Author: Larry Dierker

THURSDAY, MAY 15 ● Off-day in Philadelphia

I didn’t arise until 10:30 this morning. I drew back the curtains, and it looked like a fine day. I had a date to play golf with baseball analyst Steve Mann and two Phillies executives, Richard Deats  and Dave Montgomery. 

Steve picked me up at 1:30, and we had lunch. We teed off at 3:30, and I played poorly but enjoyed the company.

Afterward, we had a few beers and dinner and talked about a lot of baseball issues. Dave is on the Scheduling Committee, and he didn’t offer much hope for the future.

“With two new teams next year, there will be an interleague game every day,” he said. “There will be more two-game series. And the homestands and road trips will be chopped up even more. There is no way around it.”

I told him that I had devised a way around it in a column I wrote last year. Each team would play 18 games against each of its divisional opponents, and six games with teams from one Amercian League division. Add six games with each non-divisional National League team, and you’d get 162 games and a schedule that had competitive balance and featured intradivisional play in April, July, and September.

“That is the exact plan I proposed,” Dave said. “But the players and the big-market teams wouldn’t go for it.”

I can’t recall the reason he gave for the big-market position. But the players didn’t like it because it would mean 30 interleague games instead of 18. For some reason, the union thinks that this would threaten the Designated Hitter rule. They feel that the DH is like an extra regular player — that he commands more salary and therefore helps create a higher salary scale.

This is a terrible fix we’ve negotiated ourselves into. When the players dictate the rules of the game, it’s like having bank employees dictate interest rates based upon their own personal preferences. It makes it impossible to achieve competitive balance, and it cuts the customer out of the equation completely.

“I think the DH is anathema,” I said. “But I have a compromise rule that could bring the two leagues together without sacrificing strategy.

“You allow a team to pinch-hit for the pitcher, without removing him from the game. The critical aspect of this rule is that the pinch-hitter would be out of the game after he hit. If a team is behind, it gives them a little edge in catching up.

“But there is a tradeoff. Do you let your pitcher hit down 2-1 in the fourth with a man on second and two outs, or do you expend a bench player? This could be very interesting in terms of strategy.”

“They’d never go for it,” Dave said. “In that scenario, the pinch-hitter would still be a bench player, and would not command top dollar.”

“How are we ever going to get ourselves out of this mess?” I asked. “I have talked to a lot of guys who have been in both leagues, and not one of them prefers the American League. Do we have to sacrifice the beauty and integrity of the game, just because the union wants more money?”

Dave didn’t say anything; he just shook his head. I noticed that he looked a lot older than the last time I saw him, two years ago. I suppose that’s what dealing with the owners’ scheduling committee and the players’ union will do to you.

All things considered, I guess it’s easier to manage the team than to manage the business.

           

When I got back to the hotel, I had a message to call Gerry. He said that the tests on Derek’s calf revealed a hematoma, and that he would require surgery and be out for three to four weeks. I was really looking forward to this one-day vacation. As it turned out, it was almost as unsettling as losing a game you could have won.

We didn’t really have any good options. Most of our minor-league prospects are hurt or slumping right now. We decided to call up a journeyman outfielder named Ken Ramos to take Derek’s place on the roster. Kenny has spent a lot of time in the minors, and he hit .300 or better almost every year. He is an in-between player, because he throws lefthanded and can only play the positions that are reserved for great offensive players: the outfield and first base. His offense is steady, but unspectacular, as he has no exceptional skills. His defense is adequate. He has no base-stealing speed, and no home-run power.

At least he can hit a little bit. That, in itself, could help us. My biggest fear is that our outfield defense will suffer. Derek is not the best centerfielder in the world, but he may be better than the guys who will replace him: Thomas Howard and James Mouton. Time will tell.

 

WEDNESDAY, MAY 14 ● New York, vs Mets

Most folks look forward to the 15th of the month because it is payday; I’m looking forward to it because it is our first off-day in three weeks.

With all the close games, this stretch of schedule has been demanding. Our play has been professional, but lackluster.

Tonight we face Rick Reed, a journeyman pitcher who has become an early-season sensation, posting a 1.50 ERA to date.

I looked at the USA Today National League summary statistics for the first time in a month, and I was surprised to see that many teams have had hitting problems. In fact, our weak attack is in the upper half of the league. It seems the pitchers are mounting a comeback in our league, while they continue to serve as cannon fodder in the junior circuit.

 

I blame myself for our hitting woes. When I was in the groove, putting my right stocking on before the left, we were hitting better — scoring just enough runs to win the majority of our games. It’s not Tom McCraw’s fault that I absentmindedly put my left sock on first one day on the last homestand. He has his own superstitions to attend to, and he can’t be held accountable for mine.

I know I will find the right combination one of these days, and we will have a winning streak.

One night in Miami, I thought I was coming up with something, and then it rained on our parade. I had been dipping a combination of mints and herbs contained in a little gauze packet. It fits neatly between your gums and lower lip and gives your mouth a fresh feel.  If you chew a little gum while you’re dipping, your whole mouth becomes minty, but the trouble is that you don’t score any runs.

One inning, I decided to have some sunflower seeds. Boom! We scored two runs. I went back to the dip when they came up. Presto! Another zero on the board.

Back to the seeds: another run. This is great, I thought. We’ll slaughter everyone now.

But then the rain came, and well, you know the rest.

 

Tonight, I was consumed by a hungry media from the time I set foot in the locker room. I had to go into the outfield during batting practice to get some peace and quiet.

When I got back to my office, I had a request for an interview with This Week in Baseball.  When I got back from that, Dave told me that Derek Bell could not play because of a bruised calf muscle. We adjusted our lineup and sent the new one over to the Mets, with James Mouton playing center and hitting second in Derek’s place. Then Gerry came in, and we talked until almost game time; I reached the dugout just in time for The National Anthem. Then I settled in for the game. 

The Perfessor told me that D.K. had thrown well in warmups. He usually pitches well against the Mets; they were the victims when he pitched his no-hitter in 1993. 

I really thought we would get to Reed. We had hit him pretty well in the Dome, and I thought our hitters would do better the second time around.

Silly me.

 

One thing did happen about the third inning that turned the game in our favor. With all the pregame hubbub, I had forgotten to change my navy blue practice jersey for the gray game shirt. No one noticed, because I was wearing a jacket. The heaters were on in the dugout, and I was a little warm, so I unbuttoned the jacket. 

“You better button that back up if you have to go on the field,” Bill said.

At first, his comment didn’t register. Then I realized that I had inadvertently skewed the odds in our favor, just as I had jinxed us with my sock routine. You see, the one game we won in Atlanta was the game when I wore my practice jersey under my jacket, and I had to run up and change between innings.

This time, I ran up in the middle of the fourth, and when I got back, Kile had an 0-2 advantage over Bernard Gilkey. For the first three innings, he had been falling behind most of the hitters, so I took the count as a good omen. I was right. Darryl settled down and pitched eight scoreless innings, matching Reed zero-for-zero.

In the meantime, I learned that Pat Listach had broken his finger the night before, trying to catch a chopper that came into our dugout. I didn’t know quite how to take this news. On one hand, I felt bad for Pat, because he’s having a tough-enough time without this. On the other, it makes it easier for me to give Ricky Gutierrez a good shot at short.

As long as the injury bug doesn’t bite the big boys, we should be all right. But the Bell injury is a little scary, because the last time he fouled a ball off his leg, there was a lot of internal bleeding and he tried to play, pulling a muscle that eventually required surgery. 

Like Pat, Derek has been in a slump. Unlike Pat, Derek drove in 113 runs last year. It would be difficult to lose him for a long period of time — especially now that he is beginning to hit.

On top of all that, Sean Berry told me he was feeling flulike symptoms. And he’s just beginning to hit.

 

The one thing that did go our way ultimately won the game.

About ten days ago, I considered resting Biggio against a pitcher who was tough on him. He resisted, saying he would rather take a day off when there was a break in the schedule, so he could get two days in a row.

When tonight’s lineup was posted, without him on it, he didn’t say a word. When Bell was scratched, he told me he could play, and I told him he would be my secret weapon on the bench.

“You might play this whole game and come up five times with nobody on base. But tonight, I’m going to save you until the bases are loaded,” I said.

Wouldn’t you know it, we loaded the bases in the ninth on a single by Spiers, who was playing second for Biggio; a double by Mouton, playing for Bell; and a walk to Gonzalez. 

Berry was due, but he was looking a little pekid. I looked at Biggio’s record against the new pitcher, Greg McMichael, and he was 1-for-6. Berry, however, was 0-for-6. Bidge could get down the line quicker on a double-play grounder, and he was far more likely to draw a walk.

When I called his number, he was a little surprised; he shouldn’t have been. After all, the bases were loaded.

McMichael got behind 2-0 and then threw a couple of changeups to even the count. The next pitch was another change, and Bidge got his body out in front, but he kept his hands back. He hit the ball squarely, and we knew it was a sacrifice fly at the very least. As Gilkey went back we started thinking grand slam.

But things aren’t coming that easily for us these days. Gilkey leapt into the air and caught the ball against the fence.

I was torn between letting Kile try to finish the game and bringing Wagner in to close. I asked Vern, and he favored Wagner. I really had no preference, but Wagner needed work.

With the off-day tomorrow, I finally decided that we were at least as likely to protect our scant lead with Billy as Darryl. I took Vern’s advice, and Billy rewarded us with one of his typical innings: two strikeouts and one weak fly ball.

 

Two wins in six games on the trip is nothing to brag about, but considering the alternative, I felt comfortable, especially with the off-day ahead and four games with the Phillies after that.

If we can win three of four from the Phils, we can break even for the trip. That goal seems attainable, but the best we could do is split two games with the Phils in the Dome, so I’m certainly not overconfident.

 

One thing I noticed tonight was that I wasn’t quite as nervous in the ninth. Perhaps it was my faith in Wagner. But I’m more inclined to think it is because I am getting accustomed to one-run games. If this is the case, it could be good for the team. They have to be feeling the same way, and I hope this means we are becoming battle-hardened and we will play with grace under pressure in the months ahead.

 

It is 2:45 a.m. as I finish this day’s notes. Part of the off-day is already spent.

TUESDAY, MAY 13 ● New York, vs Mets

Most of this morning lapsed in a veil of sleep. I came out of it when the phone rang in the middle of a strange-but-not-unpleasant dream: the producer of The Fabulous Sports Babe Show was on the other end of the line.

One moment I was on a ranch in the Rockies, hiking over dunes of snow, looking for my car; the next, I was the sleepy-eyed manager of the Astros, trying not to accept or reject an invitation to join The Babe on her syndicated radio show. 

It seemed like something I should do to help promote the team, and at the same time, it seemed like the course that would fill my plate to overflowing. I said that I had to talk to Gerry about some personnel decisions — which was true — and I promised to get back to them.

The decision I have in mind is what to do with Pat Listach.

I keep saying Pat is a great guy — because he is — but he doesn’t have a role on this team, now that Ricky Gutierrez is back. That could change if Ricky or Bill Spiers gets hurt. But in that event, we still have Tim Bogar.

Bogar would seem to be the odd-man-out, except for the fact that he has a strong suit: fielding. And he is used to being a role player. Every time I look at Pat on the bench, I feel guilty.

Another good pinch-hitter would help a lot more now.

 

I had lunch with my broadcasting agent, Bob Rosen. I passed along a floppy disk of my journal for him to review. He said he had made some preliminary phone calls, and the early reaction was promising.

“I guess it all depends on whether we win or not,” I said.

“Not necessarily,” he replied. “Although it would be better if you did.”

I mentioned that I must insist that he keep the contents of the journal confidential. Obviously, I will have to find some innocuous samples to share.

What I am concerned about is the players, like Listach, who might be affected by a book. 

Bob gave me an introductory education on the publishing business. The prospect of a book is exciting, but I feel that I must treat my managing duties as the number-one priority until I get the axe.

The axe will fall at some time, but I don’t think it will be sometime soon. It’s not that I am doing such a great job; it’s more the idea that Drayton, Tal, and Gerry put themselves on the firing line when they hired me, and I don’t think they will want to admit it was a mistake before they are absolutely sure.

Because I continue to believe that we have a good team and that we will continue to win our share of the games, I do not think they will be able to make that judgment quickly.

Tonight we played a decent game against the Mets, but lost 4-3. It has been more difficult for me to shrug off these last two weeks of lackluster play than it would have been from the booth. But I knew it would be this way. 

 

I tried to call my mother three times on Mother’s Day, and I failed. She was in Palm Springs, and she had forgotten to leave her answering machine on.

When I called her after the game tonight, she said, “I don’t know if I can make it through the whole year if you keep playing these one-run games. Your Dad cusses the TV every time the other team gets a hit.

“I never thought I’d be glad to see football season come along, but I don’t know how much more baseball we can stand.”

When Rick and I gave them the satellite dish for Christmas, I knew that it would be a mixed blessing. Even if we experience ecstasy in the end, there will be a lot of agony along the way.

I understand this. Sure, I have been pissed at times, discouraged at times, and it could get worse — even in a pennant-winning season. That goes with the territory. The agony and the ecstasy are the raison d’etre of my lust for the job. It heightens the sensation of being alive, by making every day an intense experience.

When The Sports Babe wants to talk to you, and newspaper reporters scurry along like a personal retinue, it makes you feel important. Who, I might ask, would demur at this attention? Not me. I’ve got a little ham and a little cockiness cleverly disguised in an outwardly modest persona.

My Mom and Dad always told me that I was blessed with brains and brawn, and that I could do anything, be anything I wanted to be. I have long since learned that this is not entirely true. And I have tried to humble myself before the Lord for at least a few moments every day.

But this job is an opiate. There is no doubt about it. 

MONDAY, MAY 12 ● Miami, vs Florida

Cubby, Ash, and I played golf at Weston Hills. We left the hotel at 7:30 and teed off in a drizzle at 8:15.

I could get a hernia playing with these two guys. They hit it a ton — 300 yards or better — when they catch all of it.

The rain stopped on the fourth hole, and then came down in a torrent just as we finished.  The course was more than a match for us, despite the long drives.

We returned to the hotel feeling damp and limp. A bite to eat was bound to lift our spirits; at least that’s what Ash and I thought as we stopped at the Riverfront Cafe for lunch.

Maybe this should have been our second clue that this was not to be our day, but we didn’t pick up on it. We had plenty of time before we needed to go to the ballpark, and the terrible service was no more than a minor inconvenience. It really shouldn’t take 45 minutes to get a cup of soup, but it did. And when it came out in a custard dish, I had to laugh.

“You think that’s funny?” Ash said. “Look what they give you to eat it with.”

I rolled the silverware out of my napkin: a knife and a fork.

 

A tempestuous downpour darkened the afternoon, and assured us that there would be no batting practice or infield practice on the field, so we took the bus to the ballpark.

By the time we got there, the sky had cleared and the prospects for getting the game in looked good. We had Shane Reynolds going against Pat Rapp.

I felt pretty good about the matchup, and we started out well, with a 3-1 lead courtesy of a homer by Bell and a sacrifice fly by Bagwell.

The head groundskeeper said there was a big storm coming in.

“I’m going to tell the umpires that when it starts, we need to cover the field before it gets too wet,” he said.

As Shane went out to pitch the bottom of the fourth, it started drizzling. Before the inning got started, the game was delayed, and the tarps came out. Now it was a waiting game, and anything could happen, because you are never sure what your starting pitcher can give you the second time around after a delay.

The odd thing about this rain delay is that it quit raining shortly after the tarps were in place. It rained hard for about ten minutes; the rest of the time, it either drizzled or did not rain at all.

Finally, after an hour and 20 minutes, they removed the tarps and we resumed the game. Ten minutes later, it started drizzling again, and the showers continued until the soggy end.

I know it seems petty, but I suspected the grounds crew of delaying the game so that it wouldn’t go five innings. I think they tried to restart the game right before the big storm was going to hit, hoping to get washed out.

It’s hard for me to convince myself that they would really do this, because when it’s 3-1 in the fourth inning, it’s still anybody’s ballgame.  Let’s just say the timing of the forecast we got from the groundskeeper was not accurate. The decisions to not play when it wasn’t raining — and to play when it was raining — were also curious.

On top of that, the grounds crew spread a drying substance called Turface on the mound each time the Marlins took the field, and they did not do it when our pitcher went out to warm up. I suppose this is what they call the home-field advantage, and it really worked: after the delay, it was all fish — and we were cut bait.

We had a rested bullpen, but Shane Reynolds is our ace, and he wanted to continue pitching after the delay, so we let him. He said he could not remember trying to pitch after a long delay; I’m sure he has done it somewhere along the line. I’m sure I did it too, but I can’t remember.

Perhaps this is a sign that we have filed the disastrous event deep in our subconscious. If that is the case, this one will be hidden away for sure. It could have been different if Craig Biggio had just caught one ground ball.

The play in question came with one out and the bases loaded in the bottom of the fourth. Pat Rapp, the pitcher, was due, and Leyland pinch-hit with Jim Eisenreich. That was convenient for him, in a way. It is always hard to decide whether or not to let your starting pitcher continue. In this case, the situation made it an easy decision,

Eisenreich hit a sharp ground ball right to Biggio, and it went through his legs for an error. They ended up scoring five runs instead of one, and they ended up beating the tar out of us.

At one point, Russ Springer hit Bobby Bonilla with a pitch, and Bonilla started walking to the mound with a threatening glare on his face. Jeff Conine came out and stopped him, and there was no incident.

At that point, I was so mad, I didn’t care if we had a brawl. This is bad judgment by any standards. It’s a long season, and someone invariably gets hurt in these melées.

It’s usually not a punch that does the damage; I got a spike wound one time when I was trying to hold Bobby Valentine down on the ground.  Many players have been crushed on the bottom of the pile.

In view of our reversed fortunes, I wasn’t feeling any sympathy for Bonilla. I wasn’t too proud of my ability to rally the troops, either. We just seemed to go comatose after Biggio’s error, even though there was still plenty of time for a comeback. I made a mental note to have a short team meeting before our series with the Mets. 

I’m getting a lot of publicity for being a laid-back guy — a Parrothead, if you will — but I don’t abide losing easily, and I want them to know that.

 

We arrived in New York at 4:30 a.m. and got to bed a little after 5:00.

I had one more thought, riding the bus to the hotel: because we have no way to manipulate the weather to our benefit because of the Dome, I thought we would have our grounds crew pour a bucket of water on the mound in the top of each inning the next time we host the Marlins.

SUNDAY, MAY 11 — MOTHER’S DAY ● Miami, vs Florida

We didn’t have a lot of time to savor the big win. That’s the way it is in baseball; you go right out the next day and have to prove yourself again.

I learned from one of the writers that Leyland went to the mound last night to stall, hoping he could make Wagner sit and worry. It was like calling time out before a free-throw or a field-goal attempt.

I could see the logic. But from my standpoint as a pitcher, sitting does not make me worry; going to the mound breathing hard is what makes me worry.

I told Bill about all this, and he said, “C’mon, all the running he does, and you think sprinting down the line 90 feet is going to make him too tired to pitch?”

“Not too tired to pitch; just vulnerable. If he gets in trouble right away, it could be a problem. Believe me, I’ve been there.”

“How could you be that tired?” he asked. “I ran the bases all the time, and I wasn’t that tired.”

“I know, but you were used to running the bases. There was no tension in your stride, no adrenaline rushing through your system. I can’t explain it any better, but I know it’s true. Ask Vern if you don’t believe me.”

I don’t think Bill asked Vern, but it does point out the difference between having a manager who was a pitcher and one who played a position. I don’t pretend to know the psychology of hitting, or the finer points of defensive play. I feel like I have to leave these things up to my coaches.

Last night, with runners on first and third, Cubby sprang from his seat and jumped up on the top step of the dugout. “Sean,” he yelled, “get back and over a little. He’s not going to bunt. Ricky, move over.” He kept yelling at them until he had them where he wanted them.

When he came back to the bench, I said, “I’m impressed. You’re finally starting to take charge around here.” It was an ironic statement, since I am presumably in charge. But I want the coaches to think for themselves and act, just like the players.

I never played the infield. I noticed where they were playing behind me when I pitched, and I had some thoughts about double play-configuration. But Cubby played there; managed and coached there. His instincts about infield play are bound to be better than mine.

“Seriously,” I said. “If you see something that needs changing, don’t ask me. It may be too late. Do it, just like you did there. Just do it.”

“Just doing it”, has been a problem with Sean Berry. He is a sensitive guy, and he wants to do well. But he is a little more cerebral and less intuitive than some other players.

His shoulder still hasn’t fully recovered. No one knows how it feels but him, yet our doctors and trainers feel that he should be able to throw naturally and with good arm strength by now.

Watching him, you get the impression that his arm is hurt as badly as it was last year. He runs across the infield to throw. He has to get himself squared off to throw.  He looks stiff, unnatural. It is clear that he is still protecting his arm. I know the feeling.

The proof that he is still thinking about it came when I talked to him about taking some extra work on throws tomorrow afternoon. He was willing to work at it; he acknowledged the problem, and he wants to solve it. But then he said, “I think I’ve finally figured out what’s wrong with my hitting. My shoulder is still weak, and I’m not finishing my swing in a strong position because of it.”

I know this is not true, because he finished his swing strong last year when his shoulder was injured. It may be just as sore now as it was last year, but it couldn’t possibly be worse; he is simply in a slump.

But the tipoff on his throwing came to me when he talked about his hitting. He still doesn’t really believe his shoulder is fixed.

Whatever he believes, he came through with a big two-out hit for us today.

Donne Wall, starting for the first time in ten days because of a groin pull, was wild. He gave up four runs in the first three innings, and when I took him out, I put in Sean Berry as part of a double-switch. Sean’s hit was a double, and we ended up getting another run because of it.

At 4-3, it was anybody’s ballgame. If we could win with Donne Wall going against Alex Fernandez, I would think we were really hot. But it was not to be.

Ramón Garcia pitched well, but he gave up a run on a windblown popup, and another on a hanging curve ball, and we lost 6-3. It was one of those losses that wasn’t so tough to accept. We didn’t give the game away; they simply took it.

 

One play occurred, however, as we were trying to make our comeback. It was a play that I will have to review with our hitters.

Remember when I told James Mouton that when I pinch-run with him, I want him to steal? Well, we had runners at first and third with one out in the eighth, and I put him in to run at first.

On the first pitch, he got a great jump. Unfortunately, Brad Ausmus bunted on that pitch, and he was thrown out at first.  If Brad had taken the pitch, James would have stolen the base easily.

I couldn’t blame Brad for trying the bunt; he was the tying run, and he is not a home-run hitter. But if he had waited for the steal, we would have had men on second and third with one out, and Sean on deck — with home-run capability.

A single would have brought us to within one run, and we had two chances to get it. After the bunt, we had one chance, and Sean struck out.

           

I went blading with Dave again after the game. It was delightful at the beach, as the daytime crowd morphed into creatures of the night before our very eyes.

Aside from the fact that I almost got hit by a car, it was a great way to put the loss behind and move forward. We had dinner on the deck of the hotel swimming pool, along the Intercoastal Canal. Laughter bubbled from the Tiki bar as a soft breeze played syncopated rhythms with the riggings of the nearby sailboats. The beer was cold and the steamers were hot.

This isn’t such a bad life, even when you lose — as long as you don’t get in the habit of losing.