Author: Larry Dierker

TUESDAY, MAY 20 ● Houston, vs Cincinnati

I knew I would have to stay awake for an hour or so when I got home in the nether regions of darkness, while the world around me slept. I did not plan on staying up until 5:30 a.m., but life is like baseball: it is timeless. When I arrived home at 4:00, I saw a note from Judy on the kitchen counter:

Wake me up when you get in.

I had a feeling it was something that would upset me. Most of our predawn heartache has involved our daughter, Julia.

This time it was my father.

He had suffered a massive stroke while he was watching our game with the Phillies.

The prognosis was not good; I had to prepare myself for his death. Judy looked heavy with despair as she left me with my thoughts and went back to bed.

I poured a glass of wine and sat on the deck with the puppies and a cigar. The pups helped a lot, for there is living where there is dying. And there is joy in the blossom of youth.

Still, the sadness came in waves just as the clouds came and went, shrouding the Moon in mystery, leaving it near full, luminous, and flat as a sand dollar.

I didn’t really cry, but my eyes were floating in sorrow.

I think it helped to know that it happened suddenly, and that there was no pain or suffering. Twenty years ago, he endured four hours of colon-cancer surgery. I was in the last years of my pitching career, and this brush with death was devastating to me; it foretold the symbolic death of my essential being.

To that point, baseball had defined me, but now I was clinging to it as if it were a piece of driftwood in the vast, open sea. As we talked before he was gurneyed to the operating room, he wept. I had never seen him cry before, and I remember telling him that it was all right to cry.

“These guys I play baseball with think they’re tough,” I said. “But they would cry too. Nobody can stand up to his own mortality. You’ll get through this. I know you will.”

The fact is, I didn’t know he would get through it. And I was not prepared to lose him. I think his tears were for Mom and for me, for Rick, and for Laura Lynn.

He lived his life for his family, not for himself. It was as if he was born to serve. As a child of the Depression, he was nearly obsessed with his labors to provide for the family. He often brought work home from the office and worked until he slept. On Sunday nights, he sat down to an old Smith-Corona typewriter and hunt-and-pecked his way through a long letter to his parents in Pennsylvania.

And to think I can hardly get around to calling him once a week.

 

I remember my Dad sitting at the dining-room table, with his briefcase and papers. But I also remember waiting for him to come home, so I could pitch to him in the back yard.

In my early teen years, I pitched so hard that the ball often hit him in the shins or on the arm. I learned a few new words during those sessions, but he never quit trying to catch me — until I was smart enough to quit throwing to him.

I remember him taking Rick and me to the park, and he kicked a football way up over the tops of the trees. I was amazed at these powerful punts.  Rick and I circled around underneath, in vain attempts to catch them.

I recall him taking me to Little League signups when I was seven years old. You had to be eight to play, but I wanted to see what it was like. It turned out to be the formation of a new league, and they were a couple of boys short, so I got started a year early. I think this foreshadowed my life in the game.

I had my first date for a dance party in sixth grade, and I was embarrassed to have him take me to pick up the girl, because he was bald. He didn’t tease me or get mad; he just put on his business hat and said, “Let’s go.” 

One night I came home with an extra-credit assignment in Physics. I had no clue how to solve it, but he helped me. He took my textbook and read through it; then he went to work with his slide rule. I was the only kid in that class who got the right answer. I’m pretty sure my teacher was wise to my ways, and I didn’t really care.

I was just proud of my Dad. 

 

All of these images crossed my mind as l looked out at the lake in back of the house. The water has always been special to me: the way it reflects the many moods of lighting, weather, and season. This night, the lake was swollen with rain, and it was tranquil, with lights from across the way floating still-and-silent in murky tones of amber, white, and red.

Seven years ago, just after his retirement, my father had a stroke while I was at spring training. I flew from Florida to California, hoping to beat death to his door. He made a remarkable recovery from that setback, but just as he was getting his mobility back, he fell and broke his hip. The doctors put a couple of screws in the bone to ensure proper healing, but something went wrong.

He was supposed to be pain-free in a few weeks, but a few months later, when he was to take a cruise to Alaska with Ryan and his cousin Ashley, he was still suffering. He suffered through the cruise and through our trip to Hawaii the following Thanksgiving. Finally, it was discovered that his hip bone was dead, and they gave him an artificial hip. 

The past two years, he has been fine, but the illnesses and injuries had clearly taken a toll. He was not real mobile, and though his mood improved dramatically when the hip pain went away, he spent most of his time watching sports and business news on television.

The truth is, he was always a homebody, and he would have been happy to stay home all the time. But my mother loved to travel, and he traveled all over the world with her, for her.

 

He was not a religious man, but he was a faithful servant — at home, at work, and even in his spare time. He always volunteered to help coach our teams, raise funds for our activities, contribute to charities. He was such a soft touch that he was inundated with mail requesting donations. His favorite charity was the YMCA.

After I became a Christian a few years ago, I had several talks with him about spirituality. My sister is more devoted to the Lord than me, and we had a searching conversation with him just last month when I was in LA. I am hoping that his devotion to the YMCA, to his wife, to his children, and to his work, along with the seeds we tried to sow last month, will speak for him now, when he cannot speak for himself.

He never spoke for himself, but always for others.       

 

This afternoon, waves of sadness came over me. I wept some, and I sat immobile a lot. I know I have to get on with things, so I called Gerry and told him that I would be there for the game, but I wanted Bill to manage the team. I called Cubby and asked him to make the coaches and team aware of the situation. I called Barry and arranged the transportation. We will leave tomorrow, with Julia; Ryan and Ashley will fly in tomorrow night.

I laid down for a nap around 5:00 and left for the ballpark at 6:00. When I arrived, Gerry was in my office. It was great to see him, and he struck just the right balance. He sympathized, talking briefly about when his father passed away. Then he got down to business.

Sid couldn’t throw today. His arm is still sore, and our doctor, Bill Bryant, thinks he is finished.  Gerry had talked with Vern, and they penciled in Donne Wall for the first game in Denver.

When I walked into the coaches’ room, a hush fell over them. I tried to break it by being upbeat and talkative, but I’m sure my words didn’t hide my distress.

I walked back into my office and had another disturbing thought:

As I walked through the tunnel to the dugout, I encountered Biggio. He patted me on the shoulder and said he was sorry to hear about my Dad.

“I know,” I said. “It’s tough to know what to say and what to do. But I don’t want you guys carrying my load into this game. We have to go out there with some spirit. Maybe you could spread the word. I’m concerned about it. We need to get fired up.”

 

One thing was evident in the first inning: the Reds were fired up. They have the worst record in baseball, and their manager, Ray Knight, has been fussing and fuming all year. He finally went ballistic last week, tearing a bag from its mooring and slamming it down like a pro wrestler.

I had a few managers who had short tempers. A little rage can be helpful — once in a great while. But if you go off too often, it loses its impact and becomes almost laughable.

Knight was suspended three days for his recent tirade. He started serving those days today at his home in Albany, Georgia.

Before the game, the Reds had a closed-door, players-only meeting. I’m sure they are hoping to play like champions during Knight’s absence, to show their management that they can do better without him. The same thing could happen to me some day, but I am going to try my best not to have too many tantrums. I haven’t had any yet.

 

Deion Sanders led off with a single, and then Curtis Goodwin got a drag-bunt single. Then they pulled a double steal. Barry Larkin grounded out to drive in a run, then Reggie Sanders singled to center to drive in another run.

Reggie Sanders never stopped running as he rounded first, and Mouton’s throw to Biggio had him cold at second, but Bidge dropped the ball. Chirs Holt stiffened and we got out of it with just two runs. But the Reds had clearly thrown down the gauntlet.

They got another run in the second, and John Smiley was pitching well for them. Still, we rallied to tie the game at 3.

In the eighth, Russ Springer ran afoul of Lady Luck: he jammed Hal Morris, and the ball dribbled down the third-base line for a double. Then he jammed Willie Greene and broke his bat in half. The ball went looping over Bagwell’s head, and he missed it by a foot or so.

Joe Oliver hit a liner to short, and it looked like we were out of it with just one run, but the ball knuckled toward Ricky Gutierrez and caromed off his glove, allowing Greene to score.

In the ninth, the Reds got another run on two broken bats and a dribbler up the middle. In all, they got fourteen hits, and at least ten of them were weak. They were full of vigor, and we seemed flat. We still had a chance, but it got away.

 

After the game, I had to endure a media session. They knew about my father, so I had to address this subject with microphones in my face.

“Is your father going to make it?” someone asked.

“No,” I said. “If he survives, there won’t be much left of him.”

There were several radio reporters, and four or five newspaper guys. I thought they were sensitive in their questioning. I was really glad there were no TV cameras; I must have looked like hell.

 

When I got home, Judy was packing for the trip and Ryan was already in bed. I tried to call home several times, but the line was busy. I finally gave up and went to the deck with the wine, the cigars, and the puppies. I felt better outside than in the house; don’t ask me why.

Judy finally came out and handed me the phone. I talked to Rick, and he said there was no change; Dad’s breathing had been shallow, and at one point the nurse called to say that she thought he was near the end.

The family raced over to the hospital, and by the time they got there, he had lurched back into the fight and was breathing rapidly.

Everyone there, it seems, is praying that he will let go. But there is no assurance that this will happen.

Tomorrow, we will see for ourselves. 

MONDAY, MAY 19 ● Philadelphia, vs Phillies

Today we were held hostage in Philadelphia.  Staying over after a Sunday day game to play a Monday-night game is a recent phenomenon. I wonder if our appearance on Fox’s Baseball Night in America has anything to do with it?

I don’t mind staying over that much, really. If it were September, when the travel gets under your skin like a chigger, and airplane food tastes like mush, it would be different. But this is our longest trip, and it’s almost over. Even though we only get to stay home two-and-a-half days, it’s nice to have one East Coast trip behind us.

On Thursday, we head for Denver and San Francisco, and the wives are allowed to come along. I know Judy will enjoy the break from her routine, and I will be glad to have her with me.

 

I woke up early and walked all over town this morning. I really need to start getting more exercise. My weight is all right, but I need to firm things up a bit.

When I returned to the hotel, I saw The Perfessor talking with Jim Deshaies and Bill Brown in the lobby. I asked Vern when he was going to the ballpark, and he said, “One o’clock.”

“Why don’t we just sleep there?” I asked.

“Well, Mac has extra hitting at 2 o’clock, and I have to throw to them,” Vern replied. “You don’t have to come out that early if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll be here waiting for you at 1 o’clock sharp,” I said. “I’m tired of walking around town, and I’m just about finished with my book. I don’t have anything to do but wait for the game anyway. At least if we check out of the hotel and go to the yard, it will seem like we are starting on our way home.”

 

When we got to the park, half the team was there; I think everyone felt the same way. Philadelphia is a much nicer city than it was ten years ago. But how much brotherly love can you stand? We’ve spent five nights here, which is the length of our average homestand this year.

Mac didn’t have any trouble getting volunteers for extra hitting today. Eight guys flailed away for an hour. Their labors were unimpressive. Well, maybe they were saving their good swings for the game.

I consulted The Perfessor regarding Mike Hampton.

When I talked to Gerry last night, he was so pissed off that he wanted to send Mike back to the minors. Vern and I aren’t ready to give up on him yet.

We watched the video of his performance, and we came to the same conclusion: He just isn’t hitting his spot low-and-away with the sinker. His other pitches were OK, but the sinker doesn’t sink when it’s belt-high. Instead, it rises — right over the fence.

Vern doesn’t feel like he has established good communication with Mike. I haven’t had a lot of luck talking to him, either. He is quick with the barbed repartee, but short on sharing true feelings.

Somehow, we have to get through to him.

I asked Vern if he would mind if I stood alongside the next time they work in the bullpen, and he welcomed the idea. We don’t have exactly the same take on what he needs to do to get the sinker to behave, but we both feel that sending him to the minors is too drastic a measure.

Gerry came by before batting practice to check on our pitching plans, and to talk about Mike. He wants a plan of attack, and I think he is right. Sometimes we are so sensitive about feelings that we let things go along, hoping for the best.

If we are going to skip him a start, and try to work with him on the side and maybe get him a couple of innings in relief, we need to tell him what we plan to do and ask him what he thinks would help.

We did this in the outfield during BP, and it was more of the same: tight-lipped, noncommittal. It was like trying to draw water out of a rock.

I feel we did make some progress, in the sense that he admitted that he was not pitching well; he could have brushed it off by saying his previous two starts were good, and this was just an off day. But he didn’t say that.

He said that he knew he wasn’t pitching well, and that it was not a physical problem but a mental thing.

“I just don’t have any confidence,” he said. “It’s like the chicken-and-egg thing. I have to pitch good to get my confidence back, but I can’t pitch good without confidence.”

“That’s a start,” I said. “There are ways to build your confidence between starts. It may take a little extra work, but if your arm is healthy, we can do it.”

I was hoping for some sign of eagerness at this suggestion, but his response was something like, “whatever.”

I made a mental note to try to talk to his wife, Kautia. She is a bright young lady. Perhaps she can give us some insight into his reticence. I just have to believe that this goes beyond pitching; that it is something deep down inside that is resisting help.

Most guys are too hopeful about getting help from coaches; they are looking for help all the time. But Mike seems to be a joker on one hand, and a hermit on the other. Sometimes he is the cockiest guy on the team; other times he looks like a lost soul.

           

The game with the Phils went better tonight.

D.K. has passed the Enigma title on to Mike, and he has taken up the sword of the staff like Sir Galahad. Seven innings; one run on a two-out solo homer on a 3-2 pitch; 8 strikeouts; one walk. He even got a base hit and drove in a run after the Phillies walled Ricky Gutierrez to pitch to him.

Sean Berry finally got off the Interstate (a batting average in the .100s; a guy hitting .145 would be on “I-45”) with a two-run homer to get us started. Biggio hit a solo shot to make it 3-0. Gonzo finally got a couple of RBI singles, and then Bagwell showed the Fox crowd his flair for the dramatic by hitting his 13th and 14th homers of the year. The second one made it 9-0 and was the 1000th hit of his career. In between, he walked, stole second, and scored.

There is no way we can win the pennant with Biggio and Bagwell shouldering most of the load. But there is also no way we can win it without them.      

John Hudek came in and pitched the eighth, giving up a three-run homer. Billy Wagner gave up a solo in the ninth. This happens all the time when guys who normally pitch in close games come into a blowout, because they need work to stay sharp. Most of the time it doesn’t make any difference, except in their earned run averages. In this case, it may affect Hudek’s confidence, as he is in a bit of a slump.

I’m not as worried about him as Vern and Gerry.  They haven’t seen him at his best, and I have. I have seen him pick off both corners of the plate, time after time, with 93-95 MPH fastballs.  His fastball is back in that range now, but he is not hitting corners. I believe he will return to form. I hope he believes it.

 

I was also hoping this day’s journal would get me from Philly to Houston, but I am written-out; my word-processor’s battery is almost dead; and we are still an hour from home.

SUNDAY, MAY 18 ● Philadelphia, vs Phillies

I still remember a meeting we had one spring — must have been around 1975 — when Preston Gómez was managing the Astros. It was a meeting for pitchers and catchers only, and the subject was walks.

Preston came right to the point: In 1974 we had 601 walks (56 intentional). The Dodgers only walked only 464 — the fewest in the league. And only NINE of those walks were intentional! So his message was that if we had better control, we could win our division.

And after citing these alarming statistics, he said that if a pitcher walked more than two batters in a game, he would be immediately removed from the competition.

When the meeting was over, we had walks on the brain. As a result, we walked more batters that spring than ever before. A steady stream of pitchers paraded from the bullpen, each wilder than his predecessor.

After a while, it was ridiculous; then it became laughable; and then sublime. Somewhere after sublime, we lost the touch. We just couldn’t walk enough batters to keep the music playing, and finally, the parade was over.

I held a meeting today with our hitters. Mac presided, and he did a fine job.

“We are going to win this division,” he said. “I know it and you know it. We can do it the hard way, or we can do it the easy way.

“The easy way is to be aggressive and bunt, run, steal, and hit our way over the opposition. The hard way is the way we’ve been doing it: by sitting back, waiting for home runs. We can’t keep waiting for Bags and Bidge to hit a home run. We have to make things happen.”

He went on to talk about putting pressure on the other team. I asked which guys liked to hit-and-run, and all but Sean Berry and Jeff Bagwell raised their hands.

“What counts do you like?” I asked.

They said they didn’t care, but they didn’t like to do it with a 2-0 count or with two outs in the inning. Bill stressed the importance of getting a good lead — even when we weren’t planning to run — so that the other team wouldn’t guess our intentions by the length of our leads.

I told them that I thought they were all good hitters.

“I wouldn’t let you hit 3-0 if I didn’t believe in you,” I said. “But right now, we are struggling. I would like to be more aggressive. Don’t worry about being picked off. Get a good lead. Don’t worry about being thrown out. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and the catcher will make a bad throw. If we get a few steals and work a few hit-and-run plays, it just might shake something loose and get us going.”

We got a lot of feedback from the players. They all realize that we have wasted a lot of good pitching, and that we could be three or four games ahead of our current pace with even average run production.

The meeting broke up in a great spirit of togetherness, but I still felt dubious about the impact it would have. I hate to call attention to this type of thing, but we aren’t even to the ridiculous stage yet.

Then again, maybe we attained that status this afternoon, as a minor-league marvel by the name of Garrett Stephenson shut us down, and we lost 5-3.

FRIDAY, MAY 16 ● Philadelphia, vs Phillies

We went to the other end of the baseball spectrum tonight: winning what should have been a laugher, but which turned out to be the opposite.

In the first inning, Craig Biggio hit a home run — the 100th of his big-league career. We went on to score seven runs, by far our top inning of the year.

Chris Holt was a little wild, but he managed to shut down the Phillies in the bottom of the frame.

In the second inning, Holt came up with runners on first and second and one out.

“What do you want to do?” Bill asked.

“Bunt them over,” I replied. Then I thought about it.

I was asked to bunt in a similar situation at Candlestick Park. I squared around, and the first pitch was low. Then I heard Charlie Fox, the manager of the Giants, yell, “Knock him on his ass!”

I looked down and got the bunt sign again. I squared around, and lefty Ron Bryant knocked me on my ass.

I looked again: same sign. Same result.

Now it was 3-0. I did not look for a sign. I did not square around. Bryant threw a strike. On the next pitch, I grounded out.

By that time our manager, Harry Walker, was yelling at Fox — and

Fox was firing back. We went on to win the game easily.

Afterward, Harry and Charlie got into it in the walkway that leads to the locker rooms. They had to be separated by their players.

The point of the dispute is the unwritten baseball law that you should not embarrass the other team. Charlie thought my bunting when we were already 8 or 10 runs ahead was rubbing it in; I wasn’t sure what to think, but I knew I didn’t need the extra runs, and I didn’t enjoy having pitches thrown at my head.

Harry was yelling at Charlie, “If you promise not to hit home runs, I’ll promise not to bunt.” Charlie’s reply was not so civil.

So now, I am the manager in a similar situation. What do I do?

After Bill asked me and I called for the bunt, I asked him, “Is this showing them up?”

“In the second inning?” he said, incredulously. “No way.”

I thought it was a respectful move. After all, we were giving them the second out of the inning.

Holt came through, then Biggio hit a three-run homer. We went on to score four runs to make it 11-0. I wasn’t sure how Phillies manager Terry Francona was taking this beating, but I was feeling pretty good.

When Kile and Wagner shut the Mets out 1-0, neither Vern nor I so much as left the dugout. Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, if I didn’t have to leave the dugout or make a hard decision two days in a row?

It looked like it would go just that way. Holt left with an 11-3 lead after six innings.  At that juncture, I took Ricky Gutierrez out of the game so his bruised elbow could be treated, and I put Ken Ramos in left field so he could make his major-league debut and get the butterflies out. 

Ramón Garcia came in to get a couple innings of work, and before he got the third out of his first inning, the Phils had scored four runs — three coming when Scott Rolen hit Garcia’s curve ball into the seats.

Vern and I looked at one another in disbelief. We have been trying our best to get Garcia to stop throwing the curve. It is his favorite pitch, and by far his worst. 

I went to the mound to change pitchers, and when The Chief departed, I asked Ausmus, “Why does he insist on throwing that fucking curveball?”

“I don’t know,” Brad said. “I just can’t figure out what he’s trying to do. He mixes up his pitches, but he’s got no clue how to work a batter.”

Tom Martin came in and got the third out. He made it through the eighth too, but only after the Phils got two baserunners.

I was sweating bullets; the momentum of the game was clearly turning, and I didn’t want to have to use Wagner. Bagwell turned the momentum in the top of the ninth inning with a solo home run.

When John Hudek went out to pitch the bottom of the ninth, I was as anxious as I have been all year. It was cold, and I was shivering from the inside out.

Two weeks ago, I would have trusted Hudie with a one-run lead. Now, I felt desperate with a five-run cushion. My fears were realized when Hudek immediately put two men on base.

His best pitch is a riding fastball. He normally throws it 92-95 MPH, and he gets pop flies and strikeouts. Tonight, he was throwing it in the high 80s. At that speed, he could easily get touched for a homer.

When the second runner got on base, I told Vern that if another runner reached, I wanted him to go to the mound and stall for time while Wagner started throwing.

Luckily, it didn’t come to that: Hudie pitched out of it, and we won 12-7.

           

There was no real exhilaration as we poured onto the field for the congratulatory high-five celebration. Everyone shared my fears to some degree: if we had lost this game, it would have been devastating.

Watching SportsCenter in the postgame locker room, I learned that the Giants had coughed up a nine-run lead in Montreal:

I started a discussion with the coaches about when I should start putting in the reserve players, and in which inning I should stop trying to score more runs by stealing and hit-and-run tactics.

After several coaches spoke up, I realized that there was no rule-of-thumb.

Bill said that he would keep the pressure on until at least the seventh inning. He said that it pissed him off when the other team started playing behind his baserunners at first, because they expected him not to run, as a courtesy:

“If they’re going to play behind the runner and take my hitter’s hole away on the right side, I feel like I should run. I didn’t always do it, because I wanted to let a sleeping dog lie — but I sure felt like it.”

Tom McCraw was more blunt.

“This is professional baseball, not The Amateur Hour. You should try to win at all times, no matter what. If the other team doesn’t like it, fuck ’em.”

The locker room was quiet. It was almost as if we had lost the game. Some of the players were watching the Braves and Cardinals play.

When we got back to the hotel, Gerry and I stepped into the bar for a beer. The Braves game was still scoreless in the eleventh. We watched and talked about big-market and small-market teams, and about Drayton’s expectation that we “get a little more out of our players than the other team.”

“He thinks we can win with a $30 million budget,” Gerry said. “And we can, if we get lucky. But he keeps bringing up Montreal and Pittsburgh as examples of low-budget teams that are winning. Well, they may be winning now, but you know as well as I do, they won’t win the championship in the end.

“The Expos are amazing, the way they lose free agents year after year and keep bringing up great-looking rookies. They continue to field good teams. But what have they won? Nothing.”

Tom McCraw came over, and we started talking about the hit-and-run play. I mentioned that Biggio had suggested that we hit-and-run more often in New York. At one point, I told Bill to put on the hit-and-run, and he said, “there’s two outs.” I told him not to put it on, and then asked him between innings, “Why wouldn’t you put the hit-and-run on with two outs?”

“Because they can’t make a double play with two outs,” he said. 

“Then you’re saying it’s a defensive play. And yet Biggio wants to use it, because he thinks we need to be more aggressive. Which is it?”

I clearly do not have the perspective of a position player; I need coaches who played positions, just like Bill needed a pitching coach when he managed. But Bill has opinions about pitching, just like I have my own feelings about offense.

I want to play for the big inning until late in the game, when one run will win it. It seems to me that hitting-and-running is a play that could lead to a big inning if the batter gets a hit; it could move a runner and avoid a double play; or it could backfire if the hitter misses the ball and the runner is thrown out stealing.

My impression is that it is a play designed in the dead-ball era when home runs – indeed, any runs — were scarce.

In this era, I believe the hit-and-run is an anachronism, unless you have a good base stealer at first and a weak contact hitter at the plate. This situation does not occur often, so I find myself disinclined to use the play at all.

Tommy was wary when I asked if it was an offensive or a defensive play.

“It depends,” he said. “If you’re going against a Greg Maddux, who gets all those ground balls and is hard to score on, it’s an offensive play. If it’s some guy you have a chance to hit hard, I don’t like it.”

This is exactly what I wanted him to say, in front of Gerry. I know Gerry is frustrated that we don’t bunt much, and we don’t run much.

The reason we don’t bunt escapes me. I give them the bunt-option sign all the time, yet we don’t have a single bunt hit that I can remember; our opponents have bunted safely eight or ten times. 

The running game is different; I know why they don’t run. It’s either because of a pitcher who has a good move to first or is quick to the plate, or a catcher with a good, accurate arm.  More often than not, one or more of these scenarios is operative.

So far, only the Pirates have struck out more than we have. This means that we swing-and-miss a lot. If we don’t trust ourselves to steal, and we are having trouble making contact, why would I want to hit-and-run?

On our club, Brad Ausmus is a good hit-and-run hitter. Biggio is good at it too. But Biggio is also our second-most-powerful hitter. I want him to pick the pitch he wants to hit, because of the likelihood of an extra-base hit. If I make him hit-and-run, I take away his power potential.

So that leaves me with one guy – Ausmus — and I have used him several times in this role.

I hate to have our offense seem static, but nothing kills a rally faster than a runner being caught stealing on a busted hit-and-run.

I think Gerry was fascinated by our observations. Fact is, I think he is like most folks in the sense that he regards the hit-and-run as an aggressive play. But I suspect most managers think of it is a way to avoid the double play.

Several years ago, I read through the Elias stat book page by page, and I found that the best ground-ball pitchers induce one double play in five opportunities. Strikeout and fly-ball pitchers, like Hudek or Nolan Ryan, get the twin-killing about once every 15 or 20 tries.

In my opinion, hitting-and-running to avoid the double play is ridiculous against all but a few special pitchers, and with all but a few special hitters. In other words, I generally don’t like the play. Even the psychology of it bugs me; everyone has a built-in excuse for failing. The batter can say it was a pitch he couldn’t handle; the runner can say he wasn’t able to get a good jump, and that he was depending on the hitter to make contact.

I have instructed our runners to try to get a base-stealing jump on the play. But this is a nontraditional approach, and I have noticed that they are slipping back into the traditional don’t get picked off! mode.

I’m not big on meetings, but I think we need one to talk about this play.