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THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 27 ● Kissimmee

Just one day left before the games start. I’m starting to get a little nervous about actually managing. Not real nervous; just a little.

I’m also a little concerned with the pitching. It’s not the control I’m worried about; it’s the stuff. The truth is, we have not been walking batters or fielding poorly; the hitters have simply been pummeling the pitchers. This is the fourth day in a row.

The alarming thing is that they are not just hitting fastballs: they’re hitting everything.      

I’m beginning to wonder if our pitchers have good stuff. I feel comfortable with our offense and our fielding; but without pitching, we are going nowhere.

I have to keep reminding myself that it is early, and many of these guys have performed well in the past. I suppose all of the National League managers, except for Bill Russell of the Dodgers and Bobby Cox of the Braves, feel the same way. Pitching is at a premium these days.

The price of a good player like Luis González is relatively low, because there are so many good hitters in the game. But the price of pitching is high. Few teams have it, and almost everyone needs it.

           

During the stimulated game, Gerry came by to discuss club rules. He had given me a copy of last year’s version to use as a model.

I was astounded that there were three pages of regulations. I am not, by nature, a litigious sort of guy. Disciplining myself has never been a problem. But now I might have to lay down the law for others, and I know that this will be unpleasant.

I believe that there are no rules that can prevent undisciplined behavior. If a guy was repeatedly unruly, I would prefer not to have him on the team. But that is not a realistic attitude. These people are also valuable property, and we can’t just let them go because they misbehave; we have to try to correct them.

Upon reviewing the rules, I was not so troubled. Most of them concerned access to the clubhouse by media and family members.

One of the things I was interested in changing, and had already talked to Gerry about, was the policy regarding beer. For the past few years, the team has not provided beer in the home clubhouse, or on the airplanes. This is logical in the sense that it prevents players from driving home with a snootful.

It can also have a deleterious effect. With no beer on the plane, the players smuggle hard liquor aboard. With no beer in the home clubhouse, the guys who don’t lift weights head for home in a hurry.

It used to be that many players would sit around having a beer or two, talking about the game. Without the juice, the postgame chat sessions came to an end.

I feel there is a compromise position that is reasonable. When the team is on the plane heading anywhere but home, two beers per man could be provided. After all, the team gets off the plane and into a bus and is dropped at the team hotel; no one drives a car.

At home, two beers per man in the clubhouse could help bring the team together without risking a problem driving home.

Gerry agrees with me and has approved beer and wine on the plane, except when we are flying home. He says he will have to get the home-clubhouse rule approved by Drayton.

Well, at least that’s progress. Back to the future, as they say.

I did scratch one rule from last year: No fighting among teammates. Fact is, I got a great laugh out of it.

I got this mental image of two young athletes, fully loaded with testosterone, squaring off in the flash point of rage, then suddenly stopping themselves by remembering the team rule on fighting.

 

“I’d like to fight you, but it’s against the rules,” one combatant would say. “Darn, you’re right,” the other would reply. “I guess we’ll have to put this off until after the season.”

 

Deron Snyder came by to visit after the game. He has been a constant companion these last few days. He is writing a feature on me for Baseball Weekly. He seems like a nice-enough guy; low-key and respectful.

But now I learn that this will be the cover story, and that it will be accompanied by a front-page spread with me, Bagwell, and Biggio.

I do not want this type of coverage, but I can’t seem to avoid it.

Now a disquieting thought comes to me: If we start out really well or badly, the attention will only increase. I hate to root for a mediocre start, but that’s probably the only thing that will get this publicity monkey off my back.

I am hoping for a good start, but in view of the competition, I am not expecting it. Mediocre is the most-likely scenario. But I can’t play mind games. I have to focus on the present. And presently, the hitters are murdering the pitchers again.

           

I’ve already penciled in our lineup for the opening game against the Indians at Winter Haven. I hope this lineup will survive the spring. A lot of it depends on Pat Listach and Bobby Abreu. Here it is:

           

Craig Biggio 2B

Pat Listach    SS

Jeff Bagwell 1B

Derek Bell  CF

Luis Gonzalez LF

Sean Berry    DH (3B)

Bobby Abreu RF

Brad Ausmus C

Russ Johnson 3b (New Orleans)

Shane Reynolds P

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.

 

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 25 ● Kissimmee

Photo day at the ballpark. I don’t know how long this drill has been in the spring-training package, but it was great. It was at least as good as the stimulated game, if I do say so.

Starting at 8 o’clock, players and staff members reported to Station 1 to get their white home jerseys on a first-come, first-served basis. Station 2 was for the Houston Chronicle; Station 3 for the Associated Press; Station 4 for The Sporting News; Station 5 for Baseball America; and so forth. There were about 15 stations in all, and it only took about 15 minutes to run the gauntlet.

I was talking with some of the coaches when it all began, and I didn’t get started until about 8:40, when almost everyone else had finished. When our staff meeting started at 9:00, I was there to open the discussion.

 

After we reviewed the procedures for the stimulated game — which Cubby had labeled the “simulated” game in the workout itinerary (some things die hard) — we turned to signs and procedures for pickoff plays.

This stimulated a lively debate.

There are several ways to do these plays. The plays the infielders generally prefer are different from the ones the pitchers are comfortable using.

Matt Galante and our minor-league infield and baserunning coach, Dickie Thon, demonstrated their favored techniques for the “daylight” play. That’s where the shortstop shows his glove to the pitcher (bare hand, in the case of the second-baseman) and the pitcher turns and throws to the bag, or just fakes a throw.

As a former pitcher, I wasn’t sold on their routines, and I explained why. The main reason was that I was uncertain as to when I should throw the pitch.

As a pitcher, I am most concerned with the batter. I want to have some sort of rhythm when I deliver; I want to know for sure when I can go home with the ball. With an infielder juking back and forth and throwing his glove or hand out at any moment, I am uncertain as to when I should pitch.

More than once, I started to pitch just as the infielder gained advantage and raced for the bag (the “daylight” part of the play). This left a gaping hole on one side of the infield as the pitch crossed the plate. Over the years I have seen this play backfire many times.

“There’s a way you can solve that problem,” said Steve Swisher. We were teammates in spring training 1977 in St. Petersburg with the Cardinals. I was released late that spring, so we never got to know each other well. But I liked him then, and I felt a certain uneasiness about him now.

In the few days we have spent together, he has proven to be a hard-working and eager member of

our coaching team, but also quite intense. I sensed that Swish (nicknamed because of his surname, rather than his hitting problem), like a lot of other coaching veterans, seemed a little bitter about the way big-league jobs were handed out.

Maybe it was just my imagination; maybe it was the insecurity that comes when you don’t know the basic procedures of running a workout. Whatever the reason, I felt a little more friction with him than with some of the other coaches. This time, he came to the rescue.

“This is how we did it last year,” he said as he stepped into an open area to demonstrate. “The shortstop comes in close behind the runner, like this. Then he breaks one of three ways. Back to his position; toward second; or toward third. If he backs off, the pitcher throws the pitch. If he goes to second, the pitcher turns and throws, as in the daylight play. If the shortstop crosses over and runs toward third, it’s the wheel play or the pickoff with the second baseman, depending on which play is on.”

It was elegant, simple, foolproof, and had a good chance to succeed.

The best part was, the pitcher would have a clear idea of what he was supposed to do in each instance. There should be no mixup with this method.

I liked it. So did most of the staff. There were a few more questions, and then we decided that we would go with it.

I was really beginning to feel good about this staff. They weren’t shy about expressing themselves, but they didn’t seem set in their own ways.

 

During stretching and throwing, I was asked to do some interviews for a New York-based cable show on baseball. The crew set up on Field 3, and we did the deed in about 15 minutes. When I drifted over to a pitchers fielding drill, I noticed that the crew was interviewing some of the players. They had not moved from their initial location, and they now were in harm’s way.

After the workout, I told our PR man, Rob Matwick, that we had the potential for another injury. He said he would try to keep them off the fields in the future.

It’s always something.

And lately, it’s been too much “me” for my liking. I know my hiring has novelty value, and I know I can’t dictate the news. But I wish I could redirect the attention to the players. Bagwell and Biggio are probably glad I am getting the treatment they usually have to endure. And truthfully, I don’t mind, because I think I can put a positive spin on the Houston Astros.

Still, I will be glad when this runs its course.

 

Today’s stimulated game ran like clockwork. Everyone, except some of the abused pitchers, was happy with the results.

Tom McCraw, who was working the extra men on the other field, was particularly pleased. “We’re getting some good work in,” he told me when I asked. “I’m really making some progress with (Brad) Ausmus.”

I noticed that Strech Suba was shagging balls for Tommy, using a golf cart to move around the outfield.

“Could Stretch keep up with you?” I asked.

“Damn right,” he replied. “It was a thing of beauty.”

           

The highlight of the day was still to come. It was a night game, so to speak. It was a Parrot Head extravaganza, featuring Jimmy Buffett. Our plan was to rent a limo and have it pick us up at one of the all-time Parrot Head dives: The Big Bamboo. We were to go backstage and meet the star and present him with an Astros jersey with his name on the back and the number A-1-A (after the famous highway in Florida).

“We” consisted of my old boss, Jamie Hildreth; our traveling secretary, Barry Waters; and Rob Matwick. At the last minute, Houston Chronicle columnist Fran Blineberry secured a ticket from the paper’s music writer, and he came along. Fran, Jamie, and I were Parrot Heads from way back. Rob and Barry are too young to go all the way back to the early 1970s, and they are not quite beachy folks, but they were up to the occasion.            

As it turned out, we didn’t get the limo, because it was going to cost $500. Buffett was not in a great preconcert mood. It was the end of his tour, and he probably felt like we do at the end of a long trip at the end of the season. Mike Utley, his road manager, took the jersey to him, but Buffett never came back to grant us an audience.

Nonetheless, it was a terrific night. Food and beverages were complimentary backstage, and the concert was typically great. I suppose the Florida audience picked the old boy’s spirits up. He was a little pudgier than the last time I saw him, and a little thinner up top. But he still came on with the energy of a swashbuckling pirate, and the charm of a devilish child.

When he launched into Fins near the end of the first set, we all jumped up and joined in. After a 15-minute break, he got up and went for another hour and a half.

As we left the arena, I asked Jamie if he had an address for Mike. I had an invitation in mind for Jimmy if I had a chance to see him.

In one of his songs, I’m Growing Older But Not Up, he says

 

I’m no Pete Rose, I can’t pretend

 

In another, he says,

 

I never had the clout to knock one out

When hitting was the name of the game

Standing on third as the coaches conferred

Next to my real claim to fame

Just give me the steal sign

And I’ll make home plate mine

And I’ll make sparks fly around your head

 

Well, my line was going to be

 

Look, I know you’re no Pete Rose

And I know you don’t have the clout to knock one out

But if you want to steal home,

Just strap on your A-1-A jersey

And report to one of our exhibition games

And I’ll arrange the theft.

 

It may be hard to get it together in the short time we will be here in Florida, but perhaps I will last out the year and we will pull off the heist next spring.

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 24 ● Kissimmee

This day started with the sound of an alarm at 6 a.m. Under most circumstances, this would be a shock to my system; but given the uplifting quality of the wedding, and my desire to get back in the saddle, it was a pleasure.

I arose singing Jimmy Buffett songs and arrived at the ballpark at 6:30. Cubby came in about the same time, and we went to work on the teams for the “stimulated” (instead of “simulated”) game that morning.

I named it a stimulated game because there was a rule against base-stealing, which allowed the pitchers to work quickly. We stayed with the animal format on the offense, adjusted the defense, and gave the pitchers five minutes each on the mound, figuring they could throw roughly 20 pitches in that time.

Vern came in about 7:00 and gave the plan his blessing. The only thing we were concerned about was the changeovers on defense each 15 minutes. Because the extra players would be taking batting practice on another field, we had a small migration each time a new team came up to hit.

As it turned out, the defensive teams took a few minutes to get into place. Most of the players had to be told where to go. That resulted in some pitchers warming up on the mound for several minutes after they had already tuned up for 15 minutes in the bullpen. For starting pitchers, this was not a problem, but it was certainly an excessive amount of time for the relief pitchers.

Whatever the reason, the hitters won the day. Each group scored in multiples, and few pitchers escaped the onslaught.

 

After the workout, I met with the coaching staff to discuss the game. I was happy to hear that they thought it was a good drill, for the most part. I suppose they had all experienced enough of the typical intrasquad game blahs to be juvenated by the upbeat change of pace. Still, modifications were necessary to make the game flow better.

Five minutes seemed to be not enough time for the starters, but about right for the relievers. But using the time system proved clumsy, because some of the pitchers reached their limit in the middle of an at-bat. By the time these at-bats were finally resolved, the pitchers sometimes had spent an extra minute on the mound.

The six-man offensive units worked well, except that some hitters came up twice, some three times in 15 minutes. We decided to warm up the relievers for 8-10 minutes and give them 15-20 pitches; we’d warm up the starters 15 minutes and allow them to throw 25-30 pitches.

We also decided that the game would start when the first pitch was thrown, and the players on the other field would report for assignment 13 minutes later, so they would be on hand for the changeover.

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.

FRIDAY AND SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 21-22 ● Kissimmee and Houston

I felt a little guilty this Friday morning. For one thing, I was leaving before the end of the workout to go back to Houston for my daughter’s wedding. For another, I was bailing out on the second day of full-squad workouts.

Ashley has always been a most-considerate and dutiful daughter. Her mother and I divorced when she was only two years old. My first wife, Nancy, worked a lot, and Ashley was a latchkey child. Somehow she raised herself to be a model of decency on her own.

When she agreed to marry Craig Klaasmeyer last summer, she asked me when I would be going to spring training. I told her it would be the end of February or the beginning of March. The wedding date was set for February 22, and by the time I became manager, she had already paid deposits on the church and the Museum of Fine Arts for the reception.

I felt pretty safe leaving the workouts in the capable hands of Bill Virdon and the rest of the staff. And I also felt somewhat pampered to be flying first-class. It wasn’t so much the service I enjoyed, but the space. I didn’t even have a drink. But I was able to spread out my statistical information for the teams we would play in April, so I could set a pitching rotation.

At 6’4” and 230 pounds, I don’t fit comfortably into a coach seat. But I got so comfy on this trip that I even took a nap.

 

If I didn’t feel regal at this point, I did by the end of the weekend.

The rehearsal dinner was hosted by Craig’s father and mother at the Ritz-Carlton. I started a series of toasts that lasted well into the night. We adjourned to the lobby bar, where I found a cigar I had been longing to smoke: an Arturo Fuente Hemingway. It was a masterpiece. I was, indeed, a happy man. Judy and I carried the celebration into the wee hours of the morning.

We awoke about 10 a.m., and after gathering ourselves around the newspaper for an hour, we headed for yet another reception — this one at the River Oaks Country Club. Broad glass windows, two stories high, opened onto the first tee and the 18th green. It was a lovely, springlike, sunny day, and the Klaasmeyer clan from Nebraska and the Dierkers from California could not have been witness to a better slice of Texas.

After the party, my mother and father, my brother and his wife, and Judy and I all went to watch Ryan play the first-round game of his basketball tournament. Naturally, they won in a breeze.

Ryan will turn twelve in a few days, and we all marveled at how he was growing up. Summer before last, he went with my folks on an Alaskan cruise, and he almost blew it by refusing to wear a coat and tie. Now he was sporting a blazer and slacks, and real hard-leather shoes. He had his hair slicked down and was clearly, in his own mind, the most debonaire of the bride’s contingent.

The wedding came off without a hitch. It was a beautiful ceremony, highlighted by a stirring performance by The Houston Children’s Chorus. The reception was wonderful as well. Astros president Tal Smith and his wife Johnnye were there, along with vice-president Bob McClaren and his wife Dana.

Everyone congratulated me on hosting such a fine affair. In truth, it was Ashley who did the planning. She and Craig even paid half the freight.

Ashley is an attorney now, and Craig is an investment banker. They are going to Hawaii and Napa Valley on their honeymoon. But it isn’t their financial success that I am so proud of; it’s their relationship. I have seldom seen two people so google-eyed head-over-heels in love.

They never shed a tear and neither did I, though I came close when the children sang The Lord’s Prayer at the end.

 As Craig and Ashley exited the museum and descended the steps to their waiting limousine, revelers from both sides blew bubbles of joy. As they stepped into the limo, I gave Ashely a little kiss.

“Enjoy your honeymoon in the West,” I said. “I’m heading East to revisit mine. I’ll see you back here in a few weeks, when reality sinks in on Opening Day.”

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.

Saturday, February 15, 1997 ● Kissimmee, Florida

 

During the winter, I was often asked about the qualities I considered to be important to a manager. One of things I always mentioned was flexibility.

“You have to be able to shift on the fly,” I said.

Situations change. Players get hurt or become ineffective. Making an adjustment, and making it quickly, can stop a losing streak or prevent a personnel problem from festering. A sure-and-steady hand is an abiding servant. But storms brew up in a hurry, and it sometimes takes a strong-and-sudden turn of the wheel to get the ship back on an even keel.

These conceptual truths became reality on my first day at the helm.

 

Back in October, General Manager Gerry Hunsicker told me that one of my offseason duties would be to plan spring training. This seemed a formidable task, because I had no recent experience with the workouts.

As a broadcaster, I watched a lot of games, but few workouts. I showed up in time to watch batting practice, but early drills — Pitchers’ Fielding Practice (PFP), pickoff plays, cutoffs, and relays — were not on my schedule.

“I’ve watched enough practices,” I often said. “The practice games are bad enough.” Honestly, I got my fill of practice games in about a week. The essence of the game was missing for me when neither team was really trying to win.

As a manager, I knew it would be different; I would have only six weeks to figure out which 25 guys we should select to go to battle. So when we assembled our list of players who would be invited to big-league camp, I set about to schedule practices.

Luckily, the Astros had saved workout plans from previous years. These served as my guide, but they were not entirely applicable because of pitcher/catcher ratios.

Typically, a team invites about 20 pitchers and 6 catchers to report a week early, so the pitchers can start getting their arms in shape. But in 1997, we invited 28 pitchers and 6 catchers. When the coaching staff met two days before the opening of camp, this ratio was addressed in no uncertain terms by our AAA manager (and former big-league catcher), Steve “Swish” Swisher.

Swish said, “If you follow this plan, these guys will have to catch 40 minutes in a row. You’ll kill them. I don’t mind catching a guy once in a while if we need help, but I didn’t come down here to catch.” His voice and his expression were challenging.

The room grew quiet, and I was taken aback. After days of forethought and careful planning, I was imperiled on the first day of camp.

I asked the other former catchers on our staff, Alan Ashby and Dave Engle, if this was going to be a problem. They concurred with Swisher, and they started naming some minor-league catchers we could bring in to help. Gerry was in Tampa, presenting the team’s case for the arbitration of pitcher Darryl Kile’s contract; I was on my own.

In this instance, I didn’t have to shift on the fly, because there was another day left before workouts began. I talked to Gerry that night, and he said that we would have to make do with six catchers.

After I reviewed the workout plans again, I determined that the first two days would be the only times when all of the pitchers would warm up. After that, their throwing would be staggered. I asked my pitching coach, Vern Ruhle, and Engle to come up with an acceptable alternative, and they did.

We stretched out the throwing 30 more minutes, which gave the catchers time to rest between pitchers. This lengthened the workout, but I was stuck with no better option.

Everyone seemed satisfied, but I was a little peeved to be corrected so soon. And I was more than a little sensitive to well-founded doubts that must surely have been residing in other staff members’ minds, such as “how can they give *this* guy the job, when a lot of us have worked hard for so many years to get the chance?” I couldn’t blame them, but I still wanted to keep the sessions short-and-snappy.

So much for best-laid plans.

 

Meanwhile, back at the house, old friend Steve Mann was waiting. After my playing days, and before I landed a full-time broadcasting job with the Astros, I doubled as Director of Group and Season Ticket Sales. In was in this role I that encountered Steve. He was working for GM Tal Smith at the time, doing statistical analysis. He was one of the first to invent different analytics. Now he was on the other side, working with the Hendricks brothers, who were representing Darryl  Kile.

My boss and my friend were enemies, and I was harboring the one who could do nothing for me.

Luckily, the team won the case. But I still had to hope that Kile would take the decision as a challenge to pitch better, rather than as an insult.

Steve and I stayed up late and discussed some information I hoped he could get me on the percentages of various base/out situations, and a reading on the bunt-batting-average of regular players. My suspicion was that it would be well above .300; armed with this number, I hoped I could get our hitters to practice bunting-for-hits with more dedication.

From my perch in the broadcast booth, I noticed a trend of playing the third-baseman farther off the line than normal, and back; it was an invitation to bunt that we weren’t accepting. I wanted to change that, but knowing that players hate to get thrown out bunting, I needed ammunition.

It wasn’t so much that I wanted everyone to bunt as to be capable of bunting. If we could force third-basemen to play closer to the line and in a bit, we would have a better chance to hit the ball by them. That was one of my goals as spring training began.

 

The first week of Spring Training is for pitchers and catchers, so the position players weren’t there for Day One. I had noticed dark clouds gathering as I drove to the ballpark; I knew there was rain in the forecast. So why didn’t I discuss this with the staff before the workout? Why wasn’t I ready to change on the fly?

I couldn’t tell you.

During my 2,300 innings on the mound, there were two times where I threw pitches from the windup instead of the stretch position, allowing runners on first base to advance. So I knew I was capable of a brain fart. In fact, I was known for it.

But how could I do it at this critical juncture of my career?

 

I struck out Willie Mays in the first inning of my first game, on my 18th birthday. After that, things could only go downhill.

The opposite was true on this day, 33 years later. Things could only get better after the deluge, which came five minutes after the workout started.

Sheets of rain poured down upon us. Thunder rumbled and lightning crackled.  Everyone bolted. Some ended up in the dugouts; some took to the batting cages.

I headed for the clubhouse. Shortly after I got there, “Stretch” Suba approached me.

 

I’ve known Stretch since he was a little kid. His dad, Jim, pitched batting practice for the Astros during the Sixties and Seventies. Once, on an off day in my rookie year, Jim’s wife invited me to dinner. I guess she felt sorry for me. I was only 18 years old, and the next-youngest player on the team was 23. The other 23 guys were all over 25, and most of them were in their thirties.

It was nice to have a home-cooked meal, but I wasn’t that lonely. I had been going to the student center at the University of Houston at lunchtime to meet kids my own age. Most of my friends that season were not my teammates.

 

Stretch ended up playing baseball at Oklahoma State, and throwing batting practice for us, as his Dad did. Although he had a teaching degree, he never used it; he became a baseball lifer. He could repair the laces on gloves, fix a pitching machine, throw batting practice for hours, and he could catch in the bullpen all day long. He made himself indispensable.

Before each workout at Spring Training, he checked the workout plan for each field. He made sure all of the pitching machines in the batting cages were throwing strikes. He put buckets of balls in the cages, and on each field. He sounded the alarm when it was time to change from one drill to another.

We couldn’t have done Spring Training without Stretch Suba.

 

On this, my Opening Day, he had already consulted with our groundskeeper, Rick Rausch, about the coming storm. So the tarps were ready: right next to the six-packs (long mounds with six pitching rubbers) and near the infield dirt on three different fields.

“Here’s what you need to do,” he told me. “Get the catchers into the cages. They can hit until it clears up. Get the pitchers in the conference room. You and Vern can talk to them while we wait. If the rain stops, we should go straight into our throwing. That’s the most-important part. We can do the drills tomorrow if we don’t get them in today.”

It was certainly a humbling experience to be taking advice from the bullpen catcher within 10 minutes of my first day as his superior. But that is exactly what I did. We all met again in the conference room, and the catchers were dispatched to cages. Rick Rausch came in and told me that the rain should let up in half an hour, and the pitching mounds had been covered. We could still salvage the day.

The pitchers were already congregated, so I decided to have a chat session. After a consultation with Vern, we launched a discussion about holding runners.

One of my goals was to get the pitchers to do their own thinking about runners. The recent trend was to send signals from the dugout to the catcher for such things as pitching normally; quick-pitching; holding the ball at the set position a long time; stepping on the rubber, then off it; pitching out; and throwing to bases. I wanted to reverse that trend and reduce the signals to three: pitch normally; hold the runner; and pitch out. How they held the runner would be up to them.

This turned out to be a one-sided “chat.”

When Vern and I asked for feedback, we got none. I suppose some of the guys were happy to try something new. None of them want to talk about it. During the momentary silence, Raush came in and said that the rain had stopped, and we could resume workouts.

There was only one problem: it looked like the rain could come pouring down again, and soon.

“We’ll go straight to the last segment of the workout, where the pitchers throw,” I said. “If it doesn’t rain, we’ll do the early drills when we finish throwing.” This met with general approval, and we started in short order.

There was only one problem: the catchers were still hitting, and the hitting coaches, who were supposed to be in other places during this portion of the workout, were still at the cages.

Somehow we muddled through, and we completed almost everything we planned to do. It was a great relief to me when my bench coach, Bill Virdon — a veteran of 13 seasons managing in the big leagues — said, “I thought it went pretty well, considering. We got the work done. It was a good start.”

 

After a session with the media — a drill for which I had ample experience — I returned to my office and found several staff members there. After I arrived, the rest of the crew crowded into my small office. Each had his own critique of the day. I warmed to every suggestion, and I took notes.

It was comforting to get though the day and find friendly faces where I had seen the eyes of doubt hours earlier. I was impressed with their observations, and with the intent of their critiques. The advice seemed honest, the intentions sincere. As they left, I was elated to have them on my team.

It was about 2 p.m. when Gerry and his assistant, Matt Galante, came in to talk. I have a great fondness for Matt. Until this year, he was the third-base coach and top assistant to three Houston managers. Each time a manager was replaced, Matt was a candidate for the job. Each time, he came up short. I think his only failing was that he is short (5’6”) and soft-spoken. He is as respected a baseball man as there is in our league, and in my opinion — which I expressed even when I was being interviewed — he should have this job instead of me.

(During that interview, it became clear that he was not going to get the job, even if I declined. In the world, they say, “that’s life.” In this game, we say, “that’s baseball.”)

Because Matt had prepared for this job during all the years I was broadcasting, and because he clearly had a firsthand opinion about how spring training should be run, he was full of ideas. I was sort of sad, sitting there listening to him from the boss’s side of the desk, sitting in a seat he was most qualified to occupy. There was a fatherly tone that “spoke” silently behind his words: This is how it should be done, son. This is the way I would do it. I’m okay with this. I only want to help.

His words of advice concerned the workout plans. He said the demands on my time would continue to increase, and I should have the man who replaced him as third-base coach, Mike “Cubby” Cubbage, do the detail work and assign coaching responsibilities. He said that I should just observe the workouts, and tell Cubby what I wanted to cover the next day.

“They’re going to ask you how Berry threw, or how Ausmus hit,” he said. “You need to watch these things, so you can answer the questions. You also need to have an alternate plan, in case it rains. You don’t need to have one every day, but when the forecast is bad, you should be ready.”

I protested that I had only attempted to plan things to inform myself — to become familiar with the mechanics of the workouts. I was sincere; I really had no desire to do the detail work. I was more concerned with the implementation of general concepts, such as the pitchers holding runners, and the bunting. I did the workout plans mostly to reacquaint myself with the process and to show the staff that I was ready to work, not just talk.

Gerry echoed Matt’s thoughts about delegating, and Matt reiterated them. I felt besieged, and I consented without further defense. But I did feel a little hurt that they didn’t acknowledge my good intentions.

As they got up to leave, Matt said, “I know what you were trying to do. It’s like when you’re in college and you take notes. Just taking notes makes you remember. And it’s not a bad idea. It’s good that you did it, and now it’s time for someone else to take it over.”

I cannot tell you how good that made me feel.