Author: Larry Dierker

SUNDAY, MARCH 2 ● Kissimmee, vs Kansas City

We opened at home today. Everyone was pumped to wear the white uniforms and trot it out there. I was a bit disconsolate, however. My lefthanded-hitting utility infielder, Bill Spiers, dove for a ball at Winter Haven and hurt his shoulder.

This is exactly how Sean Berry hurt himself last year. Berry sustained a slight tear of the rotator cuff, and he played in pain all season. At first, Spiers’ injury was thought to be less severe. But when he couldn’t lift his arm yesterday, he was injected with cortisone.

I am quite familiar with the cortisone shot. By the end of my pitching days, my shoulder had been punctured more times than a pin cushion.

Usually there is soreness from the shot the next day, but some relief from the injury. Billy had no relief, only pain. He is one of only a few left-handed hitters on our roster, and his bat and versatile glove are precious.

But ever since his second year as the Brewers’ regular shortstop, he has been hurt. A chronic back problem has dogged him for the last five years. Now this. I’m holding out hope that he will still get better. If it’s not a tear, he should be improved tomorrow.

           

During the off-season, we picked up Sid Fernandez. El Sid’s had had enough elbow and knee injuries to keep an orthopedic surgeon in business. Now he has another ailment, which turned up when the team took physicals last weekend.

It started with an irregularity on his cardiogram. That, combined with a blood pressure reading of 180/100, had our trainer in a Red Alert mode. He instructed Sid not to work out until further tests could be arranged.

Next thing you know, there’s El Sid, working out. Seems everyone is disturbed about this except the patient. If he really does have a heart problem, we need another starter. I believe Chris Holt is ready, but he might be able to help us in the bullpen if Sid can make the call.

That was not exactly the way I wanted to start my day.

           

When Bob Boone and I met with the umpires before the game, Bob asked to play the bottom of the ninth, even if we were leading. National League umpire Jeff Kellogg approved the request, and he offered to stay the extra half-inning. That was refreshing, after the treatment we had been getting from the junior-circuit arbiters.

While I was at home plate with the lineup cards, Boone asked me about a mutual friend, Bob Gallagher. Gallagher and Boone were teammates at Stanford, and I roomed with Bob for two years with the Astros.

It was kind of nice to know that you can relax and visit with the other manager and the umps. The first two days, I was too nervous to say much. But this time I was downright loquacious. I asked Boone about Mike Magnante, a lefty who pitched for the Royals last year.

“Mike was a decent pitcher for us last year,” Boone said. “But his problem is that he can’t get lefthanders out. They hit about .340 off him last year, and if they weren’t hitting him, he walked them. His best pitch is a screwball, and that gives righthanders a lot of trouble. But we needed someone to come in and get a lefthander out.”

Unfortunately, so do we. But I’ll try to keep an open mind. Maybe we can sneak up on a few teams before they find out.

I can see it now: the other team has three lefty hitters in a row. I bring in Magnante from the bullpen, and they pinch-hit with three righties.

Naw, I could never get that lucky.

 

We played bombs-away again today. Richard Hidalgo has only been retired once this spring; he’s on fire. And Derek Bell hit a long home run to give us an 8-5 lead in the seventh. But the Royals came back with two in the eighth, and we failed to score.

I brought in Tom Martin, a young lefthander, to protect the one-run lead. This is what you look for in spring training: a chance to test a young man, who is a candidate for the team, in a pressure situation. Martin came through like a champ: 1-2-3. He had a smile as broad as a longhorn steer as he came off the field in a swell of teammates.

“Well, now, I’m a .667 manager,” I told our beat writer Carlton Thompson, as we walked toward the clubhouse together. “That ought to shut you up.”

 

We shared a laugh. Winning is so wonderful. I guess that was the internal message I was hearing as I interviewed for this job. I think it was Joe Torre who said something like, “winning makes the beer taste better, your wife look prettier, and your jokes seem funnier.” There’s nothing like it.

The only thing that took the edge off was that I felt inept again. I know I can do this job, but I wonder how long it’s going to take.

 

Deron Snyder was here again today. He wants to meet me at my watering hole, The Big Bamboo Lounge. I guess he wants a little background atmosphere. Not a bad idea. And if it’s atmosphere he’s seeking, he’ll find it there. The only way I can explain it is to say that you feel like you are entering a time warp.

The place is right on Highway 192 — the most crassly commercial strip I have ever seen. This road leads into Disney World but is not on the Disney property. It offers a cacophony of neon lights, featuring motels, T-shirt shops, one-hour-photo stands, and factory outlets. There are more factory outlets on this ten-mile strip than there are factories in the state of Florida. The one I like the best is the Shell Factory Outlet. I wonder where the shells are made?

But the Bamboo, well, let’s just say it’s an outlet of a different kind — a little hole-in-the-wall. A dirt parking lot, with large declivities that fill with water every time it rains. A cinderblock house converted in a lounge so serene that I have never heard anyone so much as raise their voice in all the years I’ve been a customer.

When you walk in through the screen door, the strains of big-band music greet you. Thousands of artifacts grab your eyeballs in a dizzying trip back through time and across many tropical lands. You feel like you have stepped into a bar in the South Pacific during World War II.

Several years ago, when the proprietor, Bruce Muir, turned 70, I wrote a song about it:

           

            There’s a crazy little bar down in Kissimmee

            Hunkered down in the shadow of Walt Disney

            Well, I’ve been all around and I’m telling you

            There ain’t no place like The Big Bamboo

           

            Oh Big Bamboo, I’m so bamboozled

            By your Island charm

            And your big-band music

            By your artifacts

            Odd and amusing

            C’mon let’s go

            Let’s go Bamboozing

 

            Yes, I’ve been all around and I’m telling you

            There ain’t no place like The Big Bamboo

 

            Oh Big Bamboo, ever so humble

            You’re my hideaway

            In the neon jungle

            And your clientele

            Odd and amusing

            C’mon let’s go

            Let’s go Bamboozing

 

            There’s a crazy little bar down in Kissimmee

            Hunkered down in the shadow of Walt Disney

            Well, I’ve been all around and I’m telling you

            There ain’t no place like The Big Bamboo

            No, there ain’t no place like The Big Bamboo

            My Magic Kingdom is The Big Bamboo

 

            I met Deron there, and he liked it plenty, I could tell. Most everyone does, unless their shirts are starched and stuffed. But who wants those stiffs in there anyway?

SATURDAY, MARCH 1 ● Baseball City, vs Kansas City

I can’t believe the weather. Day after day since February 16, it has been sunny and warm.

This was another beautiful baseball day, at a place called Baseball City. When the Royals moved here, it was with an ambitious master plan for a combination amusement park and stadium.

The midway fell first. It just couldn’t grow in the massive shadow of the Disney empire. And I suppose a lyrical view might have it that the gods were angered at the Royals. Not only had they defied the entertainment deity, they had also blasphemed the sport. How in the world could the Royals — a sixth-generation ballclub — have the audacity to name their spring training home Baseball City?

Sure, they had been a first-rate team for a decade or so, making several trips to postseason play and winning one world championship. But Baseball City in central Florida? C’mon.

Alexander Cartwright had Hawaiians playing baseball before it ever reached the Sunshine State. The Royals couldn’t even coax their own loyal fans to visit Baseball City in great numbers.

It is an excellent facility, but it was doomed from the start. Homer would call it hubris. I would say it is typical of modern baseball folly: a monument to overarching optimism. A stadium in the middle of nowhere, with no Shoeless Joe, no Kevin Costner to deliver it. No, this is not a Field of Dreams. But it was the scene of my first victory as a manager.           

           

Before the game, Gerry came down to the field with some bad news. He had discussed the beer issue with Tal, and Tal blew a gasket. He wouldn’t even entertain the thought of beer on the plane going to another city. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t drink much; because he doesn’t want to broach the subject with Drayton; or whether it stems from his close relationship with Bill Virdon.

Bill told me that the only real trouble he ever had as a manager was when the team had beer on the plane. I understood what he was saying, because I’ve seen it myself: broken seats, crying flight attendants, fighting teammates, cursing at coaches. I’ve seen it all. I’ve also seen a team handle the beer situation sensibly when told they would all lose the privilege if one of them screwed up.

My intent was not to bring enough beer for someone to get tanked. If they did that, it would probably be on their own stash. In that case, I would not have a problem with discipline. But my feeling is that the players would handle the offender themselves.

If the players are allowed beer, I can come back and have one with them and talk a little baseball. If not, I have to hide out up front, because I know they will be drinking anyway. Like I said, I’ve seen it both ways — many times, both ways.

Gerry understands where I’m coming from, because he has been on teams himself. Tal has not. Neither has Drayton.

“Tal said that if a guy can’t take a two-hour plane trip without needing a drink, he’s got a drinking problem.” Gerry said.

“I’ve heard that one before, too,” I replied. “And you know what? They are going to bring their own anyway. And if I have to bust them, I will compromise my own position and the camaraderie of the team. It’s a lose-lose situation.”

“We just won’t have a rule.” Gerry said. “We won’t provide it; we won’t prohibit it.”

“You know the thing that gets me most about this, Gerry? It’s the fact that if a guy really does have a problem, I’ll probably find out about it if I’m back there, and maybe we can help him. Some of these guys will bring it on, no matter what. Most of them are fine with it, but some really do have a problem.

“And you know what? Some of the best players I’ve ever seen have had that problem. And you know what? There are lots of different kinds of problems. We can’t solve the drinking problems with a rule. But we can create some other problems for ourselves with that rule. That’s what bugs me.

“If we get off to a good start, the team chemistry will develop, no matter what. But if we don’t, we’re going to have to circle the wagons. And we’re going to have a tough time doing it with a cooler of Gatorade.”

“I hear you,” he said. “But this is a battle we can’t win.”

“Well then, why doesn’t Tal come down and manage the team?”

“C’mon, you know better than that.”

 “I know. I like Tal, and he probably was the one who got me this job. But now that I have it, I want it to be just right. I want it to be my vision of a team — not somebody else’s.”

 “I hear you. There’s just not much we can do.”

 I suppose the only thing that will make things better is winning.

 

I sure felt better after the game than before. Once again, the pitching was shaky. But the hitters came back to life. Biggio hit a three-run homer, we played a reasonably crisp game afield, and we won.

When the last out was made, the players from the field came in as the players from the dugout went out. There was a convergence of high-fives, and for the first time I could really feel warmth from the team. I was congratulated with some real honest smiles, some handshakes, and a few pats on the back. I know it was only a practice game, but the win sure felt good.

I thought I played my cards pretty well. I was patient, didn’t try any gimmicks; just let the players play, and they performed well.

           

When I got back to my townhome, I strapped on the jogging shoes and went for a run. There’s a dirt road nearby, just off the main highway. It weaves through some orange groves, and the fruit is in blossom. As I lumbered along, several dogs charged out to protect their homesteads. I didn’t mind stopping to let them sniff me. I never mind stopping when I’m jogging. But I didn’t mind jogging today, and that’s unusual for me.

With the win and the warm, fragrant breeze, I was at peace. I wondered how often I would be able to say that in the coming months.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 28 ● Winter Haven, vs Cleveland

The injury list has doubled now. Still nothing serious, besides Gutierrez; just a lot of assorted aches and pains. Seems just like I remember it from my playing days: no matter how much you work out before you get to Spring Training, you still get sore.

The hitters won the battle for the fourth consecutive day. This is a little discouraging. You can win without great hitting, but you cannot win without good pitching.

Shane Reynolds started today at Winter Haven, and he pitched reasonably well for two innings. Mike Hampton ran into some bad luck with bloopers and choppers, then threw up a windblown homer. José Lima, who came over with Ausmus in our big offseason trade with the Tigers, tried too hard to impress, got everything up, and had a horrible first inning. We lost the game 9-2 as the Indians staff shut down our hitters for the first time all spring.

I kept the scorecard for a souvenir, but I’m not sure I’ll save it.

  

 

I lost my first big-league start too, and I had a decent career. And I’m not so sure I wasn’t a better pitcher on my 18th birthday than I was a manager at 50. I am certain that I know enough baseball to manage, but this game was illuminating. It’s not going to be so easy at ground level as it was in the broadcast booth.

For one thing, the movement of the players to-and-fro, and the dugout conversations, interrupted my internal dialogue. I found it hard to concentrate. I was late getting signs to Cubby and to our catchers. I was afraid of making a mistake on a double-switch.

These maneuvers seem elementary when you are not distracted. But when the distractions are combined with considerations like this guy can’t run and this other guy can’t play in the field but can hit, it creates a rather intricate web of possibilities. I did not feel particularly adroit in weaving these strands into a neat design.

Oh well, they say that you are going to win 54 games, lose 54, and the other 54 will decide your fate. This was not one of those that I could have changed. And at least it’s a start.

           

I was glad to see Mickey Herskowitz after the game. Mickey is one of the class acts among sportswriters. He’s been at it so long that he covered my pitching debut when he was a young-but-already-veteran writer.

He asked me some questions about starting as a player and now as a manager; insightful questions that begged personal expression. I told him that I felt inadequate, and immediately thought that it was too strong a word. But I also thought that it was an honest description of my feelings. And I certainly hoped that I wouldn’t have to use that word again.

Maybe I won’t, but I have a sense that this job is going to be more difficult than I anticipated — and I thought it was going to be difficult.

Gerry came by my office in Kissimmee after the bus got back. He was curious as to how I felt, and I told him the same thing I told Mickey. He laughed, and I immediately felt better.

Gerry is an intensely competitive man. But he also has a disarmingly sensitive side. He can be tough, and he can also be understanding. I’m sure I will see both sides as we go along.

 

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 26 ● Kissimmee

My son Ryan turned 12 today. I was becoming so consumed with the events in Kissimmee that I forgot his birthday. Luckily, I called later on and was able to act like I remembered.

I wasn’t so lucky with Judy’s birthday the week before. The kids forgot her too, so she turned 51 in relative anonymity. I’m planning to make it up later in a big way, but it won’t be quite the same. I must say she took the snub well.

She is the best, period.

 

This morning at our staff meeting, I got some negative feedback.

“The players don’t like hitting off the machine,” Alan Ashby said.

“That’s because it was throwing lefthanded breaking balls and they weren’t hitting it that well,” said Tom McCraw. “They may not like it, but it’s good for them.”

I was more concerned with the total package. Because the players were only getting three game-type at-bats, I wanted them to feel they were getting enough regular batting practice to satisfy them.

“Do we have enough dead arms to accommodate them?” I asked. (Dead arms are coaches who don’t throw very hard.)

We started taking inventory. The previous day, most of the coaches watched the stimulated game. A few didn’t really have to be there. It turned out we could throw to the extra players, and I decided that we should. I think most of the staff was in agreement.

And so our drill was further refined.

           

Gerry came up during the game and mentioned that we had not come up with a decision on family trips for the year. Normally a team will allow players’ families to accompany the team on one or two trips. This requires a larger airplane and an extra bus.

Because I come from the old school, I do not generally favor family trips. It is my opinion that we are on business when we travel, and we do not need distractions. But I tend to be flexible on such matters; realistic may be a better word. I told Gerry I would feel out the players and let him know something by the end of the day.

The consensus was that we should allow the kids to come along at least once. I picked a trip to Chicago where we have three day games and one night game, and come back home. That way the players wouldn’t wear themselves out taking the kids to the zoo and the movies and shopping, etc. before the game. It seemed a good compromise.

I also picked a trip to Denver and San Francisco for wives only. Two good cities, but a tough trip travelwise. Sometimes it is good for the wives to get a firsthand view of life on the road. They generally come back worn out, and they realize that when their husbands go on the road, it is not a paid vacation.

           

The stimulated game went well, with the hitters laying waste to the pitchers once again. On the other field, the batting practice was more to their liking as well. It resembled a home-run derby.

           

Got some bad news today. Our fine backup infielder, Ricky Gutierrez, will be lost to us for two months. He dove for a ball yesterday and ripped a ligament off the side of his thumb. He had surgery in Houston today.

This may seem like a minor problem, because he will miss only one month of the season. But he is an important player in the scheme of things, because he can play shortstop well enough to start for a month or two if Pat Listach gets hurt.

We do have Luis Rivera, and a good prospect by the name of Russ Johnson. Rivera is adequate, but not in Gutierrez’ class; Johnson is being moved to third base this year, because his range is not great. That was the problem with Orlando Miller, so we don’t want to get into that bind again.

If Listach plays well, we could slide by until Ricky gets ready. But even that is troublesome. Sometimes a setback at the start of the year can affect a player all season long. He tries to come back when he is physically sound, but he is not up with the league from a baseball-sharpness standpoint.

It’s not as if we had lost Bagwell or Biggio, but it is the first real obstacle we have to overcome.

Outfielders Thomas Howard and Ray Montgomery were hurt today too. Neither injury is considered serious, but with Ken Ramos, another outfielder, down with a sore hamstring, we are getting a little shorthanded in the outer garden.

It has been warm every day — almost hot. I sense the players beginning to drag just a little. One more day of practice, and we start playing some other teams. Maybe that will lift the spirits some.

 

Speaking of spirits, I was on our offseason radio talk show tonight. It originated at the ESPN club at Disney World. Jim Deshaies, who will be taking my place in the broadcast booth, was alongside Milo Hamilton.

After the show, Jamie Hildreth, Deshaies, and I went to Fantasy Island, Disney’s version of Nightclub Row. This has become an annual pilgrimage, so I couldn’t really bow out. I did have to curb my thirst a bit, though, with the early workouts.

It wasn’t quite as freewheeling an affair as in years past, but I did finish with a fine cigar and a shot of Hennessy at the jazz club.

 

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 23 ● return to Houston

Sunday morning came nice and easy. I didn’t have to get to the ballpark at 7:30 a.m. Didn’t have to make any decisions. Didn’t have to drink and be sociable. Only had to make an 11 a.m. flight.

As it turned out, the airplane had a mechanical problem. I finally left at 3 p.m. on another plane. I didn’t really mind the delay, because I had the Sunday newspaper. It was the first paper I had read in two weeks, and it was a luxurious interlude.

I had given up reading the paper in Florida. I am a night owl by nature, and I could not fathom rising early enough to read the paper before leaving for the ballpark at 7:15. The first few days, I bought a paper and brought it with me to the ballpark. But I found people at the park wanting to talk about this and that each day, so the unopened paper stared me in the face, flat and unappealing, in the far-past-coffee hours of the late afternoon.

After those few days, I didn’t even try reading the paper; I just tried to catch what I could on television in the evening. It was an uneven compromise to be sure, but it would only last a month. Still, I perused that Sunday paper as if it were the last I would ever see.

 

My original plan was to go to the ballpark when I arrived in Florida, just to see how things went in my absence. But I arrived too late. I tried to call Cubby, and found that I had the wrong number. I called Vern, but he wasn’t home. I called Gerry, and he said things were fine as far as he knew, but he suggested that I call Cubby. Unfortunately, he had the same incorrect number.

Luckily, Cubby called me. After exchanging pleasantries regarding the wedding, we got back to baseball.

“About this ‘stimulated’ game,” he said. “How is it going to work?”

“Well, I thought we would just play one team against the other. Six outs at a time, like I suggested on the workout plan.”

“How are we going to do that with only six players on defense?” he asked.

“I thought we could fill in with coaches or pitchers,” I said.

“I don’t recommend we do that,” he replied in a tone of voice that was very convincing.

I backpedaled a bit, and I made a few suggestions. He offered a few of his own, but it was obvious that we would not come to a meeting of the minds on the phone.

“Why don’t I just meet you at 6:30 tomorrow, and we’ll see what we can come up with?” I suggested. He was amenable, and when I hung up the phone, I started figuring.

If the Rats hit first and we used the Dogs plus three Goats in the field, and continued mixing-and-matching until all four teams had a chance to hit and all the pitchers had a turn on the mound, it could still work.

I drew up an alternate plan and went to bed.

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20 ● Kissimmee

Sometimes, it seems, tomorrow never comes; sometimes it comes too fast. This morning, I awoke with a jolt: I had forgotten to set my alarm, and it was 7:15. I was due at the ballpark at 8:00 for a photo session with all of the coaches. What’s more, I had to meet with Gerry and Derek, and deliver my opening speech to the entire team.

Fortunately, the photos were to be taken in uniform, so I could wear a hat. My hair was a tangle — an abstract design. I had no time for a shower, so I dressed, donned a chapeau and fled for the ballpark. I got there just in time to suit up for the shoot. I took a little ribbing from the coaches as I threw on the uniform and dug the sleep from my eyes.

 After the photo session, I reviewed my speech as I waited for Derek to show up. When he finally got there, our staff meeting had already started. I took him upstairs to Gerry’s office. I was reluctant to make a stand on the helmet issue at this point, because it seemed to be a trivial thing. But I also realized that it could become a problem if other players followed suit.

I was relieved when Gerry took the initiative.

“I don’t want to make a big deal about this, because it’s not a big deal,” he said. “I do want you to think about this helmet thing, though, because the media have already asked me about it, and I don’t want to give them a reason to stir up trouble.”

Derek had a quizzical look on his face. I’m not sure he knew what Gerry was talking about. So Gerry continued:

“When they came to me about the helmet, I went in to look at it. I understand that Carmen is a little girl with no arms or legs.”

 “She’s a great little kid,” Derek said. “I saw here on The Maury Povich Show and I’m trying to get in touch with her. She doesn’t have any arms or legs, but she still has a great attitude. I hope I can find her so I can meet her and try to help her out.”

“That’s really nice, Derek,” Gerry said. “And I don’t have a problem with having her name on your helmet. It’s the Hendu thing that could come back to haunt us. And I want you to know it’s nothing personal. We all like Hendu. He’s a helluva guy. But since he’s not here anymore, the press might try to say that you have a problem with Tommy McCraw. I know that’s not what you had in mind, but I’m afraid it will get in the paper and start a controversy. If you want to remember Hendu, maybe you might want to put his name under the bill of the helmet or something.”

Derek started laughing. “Is that all it is?” he said, genuinely relieved. “I guess they shouldn’t have written it so big. I’ll take it off. It’s no big deal.”

 And so, the meeting was short — and for me, sweet. I didn’t have to say a thing.

 

When I got back into the staff meeting, it was breaking up. I never did catch up with the workout plan, but I was pleased with the reaction to my speech. The gist of what I said was that I felt we had a good ballclub; Gerry had given me a great deal of versatility with his off-season moves; and I thought we could win the division with good pitching and a little luck.

“But I have to tell you,” I said, “that you are the guys who will decide our fate. Everyone is making a big deal of me being manager, but whether I’m good or bad doesn’t make half as much difference as your performance.”

I went on to explain that I was not a strong disciplinarian, and that I expected the players to police themselves. I said that the official practice jerseys, which some of the players didn’t like to wear, would be worn during regular workouts and that players could wear whatever they wanted when they came out for early work or stayed late.

Then I got to the heart of the matter.

“I am not a puppeteer,” I said, “and I refuse to treat you guys like puppets.” I held my hands out, palms down, and wiggled my fingers. “In recent years you guys have probably taken signs from the dugout for practically every move you made on the field. This is the modern trend. But I don’t want to take your individuality away from you. Instead, I want you to express yourself fully as a ballplayer. I want you to be able to think on your feet, to understand situations, to know when to take a risk and when to play it safe.

“This may take some time, but I believe we have some smart guys in this room and that we will ultimately have a better team if everyone plays heads-up rather than heads-in-the-dugout baseball. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

No one raised a hand.

“Okay, that’s good. Now I would like you meet the staff.

“Jim Duquette is our Director of Minor League Operations, and he will introduce you to some guys who will be working the big-league camp with us this spring.”

Jim gave each of the minor-league staff members a brief introduction. Then I turned the meeting over to our trainer, Dave Labossiere. Dave talked to the players about wearing helmets, shin guards, thumb guards, and the like. He then explained the procedure regarding using the training room for treatment of injuries.

Then I took the floor to introduce the big-league coaches.

“First, let me tell you about two guys we stole from the Mets,” I said.

“Mike Cubbage is our new third-base coach. Mike played ten years in the big leagues. He will give the signs and work with the infielders. Mike’s first hit in the majors was a grand slam. After that, his career went straight downhill.” I got a good laugh with that line.

“His minor-league managing career was terrific. In eight years, he won five championships and compiled a .600 winning percentage. For the last seven years, he has been on the coaching lines with the Mets. Mike is a winner. I’m glad to have him on my staff.

“I also feel proud to have Tom McCraw on board as hitting coach. Tommy played 14 years in the big leagues, and has been a hitting coach for the last 23 seasons. If you look at what the Mets hitters have done the last two years, you may realize that Tommy is not only an expert on hitting, but also an expert on teaching the art of hitting. I fully expect us to be one of the best-hitting teams in the league this year.”

As I surveyed the crowd, I knew that I had their attention. Ballplayers seldom know anything about the generations of players who came before them. I certainly didn’t know much about players of the Forties and Fifties, let alone players from the Thirties and before. When I started studying these players later as a broadcaster, I was amazed at some of their accomplishments. Now, it appeared, these players were impressed.

 “The next four guys are really special to me, for one reason: they have all been to the playoffs with the Astros, but have not been to the World Series. This is our goal. And it should be your goal. We will work as hard as we can to achieve this goal for ourselves, and for you.

“First, there is our bullpen coach, Alan Ashby. Ash caught for 17 years in the major leagues and was involved in all three playoffs the Astros have made. He has also caught some great pitchers, including Mike Scott and Nolan Ryan. He has caught three no-hitters, which is a major-league record. For the last three years, Alan has been managing in the minor leagues.

“Next, there is our pitching coach, Vern Ruhle. Vern pitched for 14 years in the big leagues, including the 1980 season when he took a spot in the rotation after J.R. Richard had a stroke. Vern went 12-4 that season to help lead the Astros to a division title.

“After his playing days were over, he finished his degree and coached at Cal State-Fullerton and the University of Oklahoma. During his six years with the Sooners, he went to the College World Series three times, and won it once. Vern is the studious type. I call him The Perfessor.

“All of you guys have probably heard of José Cruz. ‘Cheo’ is the greatest player ever to wear an Astros uniform. Bagwell and Biggio are pressing him now, but he still holds team records for hits, doubles, triples, and RBI. He was a .287 lifetime hitter, an All-Star, and he stole 303 bases. Cheo has a great, fun-loving personality. He will be our first-base coach and help Bill Virdon with the outfielders.

“And as for Bill Virdon, what can I say other than he is the best manager I ever played for, and I am proud to have him as my bench coach. Bill won the Rookie of the Year award in 1955. He has won the Gold Glove award and played on the world champion Pirates team of 1960.

“He has 13 years’ experience as a major-league manager. He has taken teams to the postseason four times, but is still looking for another World Series ring. Twice he has been voted Manager of the Year: once with the Astros. He knows what it takes to win in the Dome. And with more than 40 years of baseball experience, he knows what it takes to win, period. And as you can see, he is still in good enough shape to do the work.

 “What I am saying is that all of these guys are winners, and we expect you to be winners, too.”

After those million-dollar introductions, I asked for questions. There were none.

“Well, that’s enough talk for now,” I said. “We will have a few more meetings as we go along — some with the team and some with each of you as individuals. But talk is cheap, and it’s time to start the adventure which will become the 1997 season.

“We have a lot of new faces, and there is a lot of energy in this room. I encourage you to get to know your new teammates, as we will be spending the next six months together. But now it’s time to put our energy into action. Stretching will start on Field 3 in five minutes. Thank you.”

As the players started filing out, team president Tal Smith came over to me and asked, “Did you see the looks on their faces when you started listing the staff’s accomplishments? Their eyes were wide open. I think you really made your point.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s a good start. I think we got our foot in the door. But we still have to back it up with hard work. And I can’t wait to get started.”

           

I have been “roving” the workout stations this spring, spending a little time here and there as an interested observer. On this eventful day, I spent most of my time at the bunting station, delivering a sales pitch that went something like this:

I know you guys like to play an aggressive brand of baseball, and that bunting is not considered aggressive. But this year, I have a little twist in mind. When you get the bunt sign this year, you will be bunting for a hit, not a sacrifice. I have noticed that most players bunt better when they are trying to get a hit than they do when they square around to sacrifice. So I am not going to ask you to square around.

Instead, I want you to work on your bunting all spring, with the idea that you can raise your average 20 to 30 points if you become proficient. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the first- and third-basemen in this league have been playing deeper and farther off the line in recent years. They are basically giving you a hit, if you can lay down any kind of decent bunt.

Leading off an inning, this is a great strategy. And when there are men on base, it is doubly effective. If you get a good one down, you get a hit. If you fail to get a hit, you get a sacrifice, and so your average goes up, up, up.

We all know that the team that wins the low-scoring close games is often the team that wins championships. A bunt hit here and there will win those one-run games. And that is why we are going to practice bunting more than most teams. Not to go back to the old days, but to take advantage of opportunities. If they start playing us in close, we’ll just hit away.

 

The drill went better than I expected; most of the players showed some small measure of skill. Sean Berry was surprisingly good at it. Derek Bell was terrible, but he gave it a try. Even Jeff Bagwell gave it the old college try, and he did pretty well.

 

Speaking of Bagwell, he had a long day. Early this morning, before the workout, he was taping a promotional spot for Fox. A cameraman was stationed down the third-base line, protected by two sheets of plywood. Bagwell was hitting line drives all over the place, and he just happened to hit one right between the sheets of plywood and over the television lens.

The ball hit the cameraman right below the nose, and just about knocked him out. The shoot was interrupted, and the man was taken to the hospital for X-rays. Turned out he had a hairline fracture and a chipped tooth. Jeff felt bad about it, but not that bad. After all, it was an accident.

In the end, he did have to pay penance. Fox had to shoot the rest of the spot after the workout, and Jeff had to cancel his golf date.

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 19 ● Kissimmee

Last night I returned a call from a radio station in Cincinnati. I was told that Cris Collinsworth wanted to interview me on his talk show. I was expecting the type of easygoing experience one professional athlete generally has with a peer. Instead, I was interviewed by another announcer who was apparently trying to establish a reputation as a tell-it-like-it-is reporter.

His opening question was “What makes you think you can manage a major-league team, when you have absolutely no experience?” After that, the questions came in flurries, like combination punches to the chin. I didn’t mind all that much; I know there are a lot of skeptics out there, especially outside Houston. I think I played the rope-a-dope routine pretty well, and I landed a few counterpunches of my own.

This morning, Murray Chass of the New York Times caught up with me during the early workout phase of stretching and throwing. I was free to talk, so we sat down in a golf cart and put our feet up.

Last fall, Murray wrote a column about my hiring, among other things, and a friend sent it to me. It was not a hatchet job, and not a glowing endorsement either; just a few insights. I can’t remember exactly what he wrote, but I do remember feeling good about it, so I thanked him. I have firsthand experience writing columns, and I know that it’s tough. Occasionally someone would tell me that they enjoyed my work, and it made me feel pretty good, so I returned the favor.

One of the things Murray asked me was how I was reacting to the cynical slant of reporters around the country. With the Cincinnati interview fresh on my mind, I made this observation:

“I don’t mind the criticism, because this is a very unconventional move. Anyone who goes on record now and says this is ridiculous, and that I will fail for sure, has that right. It is what I would call a first-guess.”

That’s the way I tried to work on the air. I would present the options of the two managers and then say what I would do if I were managing. Sometimes it appeared I was right, and sometimes wrong.

I felt that this type of approach conveyed to the fans the uncertainty of managing. There is no one right way — no “book.” Certainly there are conventional methods, and these are often called “percentage plays.” But if you look at the actual percentages as presented in Pete Palmer and John Thorn’s fine book The Hidden Game of Baseball, you will find that the percentage plays and the conventions do not always match.

The long and short of it is, there is no way to predict the future. You can only guess. And a first-guess is what makes the game so interesting.

Second-guessing is another matter entirely. It is the province of those whom former Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda described as “fans who never had a first guess, and need two to get one right.”

And so I told Murray, “if these people who are ripping me eat their words if we succeed, then I will feel vindicated. But my first-guess is that they will say that they knew it was a good move all along.”

 

Craig Reynolds showed up at camp today. Craig is a regular at Sunday home games in Houston. He organizes our Baseball Chapel program. If all Christians were like Craig, the baptismal fonts of the world would be dry from overuse. He is quite a guy.

He was also quite a shortstop, and one of the best bunters I have ever seen. I asked Craig to come down and work with some of our guys on the bunting game.

I was especially interested in getting him together with Pat Listach. Pat has been a slightly-below-average hitter during his career, but he has great footspeed. I am hoping he can learn to bunt better, and thereby add value to our offense out of the 2-hole in the batting order.

With Biggio leading off, Pat would have many opportunities to create dynamic offense just by slapping the ball around and bunting. If we can get something like that going at the top of the order, we can push some better RBI hitters back in the order, and improve the end of our lineup.

It seemed like Craig and Pat hit it off; I hope so. This aspect of our game could really be important — not just with Pat, but with all of our hitters. We figure to have a fast team, and the “little ball” tactics of bunting and base-stealing could make us more competitive against the league’s tough pitchers. I remember how the Big Red Machine, known mostly for power, took me down several times with little things, even when I was on top of my game.

           

I had dinner with Gerry tonight. It was mostly pleasant, but there was one thing that we knew we would have to deal with tomorrow: Derek Bell.

Derek is a good-natured guy, but sometimes he doesn’t think things through.       

Today, he put names on the back of his batting helmet: Carmen, a little girl with no arms and no legs, to whom he is dedicating his season, and Hendu. Steve Henderson was our hitting coach last year.

The second name might be a problem. It’s not that Hendu is a bad guy; quite the opposite. He is a great guy, and a good hitting coach. But when we took the fresh-start approach, Hendu got the axe. By bringing his name back up again, Bell would likely get the media going on a story that could divide our clubhouse. In fact, they were already asking about it.

The problem is, Craig Biggio has two names on the back of his helmet: Doc for Jim Ewell, our now-deceased longtime trainer, and Lou, the elderly man who was a popular clubhouse security man, also recently deceased.

So now we have either a little problem or a big one, depending on how Derek reacts when we talk to him tomorrow morning.

I can hardly wait.

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 18 ● Kissimmee

It was a glorious day in central Florida. Atypical, really. Sunny-and-mild is common. Sunny, mild, and with light breezes is the best. Usually the sun comes with a strong wind, but not today.

Once again, the workout was snappy. I was looking for heavy legs and tired arms, but I did not see them. When I was in their spikes, my body felt logy on the third or fourth day, even though I came to camp in good shape.

Perhaps these guys have found the secret of youth in the health drinks they stir up in the blender before practice. Shane Reynolds shared some of his with me, and I have to admit, I felt pretty good.

For the second day, the pitchers have been bunting off a pitching machine at game speed: more than 90 MPH. Today, the results were better. Dave Engle is our bunting coach, and he has been taught the standard procedure: Hold the bat out in front, level or with the barrel slightly up.

I mentioned to Dave that as a pitcher, I had abandoned the traditional method in the face of the “wheel play” that most teams use with a slow runner on second in the first-and-second, no-out situation. This play calls for the third-baseman to charge in, along with the pitcher and the first-baseman. The shortstop covers third, and the force at third is the goal of the defense.

There are two ways to beat this play. One is to punch the ball toward the vacated shortstop position. Properly placed, this bunt will produce a base hit. Improperly placed, it will produce a double play.

I departed from the norm and concentrated on deadening the ball and aiming it back toward the pitcher. My rationale was that most pitchers will take the out at first if there is any doubt about getting the out at third. If I deadened the ball just a little, the pitcher would always throw to first. This is the case even when there is a man on first, and you are trying to get him to second.

I found that a slow bunt back at the pitcher would work in both situations. Instead of trying to perfect a slow bunt to first and a firm bunt to third, I simply bunted everything to the pitcher.

Although this flew in the face of baseball wisdom, it worked. Engle picked up on it, to the delight of a handful of spectators who were in the bleachers.

When I arrived on the scene, outfielders James Mouton and Derek Bell were there watching, along with my old teammate (and our AAA hitting coach) Jimmy Wynn.

“All right, guys, bunt this first one right back to the mound,” Engle barked in like a drill sergeant, so everyone in the vicinity could hear. “Don’t get down in the count trying to chalk the line! Just bunt it fair.”

After each pitcher bunted 15 balls, Engle started a game whereby pitchers ran in and out of the cage one at a time, and he judged whether or not their bunts would be successful. The first two groups did a good job, but the third group, the Rats, got 14 in a row.

“That’s a good one,” Engle said. “James Mouton loves you. You just put that man in scoring position, and James is going to knock him in and win the game for you. Yes, that’s five in a row. If James doesn’t get him, in Derek [Bell] will. That’s the way to go.”

After the record of 14 had been established, the Goats rotated to the bunting field. “You guys will never beat the Rats,” Engle said before the drill started. “They got 14 in a row.”

The fans were laughing like crazy. “Thanks for the show, coach,” one of them said.

           

I made my way over to Field #1, where Sean Berry and Pat Listach were about to take ground balls, and Mouton would take some fly balls. Bell came up, wearing his uniform with a T-shirt instead of a jersey, and he asked to take some flies.

Bill Virdon looked at him and said, “You have to put your practice jersey on if you want to play.”

“I can take them like this,” Derek said.

“Not from me, you can’t,” Bill replied.

 After I got this job, I was required to take a psychological test. The test revealed that I was not strong in the area of discipline. I knew that the team was required by a sponsor to wear the practice jersey, but I probably wouldn’t have said anything.

Derek put his jersey on, and he went through the paces. He was a couple days early, and I was glad to see that he was eager to start.

I was especially glad to have Bill as my drill sergeant. And I was even happier to see Listach range far and wide, catching everything in sight.