Author: Larry Dierker

RMJ 70 April 25

FRIDAY, APRIL 25 ● Houston, vs San Francisco

I slept luxuriously until 11:00. Cubby called for a ride; he wanted to get to the Dome by 2:00. My preference would be 3:00 or 3:30, but I have found that when I arrive early, I don’t want for things to do.

This time there was a mountain of mail and about 50 photos and a dozen balls to sign. There was a scouting report on the Giants, and pitcher/batter matchups to review.

I still remember what Kirt Manwaring said about Giants manager Dusty Baker last summer:

“Dusty is just like one of the guys,” he said. “Sometimes he’ll come back to the back of the plane and talk about something that happened in the game. And he’s not a know-it-all. I remember one time he said, ‘What the hell was I thinking about trying to steal in that situation with Barry (Bonds) at bat? You guys ought to fine me for being a dumbass.’”

This gave me great appreciation for Dusty’s leadership style. When someone who works hard and has talent admits failure, it is so disarming.

I think John McMullen’s biggest failing when he owned the Astros was that he could not admit to making a mistake.

John McMullen

McMullen took the team from bankruptcy to respectability. He was a hands-on owner who had a good knowledge of the game, and he put his money behind the team. We won our division twice under his stewardship.

Like everyone else, John made a few mistakes. His image problem was the result of his adamant defense of himself. If he had just said, “OK, I blew that one. But I’m not going to quit. We’re going to overcome this mistake and move on to bigger and better things,” he would have been forgiven. 

For instance, there was a rumor that he was going to move the team to Washington, D.C.  When the writers asked him about it, he said he hadn’t thought about it, but if attendance didn’t improve, he might consider it.

All he had to say was, “this is the first I’ve heard about it,” even if it wasn’t. 

Same with firing GM Tal Smith, and raising the parking prices at the Astrodome. 

He was not a bad owner, but he was far from perfect — and he always managed to say the exact wrong thing when there was a microphone nearby.

I have emphasized the inevitability of our failures several times in team meetings. The point is to draw inspiration from defeat; seek out the joy of picking up a teammate.

[Winning teams] do not dwell on failure; they do not deny it; they simply overcome it.

If a guy doesn’t get the run in from third with no outs, the next guy gets him in. If I call for a squeeze and it backfires into a double play, pick me up with a two-out rally. This is the nature of winning teams: they do not dwell on failure; they do not deny it; they simply overcome it.

And that was the case in tonight’s game against the Giants.

             

In the first inning, the Giants scored a run on a passed ball by Brad Ausmus. In the second, Kile served up a fat pitch to Rick Wilkins with two outs and the pitcher on deck. Wilkins hit it out of the park: 2-0.

In the third, Stan Javier, led off with a triple. It wasn’t a good pitch, but Bobby Abreu got a glove on the ball and couldn’t hold it. A sacrifice fly made it 3-0.

All three of these runs could have been avoided. Still, it could have been worse, as Kile retired Barry Bonds twice.

In the bottom of the fourth, Biggio singled. I put on the hit-and-run, and Listach singled to left, moving Bidge to third with no outs. Bagwell then hit a 3-1 pitch into the pavilion seats to tie the score.

In the meantime, Kile settled down and was pitching a fine ballgame. We got a run in the sixth on two infield hits and two walks.

But the Giants have been overcoming mistakes themselves in putting together a record of 14-4. I knew they were far from finished.

In the top of the eighth, Kile showed some signs of slowing down. He was already over 100 pitches, but his control was excellent.

With two outs, José Vizcaino reached on an error by Listach. The next hitter was the dangerous Glenallen Hill.

Vern thought Kile was spent. We had Wagner ready. I went to the mound and Darryl wanted to continue pitching. I didn’t feel nearly as positive about it as I had in Atlanta and Los Angeles. I didn’t think D.K. had quite as much life on his fastball, and the Giants have been his nemesis team.

Biggio came in and exhorted Darryl to “pick Pat up.” Ausmus said that Darryl was still throwing well.

“Do you have a plan for Hill?” I asked.

“Fastballs in, breaking balls down and away,” Brad said.

Bob Davidson

By that time, plate umpire Bob Davidson arrived on the scene.

“He’s still throwing good. Leave him in there,” Davidson said.

“OK,” I said. “Go get him.”

Kile’s first pitch to Hill was a fastball out over the plate. Hill hit a long fly to right, and Bobby Abreu leaped against the scoreboard and came within inches of catching the ball. It went for a triple. The score was tied, and Bonds was due.

I went to the mound again. When Kile gave me the ball, I said. “You made a mistake. Don’t worry about it. Bagwell doesn’t get a hit every time. We just have to pick each other up. You pitched a helluva game. Billy’s going to shut them down, and we’re going to win.”

 As Wagner made his way to the mound, Brad asked me if I wanted to walk Bonds.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I think you gotta walk him. He’s the man.”

“But if we walk him, he’ll steal second, and then if Kent gets a hit it’ll be two runs, not one. Kent is hotter than Bonds right now.”

Brad shook his head and grimaced. It was not an easy call.  

My instinct was to pitch to him. I asked Billy, and he wanted to pitch to him too.    

“Go get him,” I said.

With a 1-1 count, Bonds dribbled the ball in front of the plate. Brad picked it up and threw him out.

We did not score in the bottom of the inning, and Billy walked one and struck out the other three in the top of the ninth. I was not going to pitch him in the tenth. I was hoping there would be no tenth.

Even in a tense game like this, there is room for comic relief. As we came to bat, The Perfessor asked me if I wanted Springer if it stayed tied, or Hudek if we got the lead. 

“If we get the lead, we win,” I said. “This is the bottom of the ninth.”

Vern had a sheepish look on his face. He had driven to his home in Texarkana on the off-day to see his son play a high-school game and to catch up on relations with his wife, Darlene. He left straight from the Dome and didn’t get home until noon. Then he slept two hours and got up for his son’s game. He slept about six hours that night and drove straight to the Dome.

“What the hell did Darlene do to you last night?” I asked. You’re still in la la land.”

Bill was standing alongside, and he got a good chuckle out of it. Vern laughed at himself too. As I said, self-effacement can be disarming.

“C’mon, let’s win it right here!” Vern yelled.

Gonzo just about broke out of his slump with a game-winning homer. Javier caught it with his back against the centerfield fence. Berry then had a tough at-bat, drawing a walk on a 3-2 pitch. Bobby Abreu, who had missed two chances to make run-saving catches, singled Berry to third.

Now I had another decision to make. Dusty had a lefthander throwing in the bullpen; I had Thomas Howard and Tony Eusebio ready to pinch-hit. Ausmus was the batter. He is hot right now, but clearly not in an RBI league with either of my potential pinch-hitters.

The pitcher’s spot was next. I decided to let Ausmus bat, because if I hit with Howard, Dusty would go to the bullpen. Then if I went to Tony, who is in a slump, I would have used up the two guys I’ve got who can hit Rod Beck, the Giants’ closer. I had to consider that this game could go into extra innings.

Brad brought this internal discourse to a rapid conclusion by ripping the first pitch into left for a game-winning hit. We poured out onto the field to congratulate him.

It was a great homecoming.

 

Jody Goldstein

While I was meeting the press, I just about embarrassed myself. After the TV guys left, I started to disrobe while talking to the print media. One of the reporters was Jody Goldstein of the Chronicle. I just about pulled my pants down right in front of her. I caught myself, and let my zipper linger at half-mast, playing it cool.

I am sure she has seen naked men in locker rooms and elsewhere, but I amused myself by being modest and nonchalant at the same time.

           

When I got home, Judy was fired up. She wasn’t sleepy at all. We sat on the porch and talked for a long time, then enjoyed a romantic interlude of rare sensuality. It was a night I will never forget.

But I know that when I wake up tomorrow, it will still be April — a long march from October.

RMJ 69 April 24

THURSDAY, APRIL 24 ● Off-day in Houston

Actually this day bled into the other somewhere along the west Loop in Houston, as the sun rose over the downtown skyline.

I was taking Cubby back to his house; he had slept a little on the plane. I had stayed awake. After dropping him off, I drove home and found Judy on the way out to take Ryan to school, so I read through the paper, hoping for a homemade breakfast before bed.

Rudy Tomjanovich

Dale Robertson wrote a column in the Chronicle about me and Rockets head coach Rudy Tomjanovich, which I read with much relish. It was quite flattering, and it made me feel oddly heroic in the early dawn. Our success to date has been wonderful, but it’s way too soon to be predicting greatness. Dale is a good writer, and he crafted this piece well, as he often does. The vibrations on the team, and in the city, are hard to ignore. It is gratifying, to say the least.

I had to settle for a heated croissant and some light conversation when Judy returned from her morning jog. She sure looked great. How she does that in the morning, fresh out of bed, I’ll never know, but I love her for it — and so many other things.

Life is so good, I had to read myself to sleep at 8 a.m.

 

When I awoke, I paid some bills and read through the mail. Half the day was already spent.

I had lunch and did a little writing before Ryan came home from school. He was going to play baseball at 6:00, so I threw him some balls to catch for warmups. His team was slaughtered by the best team in the league, the Outlaws.

Afterward, we hustled over to the Summit for the Rockets’ first playoff game with the Timberwolves. It was no contest, as the Rockets had too much muscle for the young Wolves. 

           

I guess our good start has been duly noted. Many people offered congratulations on it. One of them was sitting right behind me at the basketball game, and he just about drove us crazy. This guy was so loud and so hyped-up that he could have won a talking contest hands-down.

And it wasn’t just the steady stream of verbiage that was so impressive: He was extremely loud and well-informed. This was no obnoxious drunk we were dealing with; this was a rabid fan.

Clyde Drexler shoots a 3

When the Wolves picked up their fourth team foul in the first quarter, he started yelling stuff like, “Drive the lane. C’mon now, take it to the hoop. Draw the foul, get in the penalty and make them pay. Shoot ’em down at the line. C’mon, lets go! No, no, Clyde [Drexler], don’t shoot the three now! We got to get that foul.”

When the Rockets took time out, he didn’t. “Hey, how about those Astros, Larry D? How ’bout that Billy Wagner? No one can hit the guy. He’s unhittable. Way to go with Donne Wall. Can’t wait to see him! The guy is a winner. Way to go, Larry D! The Rockets are going all the way, and so are the Astros!

This stream-of-consciousness ramble continued unabated throughout the game. Well, I can’t speak for the last five minutes, as the Rockets led by 20 when we left — to give our ears a break.

I assume he had enough left to go the distance; the Rockets did. They won by 17.

 

When we got home, Judy and Ryan hit the sack. I needed the extra sleep myself, but I wasn’t the least bit tired. I sat up reading for a couple of hours, and pulled the shades on the off-day at 2 a.m.

RMJ 68 April 23

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23 ● San Diego, vs Padres

I’m not really superstitious, but just in case, I had coffee and croissants at the same place this morning. Instead of going to the shopping center, I went to the Cuban Cigar Factory on the advice of our visiting clubhouse attendant, Bob Doty.

This is my kind of factory: hands-on, no electricity. Just good tobacco, good Cuban hands, wooden racks, and round blades.

The shop features only two brands of cigar: one import and one handmade on the premises.

Cigar accessories are available at reasonable prices, and there are cigar magazines and local newspapers for those who wish to smoke on the premises. A paper demitasse of strong self-serve coffee is 25 cents. 

I thought it would be a good idea to try before buying, so I purchased a Maduro-wrapped Robusto and sat down with my coffee and a cigar magazine featuring Joe Torre on the cover. I couldn’t help but daydream about winning the World Series like Joe and smoking cigars all along the way.

 

I slept a lot better last night, and I felt good enough to take a post-smoke run along the waterfront. The breeze was refreshing, and the scenery was delightful. The passing parade of humanity, the strong odor of the fish market, the many flowering plants and trees, the lure of the sea — all these things made the drudgery of running seem almost pleasant.

Some people jog; I lumber. It is not a pretty sight. But it is part of the passing parade.

           

When I got back to the hotel, I had voicemail from Gerry. We need a pitcher for Tuesday, and Sid isn’t even close to being ready. We are going to bring Donne Wall back, and put Sid on the disabled list.

This is not a big deal to me, but to Gerry and The Perfessor, it is classified information, and they want it conveyed to the players in a timely manner and released to the press thereafter.

Gerry is especially sensitive about these things. He wants everything choreographed just so. I think he learned this out of necessity in New York.

           

We had early batting practice again today. Late batting practice too. For the second consecutive night, we teed off on Padres pitchers. This time we had to hit to win.

Mike Hampton was not sharp, and he didn’t get much help. We made four errors behind him, and he gave up five unearned runs in just over four innings. 

Though we were behind at several intervals, we were never out of the game. We were able to nick Joey Hamilton for the first time in a long time. He has had a sore shoulder, and I’m sure he can throw better, but he was still throwing 93-94 MPH with good movement.

 

I thought I blew it in the first inning; I was more upset with myself than I have been all year. I didn’t really make a major error — I just didn’t follow my instinct in the when we had runners on first and second with no outs, and Bagwell batting.

The count went to 3-2 and Bill asked me if I wanted to run. I said, “Yes.” Hamilton was slow to the plate, and I thought we might get a double-steal, even if Bagwell struck out.

We ran, and Baggy fouled the ball off.

“Run again?” Bill asked.

“Sure,” I said, mechanically. Then I felt a bad vibration, but I couldn’t elucidate it. The scene played out before my eyes, and I understood my premonition — too late.

Padres second baseman Quilvio Veras held Biggio closer at second. Hamilton knew he would be running.

If I were pitching to Bagwell, I thought, I would try to strike him out and get the double play on the throw to third. If I walked him, I would try for the double play against Derek Bell. What I would not do is serve up a pitch to hit with the runners moving.

Well, Hamilton must have read my mind, because he threw Bagwell a changeup, and a beauty.

“I can’t believe he threw a changeup,” Bagwell told me later. “He never throws me a changeup.”

Bagwell struck out. Biggio was thrown out. Bell made out. And we came away empty.

 

Between innings, I told Virdon of my thoughts. Bill is very aggressive when it comes to offense. He likes to let players swing 3-0 and run 3-1. I generally favor these strategies myself: keep the pressure on them. He told me he would have done the same thing.

In this instance with Bagwell, my instincts said no and I said yes.

Still, in this instance with Bagwell, my instincts said no and I said yes. Generally speaking, I take the aggressive tack when I think the odds are 50/50.  Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t. 

That’s baseball. 

I knew that Bagwell was 1-for-10 against Hamilton; I also knew that Hamilton is no control pitcher. And Bagwell usually doesn’t bite on borderline pitches. He would likely walk, moving the runners without risk. A ground ball is also likely when Hamilton is pitching. If we didn’t run, he could hit into a double play. A double-play ball was roughly a one-in-seven possibility in this situation.

I asked Bagwell what he was thinking, and he said he liked the runners moving.

“Most of the time, I can make contact or get a walk. I can do some damage with the runners on the move,” he said.

It seemed that no one thought there was any question about running in this situation — except me.

Maybe I will follow my instincts more closely as I go along.

 

The game proceeded from that point into a war of attrition. Bruce Bochy was still without two of his best players, Caminiti and Finley. But we made four errors, and Mike Hampton was wild.

We scored four runs off Hamilton, but Hampton didn’t last five innings.

Archi Cianfrocco

During the first four innings, two of our players were injured. Bill Spiers was taken out at third as he tried for a double play on a bunt-play force at third. It was a beautiful execution of the play, but Archi Cianfrocco was quick enough to trip Spiers at the bag and twist Billy’s knee. He was down on the ground for a long time, but he continued playing.

When we came up, Hamilton hit Abreu on the side of the knee with a 93 MPH fastball. Bobby was down longer but he, too, continued.

These two incidents seemed to get us fired up, and I felt good about our chances. The errors on the infield were tough, as the ball came at our fielders like a Mexican jumping bean. The tricky hops nipped our infielders, inflicting minor damage.

They also frustrated Hampton, who was out of whack to begin with. When he tried three times and failed to get a bunt down, one of the fans behind the dugout started yelling at him; Mike yelled back.

I waited a minute and went to talk to him.

“Let it go,” I said. “You have to refocus. Forget the fans, forget the bunt, forget the errors, the umpires, everything. You can still win this game.”

Too bad we made another error, and then he walked the pitcher and I had to take him out.

 

In the top of the sixth, Biggio slid hard into Cianfrocco at third when he didn’t really have to. I thought we were going to have a fight right there, but Archi took it stoically. Later, I made a couple of switches to get Spiers and Abreu out of the game so they could ice their injuries.

I was talking to home plate umpire Joe West and said, “this isn’t a game, it’s a war.”

“Yeah, what the hell got into Biggio?” he said. “That was a clean play on Spiers. He would have done the same thing.”

“I know, Joe,” I said. “But he’s a red ass, just like you.” Joe laughed.

“You’re probably right,” he said.

Fortunately The Chief, Ramón Garcia, pitched better than Hampton. We continued the assault. We chased Hamilton and his replacement, Tim Worrell.

Bagwell delivered the coup de gras with a three-run homer off Tim Scott. And when I brought John Hudek in in the ninth to get some work, we were up 11-6. Hudek gave up a homer to Greg Vaughn, and when the next batter reached, I had Wagner get up and throw easily.

Hudek retired the next batter, and in the end, it was another game that I mostly just watched. I have learned to appreciate this variety, though I know these are not the games we have to win to have a great year.

They do give us the feeling, however, that we are a pretty good ballclub.  For now, that’s enough.

Afterward, Hudek asked me if he saw Wagner getting up.

“Yes,” I said. “You weren’t close to coming out, but I wasn’t going to let this game get away.”

I am getting tired of Hudek’s constant criticism of my bullpen management.

He just shrugged, and I didn’t have to get into another long conversation with him, but I am getting tired of his constant criticism of my bullpen management. I don’t know if he is insecure or just greedy, but he seems to need more stroking than the rest of the players.

If it is insecurity, I can handle it. If it is greed, I will eventually have to say something harsh. I know it is his first arbitration year, and he has never made big money. But if he continues the way he is going, he will have 20 or more saves at the end of the year. True, Billy may have more, but John will still be due a hefty raise.

I don’t want players who think more about their salaries than they do about the team. But there will always be greedy players; that much I know. My hunch is that John is mostly insecure and only a little greedy. Time will tell.

We had to fly out of the Naval Air Station after the game because of the late hour. Turns out they will not allow food, luggage, fuel, and passengers to be loaded onto the plane simultaneously. Each was loaded separately, so we had to sit on the buses for half an hour.

It was a long day.

RMJ 67 April 22

TUESDAY, APRIL 22 ● San Diego, vs Padres

Tonight I go wet. Didn’t sleep worth a darn last night. Too hot. Mind racing. Bizarre dreams. When I finally looked at the clock for the last time, it was 3:30 and I had been in bed since midnight.

I awoke at 8:00, feeling fine. Had some French roast coffee and a couple of croissants, and read the paper sitting outside by the yacht club.

At 9:15 I walked to Horton Plaza to shop around. I was looking for some summery, barefoot shoes; a nice bottle of wine or two; and perhaps a cigar.

I got to the mall half an hour before the stores opened, and I did some window-shopping to pass the time. I seemed to grow more weary with each stride, and by the time the doors opened, I had lost my appetite for shopping.

I did find the shoes I was seeking at Nordstrom’s. They were “only” $170, but since that was more than $100 too much for me, I declined.

I didn’t have that problem with the wine.

I suppose I would be better shod if I thought as much of my feet as I do my taste buds and my nocturnal disposition. I know an army moves on its feet, but I don’t do combat anymore.

I guess I would go barefoot before I would spend $170 on casual shoes. If it weren’t so uncivilized, I would probably go barefoot a lot.

I did find another Hawaiian shirt. Well, kind of. It’s really more of a bowling shirt, in terms of the fabric. It has two front pockets and is embroidered on the back with a sexy lady surrounded by the words “Tommy Bahama Cigar Club, Relax.”           

I did not need this shirt, and it cost one-third as much as the shoes, but I couldn’t resist. Nor could I resist three bottles of wine at the Wine Bank.

I don’t mind being astray. I rather like it sometimes. Getting lost can be an adventure.

A more-reasonable man would have come away with the shoes, without spending much more money. I suppose it is the romantic that resides somewhere between my brain and my belly that leads me astray. But I don’t mind being astray. I rather like it sometimes. Getting lost can be an adventure.

I had some raspberry frozen yogurt on the way back to the hotel. I was hoping to take a short run, but my heart wasn’t in it. Instead, I lazily read our scouting report on the Padres and perused the statistical information that might help me form a lineup. Mac called about 1:00 and said there would be extra hitting at 2:40. Hoping I would feel more energetic at the ballpark, I decided to go out and join in the fun. Vern called and said they would be leaving at 1:30. I decided to go along.

Looking back, I believe this was a tactical error on my part. I was just as logy at the ballpark as I had been all day. All I did was stand around the batting cage and shoot the shit. If I had stayed back, the waterfront breezes may have lured me into a little jogging. As it was, I didn’t get any exercise at all.

 

As we came off the field, I learned that the Padres were going to flip-flop their pitchers for the series. Fernando Valenzuela would open, and Joey Hamilton would follow.

I was glad to hear it. Fernando is still a tough foe, but we have not been able to hit Hamilton at all. With Shane Reynolds going for us, we had an excellent chance to win the opener, and thereby guarantee a winning road trip.

That’s exactly how it played out, but I never would have guessed it during the first three innings, which were scoreless.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I could have fallen asleep during the first hour of the game. From my vantage point, the players on both teams looked the way I felt: sluggish.

Fernando was slow, but he was jamming our hitters. Shane, who normally throws his fastball 87-90 MPH, was topping out at 87. Still, the hitters were swinging late.

The Padres scored first, on a single by Tony Gwynn. But we countered with a four-run inning, courtesy of sloppy Padres fielding. After that, we were never seriously threatened.

After each inning, Shane complained about feeling lifeless. I knew the feeling. And the Padres, coming off a time-warping trip to play the Cardinals in Hawaii, seemed dead too.

After we got the lead, things changed. We started swinging the bats and making the plays. It turned out to be an easy 12-3 win.

 

Afterward, I felt livelier. But honestly, I didn’t feel in any way responsible for the victory. There were few moves to make; I just watched the game, like any other fan.

Art Howe

It brought to mind something Art Howe told me this winter: “Sometimes, with the DH, I don’t feel like I have anything to do. I almost feel guilty about taking my salary, because all I do is watch the game.”

This is an exaggeration, of course. There is preparation in simply filling out the lineup card, and the game can play out as this one did, in which case filling out the card is enough. Most of the time, it is like it was for us in LA, where every change in the count has you on the edge of your seat, pondering a strategic option.

           

After the game, I was smoking a cigar in the shower when Luis Gonzalez came in cleanshaven and announced that he was a new man, and that his slump was behind him. Without the Van Dyke, he looked downright youthful.

I am not worried about his slump; I have seen him slump before. When he comes out of it, it will be with a vengeance.

“You got any more of those cigars?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “But I will tomorrow.”

 

We have really been lucky with the schedule so far. When we played the Cardinals, a few of their frontline players were injured. Now we are playing a Padres team that is without MVP Ken Caminiti and star centerfielder Steve Finley.

The media keeps asking me about our success in the early going against so many playoff teams. My attitude is that we will have to play each team the same number of games anyway, so we might as well play them now — especially when they are undermanned.

The only player we have been missing is Sean Berry, and he came back tonight and had an outstanding game — at bat and in the field.

If I could have drawn up the schedule in February, I would never have arranged it this way. As it turns out, it couldn’t play out any better.

What does that mean in the long run? Not much. We still have 143 games left to play, and there will be times when we can’t beat the Phillies or the Pirates.

This fast start is great for attendance, and for getting the naysayers off my back. Otherwise, it doesn’t mean a whole lot. If we have an August like we had in 1995 (9-20), there is no way we can win our division. If we play August and September the way we did in 1986 (34-21), no one can stop us.

RMJ 66 April 21

MONDAY, APRIL 21 ● Off day in San Diego

When I saw Vern in the lobby this morning, he informed me that he had not slept well at all. I slept like a baby, and was feeling fine as we boarded the minivan that Dave Labossiere rented to take us to Torrey Pines for our first off-day golf outing of the year.

I cannot think of a better place to enjoy a day off than San Diego. It was a little foggy in the morning and never really did get sunny, but the mild breeze chased the fog out of the canyons and left us with a delightfully cool-and-cloudy day.

1997 GBB

I made sure I was on the same cart with Cubby, as I was eager to hit his Great Big Bertha driver again. Now I want one. It wasn’t that I hit the ball so far today; he outdrove me on almost every hole. But I did hit it far enough — and more importantly, straight enough — to have a shot at almost every green.

I played the irons well-enough to avoid my major weakness — chipping — and ended up shooting 78 from the back tees.  I was purposely trying not to figure my score as we closed in on 18; I knew I had a chance to break 80 for the first time since my thumb injury.

Even not counting, I knew I was on pace and did the typical, “I’m not really this good,” choke on 17 and 18. I hit one in the water on the par-3 17th, but salvaged a bogey with a 12-foot putt. Then I ruined a good drive on 18 with two mishits, leaving myself in a trap. This time I missed a 12-footer, but still made bogey.

It was a great day.

When we totaled up the bets over lunch, Cubby and I made a clean sweep. Naturally, we bought lunch to even things out.

Bill and Vern played in our foursome, and Dave, Jim Deshaies, Vince Cotroneo, and our television producer John Quigley Reynolds made up the other.

The ballplayers went to Del Mar Country Club, where the bets were undoubtedly higher.

Writing that reminds me of an off-day in Chicago, my rookie year. The veterans invited me to go to Sportsman’s Park for the horse races. They rented a limo and stopped for provisions at a liquor store. We dined in the clubhouse, and continued wagering and drinking until our meal money was gone.

We had to take public transportation back to the city — and it was the first stop on a three-city trip.

I had a similar experience with casinos when I played winter ball in the Dominican Republic in 1967. Since that time, I have done very little gambling, except on the golf course. I especially avoid bets that favor the “house.” The way I look at it, they’re not in business to lose money.

Gambling on the golf course is different; most of the time, your success or failure is directly related to your own performance. This type of betting is stimulating. It makes you concentrate more, and usually play better.

It is ironic, I suppose, that I now play uncertain odds on other people’s abilities every day. So far, I have been lucky. When we have hit-and-run, the batter has always made contact. When we tried a squeeze play in the Dodgers series, the batter fouled the ball off. Our success rate on steals has been fair. And our decisions on pitching changes have really paid dividends.

I know there will come a time when our luck will change. Like players, I have noticed that managers are prone to streaks and slumps. You may look like a genius for weeks on end, but the inevitable slump will catch you unaware, just when you are getting full of yourself.

The secret is to have long streaks and short slumps. That’s easy to say, and not so easy to do.

The best insurance against long slumps is good players. I continue to believe that we have enough talent to win if I don’t try to play Napoleon and overestimate my own importance.

           

When we got back from the golf course, I took a luxurious nap, a baptismal shower, and a long walk. The sun set on San Diego Bay like a satin gown.

I passed several homeless men along the way, and I gave them each a dollar. Years ago, I explained to my friend Bill Greif that I never gave money to beggars, because the beggars outnumbered my dollars. Bill was a pitcher with the Padres, and he was known for his beanball tactics. I am sure many of the hitters he strafed would have been surprised to hear him say, “I just give what I can.” 

“They’ll probably just buy some cheap wine,” I said.

“Maybe so,” he replied. “But at least there is joy in the giving.”

Since that time, I have followed his advice, and have found it rewarding.

It occurred to me that the beggars are like autograph-seekers at the ballpark: they seldom get what they want or need. As a ballplayer, you cannot possibly fulfill every request, but you can share communion from time to time and acknowledge a common bond.

 

I took my new book Pig Earth to Sally’s restaurant and had seared tuna over mushroom risotto. I read of the ritual slaughter of a pig by a peasant family in France as I lingered over this exquisite meal.

Most of the time, I am gregarious. But sometimes I enjoy a little solitude. Most of the time, I have a few drinks. Tonight, I go dry.

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