Author: Larry Dierker

FRIDAY, JULY 25 ● Houston, vs Montreal

Last year, on Julia’s 20th birthday, I promised to take her shopping for a camera. She just turned 21, and I thought it might be the right time to get it done.

We went to the Houston Camera Exchange, where she could shop for new or used cameras. I guess I felt a little guilty about letting last year’s promise linger so long, so I was putty in her hands — and she now owns a nice Nikon. I probably would have advised getting a slightly-used model with more lenses, but this is her birthday, not mine.

She thinks she might like photojournalism, and she is already enrolled in a class. She is also enrolled at the University of Houston, taking a full load.

I am really hopeful that Julia is turning the corner. She has been an aimless soul for several years now, hanging out with strange-looking kids and doing who-knows-what.

She met a guy named Chris recently, and he seems to be a good influence on her. Gone are the brooding eyebrows and the dark, somber clothes. In their place, there are bright eyes and an easy smile.

The anguish that has been Judy’s constant companion is gone, as well.

All together now! Say cheese. Smile for the camera. Smile for the camera-person.

 

On my way to the ballpark, I considered my options, in view of the lineup controversy and the knockdown incident. With a six-game winning streak going, I might be best-served to swallow my feelings and not to rock the boat. But my feelings are strong, and I think they might eat me up from the inside.

I decided to talk to the team after batting practice.

When I considered the lineup, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Bell was 0-for-10 with six strikeouts and a double-play grounder off Juden. Howard was 2-for-3 with a double.

I knew I was going to play Carr anyway; there is no way Juden can stop Carr from stealing. But with Gonzo, Carr, and Howard in the game, guess who was on the bench? This fit perfectly into what I was going to tell the team later. And of course, it was a provocative move — a move that had me answering many questions during batting practice.

Afterward, I stated my case:

 

I want to clear the air on this lineup issue.

First of all, I’m not playing favorites; I’m playing to win. When I make up my lineup, I consider many things. I check to see if the opposing pitcher has had trouble with lefthanded or righthanded hitters; I check to see if we can run on him; I look at matchups, but I am not inclined to make much of them unless a guy has hit against a particular pitcher ten times or more, and he has had real good success or almost no success against the other pitcher.

I understand that Tank was mad yesterday. That doesn’t bother me. It’s no big deal. In fact, I like it when a guy is mad about not playing, because it shows that he thinks he is the best man for the job. It shows he has an intense desire to compete.

I know that I can’t make everyone happy. Sean wants to play more; Mouton wants to play more; Ricky wants to play more.

You all know that I can only play eight guys each day. Someone has to sit. I don’t expect you to be happy sitting, but I don’t expect you to express your feelings in the media.

I know the situation yesterday was unusual: Derek thought he was talking off-the-record. But we have to be careful about talking off-the-record if we have something controversial to say. These people live off controversy; they feed on it. And they will try to drive a wedge between one player and another, or between a player and the manager or one of the coaches. We can’t let them do that.

We have a lot to gain this year. We have a shot at the ring. If you have a gripe about the lineup, come to me, and I will explain my thinking. I know my thinking won’t always get us the right lineup for a win. I have my streaks and slumps, just like you guys. But we have to stay together and plow through these family feuds, just like we try to play through our mistakes on the field. We have to stay together to win this thing — like it or not.

On another subject, I want to be perfectly clear: I am not going to let our hitters serve as target practice for the other team. We will protect our players. We will not back off. Our pitchers have been instructed to throw at a guy’s waist to send a message. It it hits him, so be it. I will not tolerate throwing at someone’s head under any circumstances, whether it is our pitcher or theirs.

If they throw at us, we will throw at them. But we will not throw at their head. If you think someone is throwing at you, tell one of the coaches, or tell me. We will take care of it.

Last night, a “hit” order went out without my knowledge. The Expos ended up tying the game, and could have beaten us because of it. I am proud of you guys for taking the momentum of the game back, and winning it.

But from here on out, I insist on knowing what is coming down. Winning is still our main priority. There will be ample opportunities for revenge. Opportunities that will not have a bearing on winning or losing.

That’s all. Keep playing hard. Let’s win another one.

           

When I walked out, I was restive, pacing around in my office, dying to know what the players were saying about the meeting. A few minutes later, Gonzo came into my office to ask me to sign some items for a charity auction.

“How did they take it?” I asked. “Was it too strong?”

“No,” he said. “It was fine.  Most of us already know that stuff. Don’t worry about a thing.”

 

The Expos were ready for Kile in the first inning. F.P. Santangelo hit the first pitch of the game up the middle for a single. Mike Lansing followed with a double down the left-field line. Kile showed no concern. He stuck out Rondell White. He struck out Henry Rodriguez. And he struck out José Vidro. The Expos failed to score.

I held my breath as Juden delivered the first pitch to Biggio. Bidge didn’t give him a chance for another one.  He bunted down the first-base line and went to second as Juden threw the ball away. Chuckie popped up, and Bagwell walked on four pitches. On the last one, Bidge stole third. Gonzo followed with a grounder to second. Bagwell hustled into the bag to break up the double play. Gonzo beat the rap, and we took a 1-0 lead.

Mark Grudzielanek hit a flare to right leading off the second, and he went all the way to third when the ball rolled under the bullpen bench. Bogar made a wild throw to Bagwell on Ryan McGwire’s grounder. The tying run scored, and McGuire went to second. A single by Juden plated McGuire.

With one out in the third, Juden hit Biggio on the left arm. Bidge just ran down to first, trying — without success — to hide the obvious pain. He was really hurting.

Bidge immediately stole second and scored on Chuckie’s single.

I walked by Kile in the dugout and said, “be my guest.” Kile retired the side in order, and when he got back to the dugout he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll get someone.”

I wasn’t worried.

 

White hit a looping triple down the right-field line to open the fifth. Kile struck out Rodriguez again. Then Vidro hit a smash down the line first-base line.

Bagwell stabbed it and looked to third, where White was on the move. Bagwell took a quick step to his left, touched the bag, then faked a throw home to turn White around.

As White headed back to third, Bagwell faked to third. White turned around again, and Bagwell had him halfway. He ran toward third, faking every time White moved. We got him in a rundown and tagged him out to end the inning.  

Bagwell has baseball instincts like Willie Mays. He’s worth the price of admission, all by himself.

 

With two outs in the bottom of the fifth, Juden hit Chuckie on the knee. Chuckie got up and clapped his hands as he ran to first, as if to say, Nice shot. Too bad you didn’t throw it hard enough to hurt me. The players in our dugout came up to the rail and started yelling at Juden: You have to come up too, you asshole! and stuff like that.

On a 2-1 pitch, Bagwell got the best revenge. He hit a towering home run to center, and our dugout exploded with cheers and taunts. The whole Dome was rocking.

In the sixth, Howard singled and made it to third with two outs. Juden uncorked a wild pitch, and Howard came home. He slowed up a little when he knew he was going to score; I suppose he wanted to say something to Juden. Juden got the throw late, and he tagged Tank on the helmet. Tank jumped up and confronted Juden.

There was a tense standoff, but home plate umpire Jerry Layne got between them and took the ball from Juden.  Bogey went from first to second on the play, then went to third while Juden and Howard were facing off.

Afterward, Layne sent Bogar back to second, then came over to our dugout.

“I took the ball from Juden because I was afraid he would throw it at Howard,” he said. “I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I can’t give him third base.”

I had no beef with that.

In the meantime, Kile had settled down, and the last four innings, he ripped through the lineup with ease. I was a little surprised that he didn’t throw at anyone, but I was also pleased. Apparently he thought winning was the most-important thing, and he didn’t want to wake up the Expos. That is just plain good thinking, and I have to give Bidge and Chuckie some credit for not insisting on retribution.

 

There were a lot of reporters around for the postgame press conference. I suppose they thought there might be some extracurricular activity too.

After the reporters cleared out, I spoke with Kile.

“You did the right thing,” I said. “Winning the game was the first priority. We’ll have another shot at Juden — if he stays in the league long enough. If he doesn’t, that will be even better.”

It was another great win. Seven in a row now. We are four-and-a-half games in front of the Pirates, and six games up on the Cardinals.

THURSDAY, JULY 24 ● Houston, vs Montreal

I didn’t get back home until 2:30 a.m. A cigar and a backyard petting session with the dogs extended the day to 3:30. As long as we keep winning, I won’t need much sleep; I woke up at 9:30, ready to go.

I got through the mail and played catch with Ryan. His arm is coming around, and he’s throwing hard again. Maybe that will get him some playing time and give him a chance to improve his hitting. It is hard to hit well when you don’t hit often. Batting practice is fine, to a point — but the only way to stay game-ready is to hit in the game. This is just as true in Little League as it is in the major leagues.

 

I got to the park early today to go over all of the rosters, and to consult with Gerry about the possibility of improving the team before the trading deadline of August 31.

 

We discussed relief pitchers and outfielders, for the most part. Toronto is still interested in Derek Bell. I am interested in them having him, myself. Especially after the stunt he pulled later, during batting practice.      

 

I found out about it from Gifford Nielsen, the former Oilers quarterback who does sports for channel 11 here in Houston. Giff interviewed me for the six o’clock news. Afterward, he asked me why Thomas Howard wasn’t playing.

“He has a little trouble with the riding fastball and offspeed stuff in the dirt,” I said. “That’s what Martinez throws, and as a result Tank is 2-for-17 against him. So tonight we go back to the defensive lineup with Chucky.”

“I guess he must think he can hit Martinez better now,” Giff said. “When I asked him for an interview, he said, ‘no comment’ and ran into the outfield.”

“He gets pissed when he’s not playing,” I said. “I don’t blame him. It shows that he has confidence. But I can’t play everybody who wants to play, or thinks he should play. There aren’t enough spots in the lineup.”

“It’s amazing how everyone thinks they know what you should do, isn’t it?” he said.

“They all have their opinions,” I said.

“I know Derek has his,” Giff said. “He stiffed me, too.”

“He did? What about?”

“The lineup.” Giff said. “He said, ‘we’re not trying to win.’ Said if we really wanted to win, we would play Howard. He also said that he should be hitting second, in front of Bagwell.”

This really pissed me off, but I tried not to show it. In my opinion, the only guys on the team that are not giving the team their best effort are Derek and Tank.

Tank is coming around. He’s been doing extra work in the weight room, and he has been running sprints in the outfield. Derek has been working extra on his hitting, but he’s still not in shape.

The thing that gets me is that he’s going to get his $4 million this year, no matter how he plays or where the team finishes in the standings. If we don’t win, I’ll get fired. Now, who do you think is motivated to win?  

The other thing that fries my ass is that Bell still thinks he is a big star on this team. His contribution so far is about what you would expect from a fourth outfielder. If I can be accused of not trying to win, about the only thing I might not be able to defend myself against would be the assertion that I have played Derek Bell too much.

I’m trying to be objective, and I admit that Derek is running a little better now, and he has been having better at-bats. I know that he could get hot, and carry us. But I also know that he is a big drag on the chemistry of the team. The guys know he doesn’t play hard, or smart. What signal does it send if we keep playing him and putting up with his crap? What signal would it send if we traded him?

 

As it turned out, I had a lucky night — but it wasn’t dumb luck. There was plenty of pressure to it.  

Shane drew Pedro Martinez — a tough assignment any time, and especially this year. This may be Martinez’ year, but it was not his night.

Gonzo hit a solo homer in the second. Chuckie Carr led off the fourth with a double. A walk to Bagwell, a double steal, an infield hit, and a solid single by Ausmus upped the ante to 4-0.

The Expos got to Shane in the fifth. If Derek had been playing right field, it may not have happened. But he was just standing out there — and standing rather close to the infield — when Darren Fletcher hit a fly ball over his head. It was hit well, and rather low, but it bounced in front of the warning track. If Derek was playing heads-up baseball, he would have played deeper for Fletcher, who has power but very little speed.

Bill and I should take part of the blame, for not noticing and moving him. It’s hard to move him, though, because he seldom looks to the dugout for instructions.

That would have been the second out, and Shane would have stayed in the windup. He hadn’t allowed a baserunner until Fletcher, so going into the stretch was something new. The Expos pounced on him for two runs, and they cut our lead in half.

In the bottom of the fifth, Chuckie hit a homer to make it 5-2. In the meantime, Martinez was strafing our hitters with inside fastballs. When he hit Bagwell last week, our guys got pretty hot.

This led to a situation that just about became our undoing.

 

Shane got the first two hitters in the seventh, then Rondell White got a hit. Doug Strange came up, and José Vidro came out to pinch-hit for Martinez. Shane hit Strange in the back with a fastball.

I knew it was a purpose pitch; I suspected Shane was told to buzz Martinez, and when he saw the pinch-hitter on deck, he simply hit Strange instead.

I wasn’t too upset with the action, but I was angry that I had not been consulted. You have to pick your spots in these feuds. Winning the game is the main thing.

At any rate, the Expos rallied and knocked Shane out of the game. Russ came in and hit another batter and gave up a hit.  The game was tied. Tom Martin came in to get the last out.

I was fit to be tied. We got five runs off Martinez, and we couldn’t make them stand.

This psychological setback may have done us in last month, but this time we just kept coming. We scored three in our half of the seventh, with Chuckie getting the big hit.

Martin retired the side in the eighth. We scored two more runs, which allowed me to get José Cabrera into the game. José got them out in the ninth, and I was able to save Wagner for tomorrow.

 

The win gave us six in a row, and it put us five up on the Cardinals. Still, I was a bit uneasy as I wound down with the dogs.

Judy came out, and I told her about the Bell incident and the throwing contest. She didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. Nonetheless, I advised her to get to the game early tomorrow, as I have a hunch that Jeff Juden will throw at Biggio to initiate the contest, and there might be a fight on the field before it is over.

D.K. is pitching for us. He will not back down.  He hasn’t ever pitched this well, but he has been a courageous warrior throughout his career.

TUESDAY, JULY 22 ● St. Louis, vs Cardinals

There is only one word for downtown St Louis: boring.  Pittsburgh is the same way. So is Houston, for that matter.

We are hoping that our new ballpark will breathe life into downtown Houston, as it has in Baltimore, Cleveland, and Denver.

Busch Stadium in St. Louis was the first of the new downtown stadia. It was completed in 1966. As a ballpark, it leaves a lot to be desired. It was designed as a multipurpose stadium: bowl-shaped, with arches around the rim of the upper deck, mimicking the one enduring symbol of this city, the Gateway Arch.

Over the years, the Cardinals have switched from natural grass to AstroTurf and back again — just like the Giants.

When the football Cardinals departed for Arizona, there was only one purpose for this bowl: Cardinals baseball. The Rams’ recent move to this city was predicated on a brand-new football-only dome. Now the Cardinals are stuck with a ballpark that is as about as stylish as a leisure suit.

When I look at old photographs, it strikes me that the fashions of the ’50s and early ’60s have stood the test of time, but the clothing we wore in the late ’60s and early ’70s is embarrassing. The Astros’ rainbow parfait uniforms and the Braves’ softball-style suits are examples of this era.

But I have to hand it to the Cardinals: they fell for the stadium fad, and they went to doubleknit uniforms. But they didn’t change the design of their traditional uniforms very much.

When this version of Busch Stadium was built – Sportsman’s Park was renamed Busch Stadium in 1953 —  the Cardinals were enjoying a glorious decade. They won two pennants and attracted new fans throughout the Midwest. From those days until these, the Redbirds have been popular. Their attendance attests to the fact that a small-market team can still operate in a big-market world.

When I started coming here, the team stayed in the Chase Park Plaza hotel, about six or seven miles west of downtown. I still recall coming downtown one day to visit a shoe store that was offering deep discounts to ballplayers. Downtown St. Louis was almost scary back then. The buildings were dirty and dilapidated. Everywhere I looked, I saw images of poverty and urban squalor.

The Cardinals moved out of Sportsman’s Park to escape a decaying neighborhood. Downtown wasn’t much better.

With the success of the team and the growing attendance, a downtown revival began. The Gateway Arch was erected. As far as I know, it is the most ambitious example of public architecture this side of the Eiffel Tower. Laclede’s Landing — a strip of old warehouses along the river just north of the Arch — came alive with nightclubs and restaurants. Several hotels sprang up. A few years later, a downtown shopping mall, St. Louis Center, was built.

From the early Seventies until this day, the Astros have stayed in a downtown hotel, and I have witnessed the ascent and decline of the city, year by year. Until about five years ago, the change was all for the better.

These days, almost half of the retail space in the mall is vacant. There are fewer people on the streets. The unsavory element has returned. And despite the new football stadium and convention center, the downtown area looks like a garden under fungus attack.

The Cardinals have a large and loyal following, built on a foundation of victorious teams and good customer service. They have modified the stadium to look like a ballpark, and they keep it squeaky clean. But the catalytic effect of Busch Stadium on downtown St. Louis has run its course.

My guess is that the Redbirds will continue their winning tradition, but the downtown area will once again reflect the lassitude of the muddy Mississippi River that defines its eastern border.

This year, they were expected to repeat as Central Division champions. And they may pull it off. But for the most part, the Redbirds have been disappointing — and that has given us an opportunity to stage a coup and capture the throne.

 

The calls from radio stations continued today. Hard as they try, the reporters have not been able to get Tony La Russa or me to say that this is a critical series.  It just isn’t. Still, it would be nice to win at least one of these two games to keep them at arm’s length.

In most cities, I like to walk around during the day and kill a little time watching people and shopping.  But it isn’t much fun to stroll the streets of St. Louis in suffocating heat. Consequently, I arrived at the ballpark at 1:30 — my earliest arrival time of the year.

By 2:30, I had La Russa’s lineup. I guess he is bored with St. Louis too.

The amazing thing about it is, I still didn’t have much time to myself. I wanted to finish my player evaluations today, but before the players arrived, (and they came out early, too) the press put “the press” on me. I barely finished looking at scouting reports and matchup numbers when the barrage of notepads and cameras converged upon me.

One writer brought me a cigar, because he remembered me smoking one after a game in our first series here. That was a nice touch.

I did manage to get through my interviews with Bagwell and Gutierrez. There wasn’t much to say to Jeff except “nice going.”

Ricky’s situation is different; he was hoping the shortstop job would fall in his lap after Listach was released. But he was a little slow at first, and Bogar took the job and ran with it.

Ricky is a good player, but he’s not a good shortstop yet. I still have hopes that he will improve in the field, because he is a pretty good hitter. Tonight I am playing him at third base, because he is a better fielder than Sean Berry.

I know I have to try to get Berry going, because he is capable of swinging a good RBI bat. But it is hard for me to pencil him into the lineup, because all five of our starting pitchers throw a lot of ground balls. If Sean were hitting like he did last year, I would sacrifice the defense for the offense. But he is not swinging all that well, so I find myself playing Ricky and Billy Spiers for their fielding prowess.

 

In the conference at home plate before the game, I asked the umpires for an explanation of something that happened the night before. It was a situation where the Giants batted out of order — sort of.

La Russa called them on it the second time around, after Stan Javier reached base on an error. Javier’s name was not on the lineup card that the Giants handed to the umps before the game. Instead, Bill Mueller’s name appeared twice. Giants coach Carlos Alfonso copied it down that way by mistake.

The first time up, Javier and Mueller made outs. When Javier reached base the second time up, La Russa called them on it, thinking the proper hitter, Mueller, would be called out and that Javier would have to return to the dugout.

Umpire Jerry Layne told him that because the Giants had already batted around, the lineup was set. Javier was, in effect, an unannounced replacement for Mueller.

I read the rule, which is complex enough to be part of an LSAT question. I concluded that this type of mistake was not covered in the rule.

My logic told me that because the Giants only have one player named Mueller, and since Javier replaced Mueller, Mueller would have to come out of the game. Tony was trying to get a clarification, and so was I. Stadium music was blaring in the background, and I couldn’t hear everything that was said.

I still don’t think this type of error is covered, but I now know that if the other team presents a faulty lineup, I need to call them on it the first time around. I also need to check and double-check our lineup, so that we are not embarrassed by this type of clerical error.

The batting-out-of-order rule is so complicated that a player who is already on base can be the “proper” batter. If this situation occurred, the last person I would want to be is the umpire.

I have seen three or four examples of this during my career. Each time, the umpires seemed as perplexed as the managers.

 

It looked like a long night for us when Mike Hampton walked the first batter and then gave up three consecutive singles. We were down 2-0 with two men on base and no outs. Hamp got lucky when Gary Gaetti lined into a double play. After that, it was all Astros.

Andy Benes held us hitless through four innings. Luis Gonzalez reached on an error by Dimitri Young to lead off the fifth. It was an easy play, and Benes was visibly upset. Derek Bell followed with a home run, and we were tied. Ricky hit the next pitch into right for a single.

We tried a hit-and-run with Brad at the plate. He swung at a slider in the dirt, and he may have distracted Cardinals catcher Mike DiFelice. The ball got by, and Ricky went all the way to third. Benes pitched around Bogey and walked him. I put the steal sign on with Hampton batting; it worked perfectly.

At this point, the Cardinals brought the infield in. I was hoping Hamp could hit one over or through the infield, because if he failed, the Cardinals would probably walk Biggio and pitch to a slumping Chuck Carr.

I got my wish: Hampton singled to right, and we led 4-2.

After the seventh inning, Hamp said he was gassed. He had only thrown 96 pitches, but on a hot-and-humid night, that is a full load. Russ Springer came on and got them out in the eighth. Wagner closed the deal in the ninth, and we won 4-2 to stretch our lead over the Cardinals to 3-1/2 games.

I can’t remember the last time we have swept an entire road trip, but we have a chance to do that tomorrow, with Chris Holt on the mound.   

 

After the game I joined two of our writers for a little smooth jazz and red wine. Back at the hotel, I dove into Body and Soul, trying to stay awake as long as possible to shorten the next day — our last day in St. Louis.

MONDAY, JULY 21 ● off-day in St. Louis

I called Mom last night, and my timing was excellent.  I tend to lose track of family and friends during the season — especially this season — and I had forgotten that her trip to London with her friend June and granddaughter Lily was scheduled to depart Monday.

When I called, she wasn’t home. She called an hour later, having returned from dinner with Rick, Susan, and Lily. She sounded excited about the trip, and about our good fortune in Montreal.

Rick said that he has put the whammy on the Cardinals. Five of his sports-nut friends have autographed Astros baseballs displayed in little shrines on top of their televisions.

Mom sounded good: no tears this time. I think the trip will really revive her spirit. She hasn’t been so energetic since Dad died, but she still has a lot of life left in her. Lily will force her back into action.

When she gets back, Dad’s birthday will have passed. We are planning a cruise for Christmas. And I plan to invite her to Houston for Thanksgiving.

Rick has been great about spending time with her, but he needs to move on with his business, and he has been beginning to do so.

It’s almost like getting a pitcher in shape for the season: little by little, over time, the arm gets stronger and more accurate. We’ve come to a point now where Mom is almost ready for the long campaign.

 

The golf match today was a lot of fun. It was also an endurance test.  Normally it isn’t difficult to play 36 holes, riding in a golf cart. But when it is 99 degrees and humid, it is tough.

At one point, midday, the sweat was dripping down into my eyes, and I was having trouble seeing. A couple of times, I saw small, ghostlike images at the edge of my field of vision. I drank five sixteen-ounce bottles of Gatorade and who-knows-how-much water out on the course.

When we began, my shorts fit just fine. By time we finished, I could have pulled them off without unzipping them.  

Mike Cubbage celebrated his 47th birthday, firing seven birdies the second time around for a 71 — a career-best. I was erratic again, but I had a birdie the first time around and three the next time, shooting an 84 and an 81.

Broadcaster Vince Cotroneo really hit the ball well. He’s just learning the game, and he’s learning fast. Dave Labossiere started slowly, but he came on strong in the end. Ash did not have a good day, but he maintained his sense of humor throughout.

 

We went up on The Hill for an Italian dinner. It was as nice an off-day as you can have in St. Louis this time of the year.

 

When I returned to my room, I had messages from four radio stations, requesting radio interviews.

SATURDAY, JULY 19 ● Montreal, vs Expos

One of my favorite diversions along the National League circuit is a jaunt on Mount Royal. On a sunny summer day, especially on the weekend, the little mountain is an anthill of activity

The hardwood trees have spread their green canopies after the long, naked winter. A wide bridal trail of ash-colored cinders snakes up, down, and around. It is the perfect surface for jogging, biking, and riding horses.

There are arboreal coves, where dappled sunlight dances in the wind and folks lay out their picnic spreads. Many smaller trails curl away from the main road. Children scurry up and down these paths, eyes bright with wonder, shrill voices cutting the soft summer air.

Chipmunks dart daringly from bushes for crumbs of bread. Birds and butterflies flit in and out, as the passing parade of leisure provides a different scene at each bend in the road.

I used to jog up the hill, past the little lake where paddleboats meander. I would stop at the museum, where a semicircular apron of concrete forms an overlook from east to west. For a quarter, you can get a telescopic view of the mountains that lay between Montreal and Quebec City.  

I used to go by myself, and I enjoyed the role of solitary observer; but in recent years, I have taken a guided tour up the mountain, up the stone steps and trails, up the 164 wooden steps that we have nicknamed the Dierk’s Dread. My old broadcast partner, Bill Brown, could jog up these steps. The rest of us could hardly walk them without stopping to rest.

One day I saw an odd-looking fellow jogging down the road as I was going up. He was a large man, with orange knee socks and yellow shorts. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and holding both ends of the towel that was draped around his neck. As he got closer, he began to look familiar. At thirty paces, a broad smile crossed my face.

“Rusty! What the hell are you doing up here?” I inquired.

“Just taking a little jog to get loose,” he said. “I love it up here.”

It was Rusty Staub, my first major-league roommate, and one of the most eccentric ballplayers I have ever known. Rusty was about 38 years old at the time, and he was still playing for the Expos.

“You’re going to wear yourself out running up and down this mountain,” I said. “What if you have to play tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t run up,” he said. “I take a taxi up to the museum and then I jog down.”

In a sport where personalities tend to blend together in a dull beige, Rusty stands out. He is one of a kind.

I was only 18 when I met him, and he was 21.  I was a typical young ballplayer, running the streets at night looking for girls.  He wasn’t into that. As a matter of fact, he remained single throughout his career.  He was just different.  Maybe it was too much Jambalaya.  He sure did like to cook, and he specialized in Cajun dishes. 

In Houston, he lived in a high-rise condominium — an odd choice for a young man.  He often had lunch downtown with bankers and lawyers.  The rest of us would be bored to death with his lifestyle. 

When he was traded to the Expos, he learned to speak real French — not the kind he already knew from his youth in New Orleans.  He was the toast of Old Montreal.  He sported curly red hair with sideburns. They called him Le Grand Orange.  Lots of players thought he was amusing.  Most of them envied his quick, powerful swing.

That choked-up hack worked rather well for him for 23 years.  He would likely have a plaque in Cooperstown, if not for Frank Cashen going back on his word.  Cashen signed Rusty to a two-year deal, with the promise that he would be the Mets’ everyday first-baseman.  With more than 2,700 hits, he would almost certainly would have reached the coveted 3,000 mark playing every day for two years. 

Then Cashen signed Dave Kingman, and Rusty was relegated to pinch-hitting.  I could see Cashen’s point.  At that juncture, Rusty was well overweight.  He loved fine meals, and especially fine wines.  He even had his own wine, but he would have been better off signing with an American League team where he could be a DH and get more at-bats. His hitting was almost good enough for the Hall of Fame as a first-baseman/outfielder.  But his fielding and baserunning were below average. 

He needed 3,000 hits.  That’s baseball. 

 

The weather was delightful today, but I didn’t make it out of my room except to get a newspaper. With writing, phone calls, and preparing for the Expos, I just didn’t have time to do Mount Royal. Instead, my old broadcast mates enjoyed the tour.

 

Tonight we take on an old friend — or perhaps I should say, an old enemy — Jeff Juden. Juden was the Astros’ number-one draft choice in 1989. He made it to the big leagues with us, but only for a brief interval. We traded him because he was lazy and fat. The Phillies couldn’t stand him, either. Same with the Giants. The Expos claimed him off a scrap heap of waivers in 1996. He is still only 26 years old, and he has finally found himself here in Montreal.

“Is Juden any better, or is he still a jerk?” I asked former Astros reliever Dave Veres.      

“He was pretty good at first,” Veres said. “But now that he’s had some success, he’s gone back to his old ways.”

Success, indeed. Juden almost pitched a no-hitter his last time out. His record is 11-2.

I thought we were going to take him down a notch in the first innnig. Craig Biggio singled to open the game, stole second, and after Chuckie Carr popped up, he stole third.

At 6’8” and 265 pounds, Juden is slow. It takes him a long time to get the ball to the catcher, and he doesn’t have a good pickoff move. The Expos are highly susceptible to the stolen base: they have nabbed only 16 of the 136 players who have attempted to steal against them.

Bagwell walked and stole second. Gonzalez walked to load the bases. But Bell grounded into a double play. There was a palpable groan in the dugout; I sensed that the guys really wanted to beat this big oaf.

Shane Reynolds picked up where he left off in Chicago. He was wild, and he gave up a couple of walks and two hits in the first inning. We were down 3-0, right from the start.

Most of the time, we have been unable to overcome early deficits. But this time, the guys stayed with it.

Bagwell doubled his next time up, and Gonzo drove him in with a single. With two outs in the fourth inning, Bogar worked the count to 2-0. Bill asked me if I wanted him to take a pitch. Normally I would say yes because a walk would get the pitcher up to the plate, and we could start the next inning with Biggio.

This time, however, I decided to let Bogey hit. He drove the 2-0 pitch over the leftfield fence, and we closed to within a run. The next time up, Bagwell hit a two-run homer. A cheer went up in the dugout.

Reynolds reached 83 pitches after five innings, and we took him out, leading 4-3. Shane pitched great after the first. What a relief it was to see him back in form!

We immediately nuked Juden and built a 6-3 lead, stealing a season-high seven bases in the process. 

The Expos scored in the seventh, and I had to bring Tom Martin in to get the last out.

In the top of the eighth, Chucky Carr was called out on two pitches that looked well out of the strike zone. He complained, but home plate umpire Gary Darling shooed him away. We scored two more runs anyway.

Martin gave up a run in the eighth, and we scored two in the ninth. The Expos came up, down 8-5.

I decided to let Springer have a chance at closing. Wagner was available, but I was hoping to save him for tomorrow.

It didn’t work.

Russ hit a batter and then walked the next guy. Wagner came in and gave up a hit and a walk. Now it was 8-6, and the Expos had the bases loaded with only one out. Luckily, Wagner got the next two batters, and we won the game.

 

Afterward, I was thinking about the burden of a bad reputation. With Juden, it showed up in the intensity of our effort to beat him. With Carr, it was evident in the umpire’s calls and his subsequent body language.

This game is tough enough when everyone likes you. Guys like Juden and Carr are behind the 8-ball, and it will take them years to get out — if they get out at all.

FRIDAY, JULY 18 ● Montreal, vs Expos

As I looked out from my room on the 30th floor of Le Centre Sheraton, I saw an oppressive sky. Gray stratus clouds lay on the city like a blanket, heavy with gravity, blocking the sun.

Downtown Montreal spills from Mount Royal onto a narrow strip of land that butts up against the St. Lawrence Seaway. On the other side of the river, the landscape spreads far, wide and flat.

When I first came here in 1969, the Expos were new, and the city was as gay as an oompah band. Now the divide — between river and the mountain, between the English and the French, between Québec and the rest of Canada — grows deeper and wider by the day.  Fractured by selfishness and pride, growing ever more implacable, impenetrable, intractable.

The owners and players of the major leagues should take a hard look at what has happened here in Montreal before they dig their heels deeper into their own precious turf. Even as we celebrate the 50th anniversary of Jackie Robinson, we tear ourselves apart again, like Black Sox and White Sox. 

The greed of Charles Comiskey. The ignorance of Shoeless Joe Jackson. They are with us still, eating away our flesh like frostbite; like piranha. The patina of verdigris on the roofs, cathedrals, and government buildings here in Montreal attests to the endurance of the noble side of the human spirit.

May this spirit overcome the base elements of human nature that threaten the Expos, the Astros, the Pirates, the Brewers, the Padres, the Twins. May the sun finally break through this gunmetal sky and bathe us in a warm glow of togetherness.

 

Nineteen thousand fans came out to see the Expos on this Friday night; a good crowd by historical standards. These days, a crowd of nineteen thousand can soak a team in red ink.

 

Olympic Stadium is not a good place for a ballgame. It is enormous and cold. There is no intimacy here. The Expos, like the Astros, need a new stadium to capture the spirit of the game — and the money of the fans. Without a real ballpark, the dirge will sound. I can hear the orchestra tuning up in the background.  

These strains are less comforting still with the thought of Pedro Martinez, the nonpareil pitcher of this dying franchise. No team has developed more good young ballplayers than the Expos in recent years. No team has seen so many bright stars disappear over the horizon, to shine on lands of greater promise. Before long, Martinez will be gone too. But that won’t be soon enough to save us. Tonight, we must face the music.

 

Craig Biggio fanned to start the game, making this morning’s odds of 185 to 100 [?] in favor of the Expos look like a bargain. Chuck Carr went down, and then Bagwell fanned.

Ramón Garcia jogged to the mound like a Christian going to the lions. But Garcia has a noble spirit of his own, and in this game, he scoffed at the oddsmakers and matched Martinez pitch-for-pitch.

In the fourth inning, Pedro quaked. A double by Luis Gonzalez and three walks gave us a 1-0 lead. We made it 2-0 in the fifth when Biggio got an infield hit, advanced on a hit-and-run grounder, and scored on a single by Bagwell.

Garcia wobbled in the bottom of the fifth. I started Mike Magnante in the bullpen. Ramón pitched out of trouble, and Martinez got back in a groove. I warmed Magnante in the sixth and seventh, but Garcia kept after them. When I finally pinch-hit for him in the top of the ninth, we were still up 2-0. Billy Wanger came in to close the deal.

We beat the best, and we are in first place again.

As the dog days of summer loom in the distance, tempers flare and the sport gets a jagged edge. The specter of violence is always present when Martinez takes the mound. He pitches hard (94 MPH) inside on right-handed hitters.

The second time around, he hit Bagwell on the pad that protects his hand. Bagwell’s left hand has been broken three times by inside pitches. It would have been four times without the pad.

Martinez had already strafed several hitters, and I was getting hot. I don’t think he is a headhunter, but if he likes the inside pitch from his vantage point on the mound, I wonder how he likes it from the batter’s box.

We were about to find out, when we scored our second run. I didn’t want Ramón to hit Martinez, but I did want to send him a message. After we got the second run, I changed my mind.  

Sometimes the emotional value of a knockdown contest accrues to the benefit of the team that is trailing in the game. It arouses them, so to speak. Ramón had the Expos in a sleeper hold, and the game was passing its midpoint. I decided to let them lie.

As a pitcher, I was sometimes reluctant to throw at batters on command. Many times, I thought our hitters were overreacting to an accidental hit.

For some reason, hitters don’t think a pitcher can miss badly off the inside corner. If he throws a ball in the dirt or a foot outside, they know he has just missed the mark. But when you throw a fastball a foot inside, they start screaming.

In this case, I felt that Martinez simply came in too close when he was trying to jam Bagwell. This happens a lot with power hitters. If you leave the ball over the inside part of the plate, they can kill you. If you miss your mark, you want to miss on the inside.

Still, Bagwell is our meal ticket. Frank Castillo hit him when we were in Chicago, and then he dusted two other hitters. José Lima stood up for Bagwell by decking Sammy Sosa.

If I suspect a “hit” order has been issued on one of our key players, I feel justified in going after their top man. If I think a pitcher has simply been taking too many liberties on his own, I feel like that pitcher needs a dose of his own medicine.  

We used to take care of these things on our own, and the umpires let it go unless it got really bad. Now they are instructed to warn the pitchers and managers of both teams at the slightest provocation.

If Chief had thrown at Martinez, he may have been ejected from the game. The way he was pitching, we could not take that chance.

Brad came up to me while we were hitting in the fifth. He didn’t want Chief to throw at Martinez; he just wanted to keep the peace and try to win the game. This is what we did. But the next time Brad came up to hit, Martinez threw one right at his head, knocking him on his ass.

This time, we let it slide. If it happens again, we have to respond.

THURSDAY, JULY 17 ● Houston, vs San Francisco

I thought I felt groggy the morning after the 15-inning game with the Cubs, but that feeling was nothing compared to this one. It wasn’t a hangover; I only had three beers. It was more like jet lag, or a profound case of angst.

I was hoping our players weren’t feeling the same way. But I fear they were. We sure looked flat, losing to the Giants 3-1.

In a way, it’s our own fault. We choose to play our midweek day games at 12:30, rather than the customary time of 1:30. I don’t know how the fans feel about it, but I sure would appreciate another hour of sleep.

This game was particularly frustrating because we got good pitching from Chis Holt, and we played good defense. We just couldn’t get anything going against Mark Gardner. This guy is 35 years old, and he only throws 85 MPH. He used to have a great curve ball, and it is still good, but he got most of his outs with fastballs.

Biggio, Bagwell and González were a combined 0-for-12. It just goes to show that a well-placed fastball is still the best pitch in the game.

It also goes to show the resilience of the Dusty Baker Giants. They are 13 games over .500 and running four games in front of the second-place team in the West. Earlier in the year, I said that they couldn’t keep it up; now I’m not so sure.

They have some power, but little speed. They have some good pitchers, but little pitching power. In fact, they only have two pitchers on their staff who throw 90 MPH. Even their closer, Rod Beck, is a finesse pitcher.

I give a lot of the credit to their pitching coach, Dick Pole, and a lot of credit to Dusty for keeping the team focused.

The secret to success in this sport is to win the games you have a chance to win. The Giants are doing a great job of it, just like the Astros did in 1980.

The Astros outscored their opponents by only 48 runs over the course of that season, yet they won the West with a record of 93-70. They won almost every game they could. They often lost by a wide margin, but margins are not important in baseball.

This season, we are about even with our opponents in runs scored and runs allowed. Our record is accurately reflected in the runs column. The Giants are defying statistical measurements with their clutch play. They have scored about 30 fewer runs than their opponents, yet they keep winning.

If I had to vote right now, Dusty Baker would be my Manager of the Year. If I had to rate myself, I would get a C. That’s not bad at this level, but it’s not good enough to keep a job very long.

 

I slept some on the way to Montreal. The flight didn’t seem too long, and we got in at 9:30 — a reasonable hour. I would prefer to have played a night game, won it, and to have arrived at 5:00 in the morning.

Anyway, what’s done is done. Now all we have to do is beat Pédro Martínez, the best pitcher in the league, tomorrow night.