.

 

Our flight for Denver was scheduled to leave at 6:40. We decided to leave for the airport at 4:00 because of the holiday weekend. It was a good decision; it took an hour and forty-five minutes to make the 25-mile trip.

Our cab driver apologized as he pulled out of the driveway.

“My air-conditioner is out,” he said. “That’s why I have the windows open.”

We didn’t think much of it at the time; it was a warm day, but with the air moving through, it was comfortable.  When we got on the parking lot that is known as the San Diego Freeway, things changed. We crept along at about 5 MPH, and the air was still. It was smog city, all the way.

At least we weren’t nervous. We could almost make our flight if we had to get out and walk.  As it turned out, we could have made it that way. There was an equipment problem, and the flight was delayed two hours.

Because we were hot, we looked for a frozen yogurt concession, but we couldn’t find one. We eventually found a bar, where the Rockets were playing the Jazz on television.  We thought we would only see the first half, but our plane was so late that we got to see the whole game, and they won.

 

Our luck returned to normal when we took off: a baby across the aisle started crying, and the plane lurched through the sky like a knuckleball.

We finally got to Denver at midnight, and our cab driver performed one of the longest soliloquys on record as we made the long journey to downtown Denver. By the time we finally bedded down, it was 1:30, and I had to be at the ballpark at 9:30 in the morning.

THURSDAY, MAY 22 ● Los Angeles

The team has the day off today. I was determined to take a day off from baseball and from this journal. But there is one more thing I need to record.

When I visited my father today, I spent a few moments alone with him. I held his hand and tried to pray, but the words would not come. I was able to summon a silent prayer.

I asked the Lord to consider this child, who came unto the world to serve unselfishly, just as his son Jesus had served:

Even in this effort, I felt feeble. I thought I should have been able to summon more words; more feelings; more love. This is the way it was, however. And I cannot make it better.   

It did get better as the day progressed. I spent more time with him in the late afternoon. I visited with Katy and my Mom. Judy and Laura were already at the hospital with John. John and Laura were taking Katy straight from the hospital to the airport, so that she could join her high-school band on a trip to Disney World. 

Katy asked if she could have a moment to be alone with her grandfather. While she was saying what I am sure she felt was her last goodbye, we visited with the doctor, who reaffirmed the gravity of the situation: we should not expect a miracle.

Katy came out and left with Laura and John, and my Mom spent some time alone in the room. Then Judy and I came in, but Mom was ready to go, so I didn’t spend much time with him. I was feeling a little more comfortable with his heavy breathing, and I thought maybe I could talk to him a little better the next time I had the chance.

           

We had a late dinner at home. Afterward, we really had a good, long talk. We talked about the kids and about our own relationships. We laughed a lot. Rick and I cried a lot. The ladies postulated that it was easier for them to talk to him and to hug him, because they were trained caregivers.

“You guys don’t know how do ‘nurture,’” Laura said. “You haven’t been trained for it. In our society, this is the woman’s place. Don’t feel ashamed if it doesn’t come easily. It’s not that easy for us, and we have played this role all of our lives.”

Everyone encouraged us to let our feelings out. I think we realized that these gentle ladies were indeed our foundation — the source of our strength. This made it easier to explain our own feelings of inadequacy. We let it out, and the catharsis was sweet and easy.

           

The subject turned to practical measures.

What type of service should we have? Mom was confused.

“We were never religious people,” she said. “I don’t think he would approve of a religious ceremony, and I don’t think I would feel comfortable with it, either.”

She said that he wanted to be cremated, but that she didn’t know what it involved. She didn’t even know if she wanted to do anything at all.

“I think it is important for the family to do something,” big Ashley said. “I haven’t really been part of the family, but I think you should do something that will give everyone a sense of closure. I know he has a lot of friends who would feel uncomfortable if they couldn’t share their feelings and say goodbye.”

I was so proud of Ashley. She was born of a childhood marriage that was not supported by my parents. Her mother and I were divorced shortly after Ashley arrived, and she didn’t spend much time with my folks.

I was a mature pitcher, but an immature person, at the time of the breakup. And I was so bitter about the financial consequences that I didn’t pursue a relationship with Ashley for the first few years.

It broke my heart to think about her, so I tried not to. I just went my own way.

There were times when I felt guilty, thinking of her. But still, but I did not see her much at all.

Ashley saved our relationship. As she got older, she took the initiative to call me and invite me to her open-house at school, or her soccer game. She kept at it until I fell into step. By the time she was in junior high, we were good friends. And good friends we stayed until she broke up with her first serious boyfriend at the age of 26. 

She called me that day, all shook up. I went right over, and she cried on my shoulder. It was the most-fatherly thing I had done for her since she was an infant.

For a time, I was worried that our relationship would leave her hard-hearted. But I have seen the look in her eyes when she is with Craig, and I don’t worry about the scar-tissue of our early days anymore.

Everyone agreed that she was right about closure. But what form should it take? Mom mentioned that her friends, Ed and Pat Perrott, owned a funeral home and had helped her with her father’s arrangements. That solved the problem. They would surely know how to conduct a secular ceremony.

But this did not satisfy Judy and Laura. They could not abide seeing Dad off without asking the Lord to bless and keep him.

This led to a religious discussion, in which Mom kept saying that she was baptized Catholic and Lutheran, but she never felt any affinity with religion — never felt very “holy” at all.

Laura and I have been working on her and Dad in recent years. She would take the “why?” approach, and I would take the “why not?”

I understood where they were coming from. It took Judy 20 years to hook me, and I’m still twisting at the barb, though I am comforted to know that I am caught.

Rick has the universal approach. He believes in kindness and generosity. He speaks of karma and God in the same breath. He has spent more time and effort tending to Mom and Dad than Laura and me put together. He has been the dutiful son, just as his father before him, and Mom favors his philosophy to ours.

“I don’t know what else you can do but be a good person,” she said. “As far as I know, nobody has ever come back to tell us what’s on the other side.”

Judy and Laura jumped to attention at this statement.

“Nobody but one man,” they said in unison.

Then they explained, for the umpteenth time, that this is the central difference between Christianity and the other religions.

“As long as we’re talking about practical measures,” Rick said, “what are we going to do if he doesn’t die?  What if they want to get him out of the hospital? Where will he go? Do we give him the poison pill?”

“No,” Laura interjected. “No, we don’t. We don’t play God.”

“What if it’s six months? What do we do then?”

“If there’s a chance he can recover, even if it’s a miracle, then we do what needs to be done,” Laura said.

“I don’t know, honey,” Mom said. “I talked with Doctor Borowksi, and he didn’t give us much hope. If he survives, he won’t be able to do anything for himself. He might not even know who we are.”

“Dad wouldn’t want that,” Rick said. I found myself nodding assent.

“I don’t think he’s going to last six months,” I said.

“What if it’s a week?” Rick said. “Borowski said he would have to leave the hospital in few days. Where does he go?”

“I don’t want him in a nursing home,” Mom said.

“Do you want to take care of him here?” he said.

“I don’t think I could,” she said.

“Look,” Rick said, “I’m not trying to be cold.  You know I love Dad as much as anyone. But I think we have to consider taking him off the heart medicine or something. We have to think about what he would want.”

We all nodded — even Laura.       

“Could you pull the plug?” she asked.

“That’s not my call,” he said. “I think I could if Mom wanted me to, but I don’t know if I could.”

“I couldn’t do it,” Mom said.

 This is where Judy came in.

“I was really unhappy about how it went with my Dad,” she said. “He died in the hospital, with nobody there. They kept him alive for days, and there was no reason for it.

“If I had it to do over, I would want to be there with him at home, even if I had to make the decision to let him die. I would want him to die with dignity, with his loved ones around him — not hooked up to machines with a sterile atmosphere all around him. I think there would be some comfort to being with him at home.”

Mom went off to bed at one a.m. Judy left Laura, Rick, Susan, and me at 1:30.  We finally gave it up around 2:00.

Dad left us shortly thereafter. It was almost as if he had been listening.

 

The phone rang at about 2:30, and Judy picked it up. The conversation was brief. When she hung up, she said, “That was the hospital. Your Dad just died.”

I was still a little foggy. I didn’t cry; I just put on my pants and walked inside. All of the adults heard the phone. All but Mom arrived in the living room at about the same time, but few words were spoken.

The question was whether to tell Mom, but there was only one answer.

Rick, Laura, and I went into her room and covered her with silent tears. Lily lay alongside, innocent in sleep.

Soon Mom began to weep. Rick spoke to her in soft, loving tones. Laura did the same. They had her upper body, and I was hugging her legs. We smothered her with love.

After five minutes or so, Rick and Laura left. I started to go, but I stayed. I sat up and held her hand. We talked a little, cried a little. She seemed a little confused.

I tried to assure her that she had a lot of good life left.

“We want to see you get through this and go on,” I said. “There is a lot of sweet life left for you. With us; with the kids. With your friends.

“I know it probably doesn’t feel that way now, but it’s so important to us that you carry on. You have always been a great source of strength in our family, and we need you that way. That’s what Dad would want.

“He was so proud of you, Larry,” she said.

I fought back the tears enough to say, “He was proud of all of us. And if he could have picked his time to go, this wouldn’t be a bad one. Laura and John are back together. Rick and Susan are doing well, and he has really had a lot of special time with Rick the last few years. Judy and I are well. And he was so proud at Ashley’s wedding.

“None of us wanted to let him go, but we have to get over it — for him and for ourselves.”

I guess I spent another 30 minutes holding her hand. When I got back to the family room, Laura asked how she was doing, and I said, “pretty well.”

We talked some more, and then Rick disappeared. He spent some time with Mom, then Laura did the same. When she came out, she said that Mom was still awake, but she thought she could get to sleep.

The hospital asked if we wanted to come see him, but we all declined. 

We would never see him again.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 21 ● Los Angeles

I felt a lot better this morning. Everything went smoothly, and the kids really enjoyed the flight because Continental upgraded our tickets to first-class. We took a taxi to my folks’ house, and we arrived around 2:00.

Everyone was happy to see us, and I was relieved to learn that my father was still alive, but I was uneasy about seeing him on his deathbed. When he had his cancer surgery, I had come to terms with the abstract idea of his death. Then I was further reconciled to it when he had his first stroke, ten years ago. When he fell and broke his hip, it was further evidence that he was losing his grip on mortality.

But what would he look like now? How would I react? I felt strangely detached. But I felt certain this would change when I saw him.

 

On the way to his room, we passed an open door to another room, where an elderly man lay — looking for all the world like a cadaver. He had no color; he was frozen in time, eyes open, mouth agape. This is what I expected to see with my father; it is similar to what I saw the last time he was sick.

But this time, my father’s brain was broken in the area that controls breathing. Before I even saw him, I heard him: frantically gasping for air, churning like a freight train.

When I saw him, I was frightened. His desperate grasp for life was incongruous with the vacant look in his eyes. I knew he wouldn’t hang on like this if he could just let go, but his body wouldn’t let him. It clung to life like a drowning man clings to a lifeguard: frantic, and with unimaginable strength.

My mother walked into the room and took his hand.

“Larry and Judy are here now,” she said. From what I had been told, he couldn’t hear what we were saying, let alone understand the meaning of the words. 

“Hi grandpa, we love you,” granddaughter Katy said, leaning over and giving him a hug.

Katy was his favorite; the feeling was mutual. She is my sister’s oldest daughter, and the first grandchild with whom he was able to have a close relationship. Katy lay there upon him, and when she came up, her face was awash with tears.

Judy and Ryan stood back; I could tell Judy was saying a silent prayer.

I approached him and held his hand.

“It’s Larry,” I said quietly — sheepishly. I couldn’t say anything more; couldn’t think of anything that felt right. If anything, I felt guilty for being more scared than sad. My eyes filled with tears once again, but they did not overflow as I thought they might – indeed, hoped — they would.

Of our children, Ryan had/has the closest relationship with him. He looked detached, uncomprehending. Julia came up and rubbed his arm, but she looked uncertain in her grief, as well.

And he just kept churning away at his oxygen mask. If he knew what was going on in the room, he would have been embarrassed.

I remember what it was like as he recovered from the first stroke. He kept saying that he wished he had died, because he was so discouraged by his ineptitude. He lived his life to help others; now he had no life without the helping hands of others. This was so frustrating to him that he seemed on the verge of tears all the time.

As distressing as this was to us, at least it was a hopeful situation. We knew he would not die, and we hoped he would regain his faculties — which he ultimately did, with a voluntary effort as great as his body was now involuntarily demonstrating.

Katy was weeping silently, and my mother joined her. I was weepy too, but more for them than for him.

Then I had the most disturbing thought of all: that I was weeping more for myself than anyone else. Was I bemoaning my own mortality at a time like this? I shuddered at the thought. But the thought wrapped me up like a strait jacket.

Still, the tears would not come. Not enough, anyway. Was I this insensitive to the collective misery of everyone I loved? I could not answer this question; couldn’t even plead insanity.

I wasn’t confused. I was quite simply, and disgustedly, numb.

 

We didn’t stay long. No one had the appetite.

The night before, as Judy and I were sleeping in Houston, the family was called to witness the end. For two hours, Katy held his hand.

“You were a great grandpa,” Katy said. “I love you so much.”

The others — Rick and Susan, Laura Lynn and John, Ashley and Lily — sat in grim silence. But death would not come.

Finally, they were told that the crisis had passed. They left the hospital feeling helpless; the next crisis might be the last. And they might sleep right through it. 

The next morning, they visited again. No change. No hope. Just the heaving body of a great man going down — but not easily.

As we returned to the house, they said that they found it easier to go in small groups and stay for brief intervals. We had no way of knowing if he could hear our voices; but assuming he could, we tried to keep up the vigil, little by little.

I went back later, with Laura and Katy. It was much the same with me. I just couldn’t summon an honest, honorable feeling.

 

At home, it was much better. The kids spent a lot of time in the swimming pool, as usual. The adults visited on the lanai, as usual. I watched the Rockets lose to Utah. During the commercials, I switched to ESPN2, where sports news and scores crawled across the bottom of the screen, with race cars winding out above.

First it was Astros 2, Reds 2, in the fourth inning. Then it was 3-3 in the eighth. It stayed that way long past the end of the basketball game, and into extra innings. Rick and I sat in the backyard and had a drink. The ladies stayed in the lanai. I smoked a cigar. Life goes on.

 Suddenly, my mother let out a scream.

“We won it 4-3 in the fourteenth,” she said. This was the best news I could I imagine. Not just that we won, but that my mother cared enough to keep following the score — and that she was excited enough to scream about it.

This was the best win of the year for me, though I had no part in it.

 

I went into the house and called the Dome. Bill Virdon picked up the phone, and I said, “What the hell are you doing, using up all my pitchers?”