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THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 4 ● San Francisco, vs Giants

This Wives Gala is getting to be a headache. The date is September 11, and the crowd is swelling.

At first, I thought it would be Judy and me, and that we would invite Ashley and Craig. Then I went to get my tuxedo, and I invited Dick Hite, and he mentioned that his partner, Phil Ditto, would like to go.

Ashley and Craig told her aunt Sharon and uncle Chris, and they wanted to go. Then Judy decided that if Ashley was going to go, Julia and her boyfriend Chris should be invited. Then our friends Bill and Karen Greif called, and they said they would be coming in for the weekend. We invited them to go.

We learned that their 10-year-old son Jordan would be with them — after we had already made arrangements for Ryan to spend the night with a friend. We didn’t think we could impose Jordan on Ryan’s deal, so we told the Greifs that Jordan could come to the gala and check out the memorabilia in the auction.

We now had 14 people. We had only one table for ten.

Because tables go for $1,500, I did not feel like buying two of them. This made for a delicate situation. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to sit at the table with the manager.

No one minded paying their own way, but I didn’t feel like asking people I had invited to pay. Sharon and Chris came to the rescue by offering to buy a table themselves. This solved one problem, but not the other; I still have to finesse the seating arrangements.

I hope everyone will understand that we can all spend plenty of time together, no matter who sits where. There are cocktails before dinner and cocktails-and-dancing after. We can be one happy family, if we can be sensible about who sits at which table. This should be easy, but I am not sure it will be.

The guys won’t care, but the women … well, let’s put it this way:

I have always been a little clumsy with women. When I was young and foolish, I thought they were just men with different body parts. Now I know that the thinking and feeling parts are different too. I still feel a little clumsy, but I don’t step in my own mess as often as I used to.

I am going to pay for one table, and be friendly to everyone. I am going to act blissful in my social ignorance, and dance with all of them.

It’s the way of Sluggo.

I doubt it would serve me well in high society, but I’ll stumble across that bridge when I come to it.

 

Speaking of bridges: Drayton came into my office yesterday, upbeat as usual. I know he is concerned about all the losing. The crowds have been dwindling; his friends have been asking him what he is going to do about it; some of the other owners like to tweak him now and then.

But through it all, he has been great to me. This is what he told me:

Can you imagine a two-lane bridge, a mile long?

“Sure.”

Have you ever driven across a bridge like this?

“Yes.”

Did you ever hit the railing on the side?

“No.”

What if there was no railing on the side? What if you had to drive across it at 70 miles an hour? What if you knew you would have to pass ten cars going the other way at 70 miles an hour? Would you do it?

“Only if I had to.”

“Now, see,” he said. “That is what separates the people who have courage from the ones who don’t. You know you can drive across at 70 miles an hour; you’ve done it before.

“So why do you need the railings, if you have courage?”

“I see what you mean,” I said.

I could not help thinking, however, about a time when I almost ran into a railing on a high bridge.

I had been on a fishing trip with a friend, and his van broke down on the way back at about 11:00 on Sunday night. We could get the van towed, and spend the night in a small town about an hour from Houston, or we could lock it up and hitchhike home.

We stuck out our thumbs, full of courage.

 A young man stopped to pick us up. When we got in, he peeled out, burning rubber down the highway. He turned the radio up full blast, and soon we were traveling about 90 MPH. He was weaving back and forth. Luckily, there wasn’t much traffic.

He was still weaving when we crossed the Liberty Bridge, and at one point I grabbed the steering wheel to make sure he didn’t careen into the railing.

After that, he settled down. He stopped for gas about 20 miles from Houston. We thought he would be all right, so we did not exit the vehicle. While the attendant was still pumping the gas, this courageous young man pulled out, slinging the gas hose and nozzle away, with gasoline still gushing.

He blew through a stop sign, narrowly missing a Winnebago, and raced down the on-ramp and back onto the highway.

We made it home safe-and-sound. The guy took me right to the door of my house. I laughed nervously as he pulled away.  

I suppose you could say that I was courageous that night; I tend to think we were stupid. But then, we were also young. I suppose I would have driven across that hypothetical bridge with no railings when I was 25, whether I had to get to the other side or not.

 

I have a lot of arrangements to make here in San Francisco as well.

Several of my high-school teammates live here now, and they want to come to the game tomorrow. My old Astros roommate Bob Gallagher is coming tomorrow, as well. On Saturday, I am leaving tickets for Darryl Brock — the author of one of my favorite baseball books: If I Never Get Back — and two of his friends, both writers. They are coming again on Saturday, and we are having dinner afterward.

I have offered tickets to my winemaking friends, but they are in crush time now, working double shifts to keep the customers jolly. They are good fans, but business is business.  

I wish I could be there to help them. With my size-13s, I could crush with the best of them.

 

The game with the Giants was bittersweet. We scored five runs in the first and never looked back, winning 14-2.

I decided to rest Bagwell, and he was distressed. I told him that I felt he was expanding his strike zone, trying to do too much, trying to end his slump and make up for the team’s slump every time he came to bat.

“They need to know they can win without you,” I said. “And you need to know it too. As long as they keep looking to you every time we’re in a slump, we’ll never make it.  We just can’t expect you to do it every time.”

“I know,” he said. “But this is my favorite place to hit. I need to get my own confidence going, and this is the perfect place.”

He had a great point, and I knew it to be true. He is right; I am right. The bottom line for me is that we still have three more games here to get him going. He hasn’t hit Mark Gardner all that well, so my instincts told me tonight was the night.

“I just want you to chill out,” I said. “If they can win without you, it will really help us as a team.”

He left, shaking his head. I knew he didn’t agree with me, but I also knew he wouldn’t make a scene.

Billy Spiers played first, and he had a good night with the bat. It would have been one of the most uplifting wins of the year — but for one thing.

Tim Bogar got hit on the wrist in the fourth inning, and he had to leave the game. He went for X-rays, and in the eighth inning we learned that it was broken.

He is lost for the year.

I wasn’t really that happy after that. We still have 22 games left, and we don’t have a dependable shortstop. If we make a deal, it will cost us a good prospect, and we still won’t be able to use the shortstop we get in the playoffs — if we make it.

For me, it was more bitter than sweet, but the players still seemed jubilant in the postgame clubhouse. Even Bogey was smiling.

Perhaps that is the difference between being 25 years old and 50. At my age, the glass is half-empty; at theirs, it is half-full.

If they are courageous and I don’t get stupid, we might keep winning.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3 ● Houston, vs Milwaukee

Only once in my life have I been as one-dimensional as I am now: when I was in the service.

The Army doesn’t offer a lot of electives, especially at basic training. We were confined to the company street. And though I did manage to sneak off to the PX a time or two and rathole a couple of magazines, it was just about as basic a life as its name implies.

Luckily, I was only in the reserves, and I only had to go full-time for five months. This stint as manager is full-time for eight months. It is quite a bit more challenging.

The Army offers no parallels to the high points of managing: winning games and sharing in a player’s success and growth. It does offer low points that rival anything I have yet experienced in my return to the field.

For one thing, it offers no female companionship.

What prompts me to reflect on these things is the paucity of elective hours this summer.

I left a note for Judy to awaken me so that I could say goodbye to Ryan. When I arose again at 9:30, I had breakfast, read the paper, wrote, cleaned off my desk, showered, packed, and headed for the Dome. I was able to fit a short workout between lineup preparation and batting practice. I also learned that Tony Eusebio injured his other knee during last night’s loss.

Just what I wanted to hear.

 

The game was tough and tight, as usual. When you’re not hitting, tough-and-tight beats the alternative.

I don’t think I have ever seen Bagwell and Biggio look as inept at the plate as they did against Scott Karl, a soft-tossing lefthander.

The game was punctuated by another call to duty with the umpires. This could get tedious.

Larry Poncino called Brad Ausmus out on a pickoff throw at second. I could see the play from the dugout, and I knew it was an egregious error. Brad argued, and I couldn’t blame him; I knew I had to get out and support him. Cubby was quick enough to get Brad out of there and take up the harangue until I arrived.

It wasn’t a pivotal play like the one on Monday, but it was even more obvious. I didn’t even curse this time; I just kept saying, “that was really bad, Larry, really bad.”

He told me to stop waving my arms. I have been told this by other umpires, and have always obeyed. But this time, because I hadn’t even cursed, I waved my arms even wider and said. “They’re my arms! I can wave them if I want to.”

“Do you want to get tossed?” he asked.

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I just want you guys to get the calls right.”

“He tagged him on the foot,” he said.

I turned and walked back to the dugout. I am amazed that these two calls came in one series. But it figures they would come when tempers are already short, because of the losing streak.

Who knows? We may have had two calls go our way when we won nine in a row, in which case we would hardly notice it. I noticed these calls, that’s for sure. And so did the guys who happened to be in the clubhouse. They came running down to the dugout to confirm what the replay showed — which we already knew anyway.

When I was broadcasting, I felt the quality of umpiring was deplorable. Now that I am back down on the field, I realize it isn’t that easy. A lot of times the umpires have blocked views; sometimes they have to rotate, and they don’t arrive on the scene in time.  

I suspect that we would all have more respect for the umpires if we had to ump a few games ourselves.

 

Luckily, Ramón Garcia pitched the game of his life, and Tim Bogar hit a two-run double in the seventh inning to gives us a cushion.  We won 4-0 with The Chief going all the way on a five-hitter and driving in a run himself.

I can’t describe the smile on his face as he accepted congratulations. It was trancelike; otherworldly. He has had a worrisome, luckless season. He has pitched far better than his record.  

We selected him in the Rule 5 draft from the Brewers. They didn’t protect him by keeping him on the roster, and he made them pay.

His pitching misfortunes have been the least of his concerns this summer. What makes him look distant and preoccupied most of the time is his concern for his mother. She was in poor health when he flew her to Houston to be seen by heart specialists at the renowned Houston Medical Center. Turned out she had a serious condition that required not one but two surgeries, For a few days, he was afraid that she might die.

Chief is a study in contrast. He looks like a desperado on the mound, but he is as tender-hearted as they come. He makes barely more than the minimum salary, and the hospital bills piled up to $50,000 or so. This may be walking-around money for Bagwell and Biggio, but it was a body blow to the Chief. The team loaned him some money, and he pledged to repay it when he receives his licensing check next spring.

The money issue often leads me to the brink of ambivalence. My instinct tells me to pull for the player to do well, and to make a lot of money while he can. But my best interests may be served by having guys do well enough for us to win, but not well enough to get a large raise.

This is the dilemma we will face with D.K. He has done so well that we won’t be able to afford his services next year, unless we trade some other high-priced players.

 

After the game we learned that our trip to San Francisco would be delayed 90 minutes by a storm. I am writing as we fly, and I am expecting to get to sleep at around 3:30 or 4:00 West Coast time — when the sun is coming up in Houston.

I have been reading Goat Brothers again, and I had to stop and start writing before I started crying. If I had been at home, in bed by myself, I would have just let the tears pour out. But it didn’t seem the proper thing to do on the plane.

What stirred me was Larry Colton’s description of his Dad.

At this point in the narrative, Larry has already presented himself as a college student; a klutz with the girls; and a natural ballplayer. Now he flashes back, talking about his father’s dedication to his work at Douglas Aircraft and his love of his family and the game of baseball.  

He writes about how he would meet his Dad with gloves and ball in the driveway when his Dad came home from work. His Dad would take off his coat, throw it on the hood of the car, roll up his sleeves, and start playing catch, then and there.

Sometimes he would take Larry down to Loyola University and hit him grounders at shortstop:

 

… sending me deep into the hole for the backhand, or having me charge the slow chopper over the pitcher’s mound … He decided when it was time to quit. On the way home, I noticed the blisters on his hands.

 

Later in the same passage, he writes about his mother:

 

When they went out on New Year’s Eve in his new ’36 Ford, it was the first date of his life. He was 24. He would never date another woman. Casanova, he wasn’t.

 

These images brought my father back to me: Waiting for him to come home from work. The games of catch in the backyard. Hurting him with pitches in the dirt. The way he met my mother. His faithfulness. My own awkward dating experiences. The whole thing. I could cry as I write this.

I could walk off the field with a broken leg with no more than a grimace. But these sentimental things get me.

Perhaps I’ll play like I’m sleeping for a while.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2 ● Houston, vs Milwaukee

Three days at home is hardly enough. Didn’t see Ashley or Julia at all. Barely had time to pay the bills and answer the fan mail.

I took a shortcut on the fan mail this time:  I didn’t answer the letters offering free, expert advice — the letters sent to help me set my lineup and organize the starting rotation.  

Most of suggestions are intended only to help. They start with, “I’m a great fan. I watch every game. You’re doing a great job, but … ”  The majority of these letters come from doctors, lawyers, and CPAs. They are neatly typed, are free from grammatical and spelling errors, and are full of logical arguments.

I’m sure the authors give themselves congratulatory nods as they sign them and send them off: they know that the Astros are just a few days away from salvation.

What they don’t realize is that I have considered every possible permutation of the lineup; that I have considered everything they have written about, and more.

Some suggest that I take strong disciplinary action against repeat offenders. I wonder if they have anybody working for them who makes $2 million a year and belongs to a strong union with unlimited funds and a litigious nature. I wonder how they would discipline this type of employee.    

I am finished reading letters like this, no matter how well-intended or how well-typed. Into the can they go, and on to the next.

The worst letters are the ones composed by children, with no return envelope. The club will take care of the postage, but it takes time to address the envelopes. It takes time to remove the baseball cards from their plastic sheaths too. The volume of mail is increasing, and it will probably intensify when the SI piece comes out.

 

Well, we jumped the gun on SI. We’re having our slump in anticipation of the so-called cover-story jinx — not because of it. Tonight we lost to the Brewers 4-2.

D.K. pitched a marvelous game. When I took him out with runners on first and second with one out in the ninth, the score was tied at 2.

Should I have left him in there? Probably. The second guess is always easier than the first.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 1 ● Labor Day ● Houston, vs Milwaukee

I remember the old Labor Day doubleheaders. It used to be that when Americans were on holiday, we worked double-time; not any more. The People magazine/ESPN mentality — rapid-fire images, short and sweet — reflects, if not dictates, the attention spans of our customers. A three-hour game is more than enough.

It used to be that we could play a doubleheader in five hours, and the fans felt like they were getting twice their money’s worth.

 

I had a meeting with the team. I conspired to have Cheo Cruz follow up with a loud exhortation to augment my arguments. It seemed to go well, though I really have my doubts as to how much you can do with a meeting.

My line was to say that we are a good team — maybe not as good as we were in July, but certainly not as bad as we were in August. I challenged the players to condense their concentration for just one month.

Get your maximum leads and secondary leads; get that extra base. On defense, concentrate on every pitch. Be ready if the ball is hit to you. Know in advance what you are going to do when it comes your way.

We have to be aggressive. They say you can’t make the last out at third base. Well, Bidge did that yesterday, and it was a great play. No, it didn’t work, but if he makes it, we can tie on just one single.

We have to play that way. We can’t sit around and wait for home runs.

If we make the playoffs, who knows? We might play like we did in July. If we do that, we could go all the way. We’ve had a lot of help lately, with the Pirates losing. But we can’t expect to get to the playoffs that way. We have to start winning — and we will. This is too good a team to play losing baseball two months in a row. Does anyone else have anything to say?

 

“I have something to say, Larry.” It was Cheo, right on cue.

“I say we gotta kick some ass. We gotta swing the bleeping bats. We gotta make the bleeping plays. I’m tired of this shit. We are too good to play like this. What, is somebody afraid of the other bleeping team? The bleeping White Sox. The bleeping Brewers. These teams are horseshit. There is no bleeping way these teams can beat us if we [by now he is screaming] swing the bleeping bats! Catch the bleeping ball!

“You pitchers! Throw hard. Hit some bleeping body. Knock them on their bleeping ass. That’s what I say. Anybody else want to say something?”

Cheo is a lively guy, but he usually doesn’t cuss much. His language was for emphasis. And it had the desired effect: everyone was laughing.

I think a few guys realized that Cheo was performing, but who cares? They were also thinking, He’s right. We need to wake up and kick some ass.

Bidge said that he was tired of losing to American League teams. Billy said that we had to pull together: us against the world.

Tony Peña said that he has been on winning teams, and he thought this was a winning team.

“The thing we have to do, is just do our job.” he said. “Don’t try to do too much. Just do your own job.”

There was a sense of togetherness, and I had high hopes. Chris Holt was pitching, and he really threw well in his last start in Atlanta. I had a new cleanup hitter, Ricky Gutierrrez. And I had Bobby Abreu in left and Richard Hidalgo in center.

 

Biggio opened with a hit. With two outs, he was on second when Ricky lashed a sinking liner to the right side. Fernando Viña was right there to snare it at his shoetops.

In the third, we had a run in with the bases loaded when Ricky came up. He hit a sizzling line drive up the middle — but for some unknown reason, Viña was playing there. He made a great backhanded pickup and turned it into a double play.

The Brewers tied the game in the fourth on three singles — the last by Mike Matheny with two strikes in the count. Matheny had just swung and missed on a curve, and Vern and I looked at each other.

“I hope he doesn’t throw another curve,” I said.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Vern replied.

Holt threw the curve, and Matheny singled up the middle.

I slammed my fist against the bat rack.

We have been getting killed with two-strike curve balls all year long. I guess they don’t teach the Jerry Lucas photo-memory course at Dartmouth.

The next inning, Holt got wild. He walked a batter and made two mistakes up in the strike zone. We were down 3-1.

Phil Garner removed his starting pitcher, Joel Adamson, after five innings, and I felt a little better. Adamson is one of those soft-tossing lefties who gives us fits.

The new pitcher, righthander Mike Fetters, had better stuff.

In the seventh, we threatened a comeback. Thomas Howard took off for third on a double-steal with one out. He appeared to be safe, but Eric Gregg called him out. Tank grabbed his helmet in disbelief; Cubby started arguing. I walked out deliberately, thinking This might not be a bad time to get thrown out

I started yelling at Gregg when I was still twenty feet away. I gestured with my arms, used every expletive in the book. Luckily for me, he got right in my face and screamed back.

At one point, I said, “It wasn’t even bleeping close.”

He said, “you’re right, it wasn’t even bleeping close.”

We both repeated that line, like children, four or five times.

Finally he said, “When you watch the replay, you’re going to have to apologize to me.”

“I’ll tell you what, Eric,” I said. “When I see the replay, if you are right, I will apologize.”

He seemed satisfied with this, and I was about spent. I turned to walk back to the dugout, and I got a standing ovation.

I don’t know why Eric let me persist so long. But for a man who seemed to be irate, he sure showed a lot of patience. By going toe-to-toe with me, he made it possible for me to show some passion. The way we have been going, I didn’t have to fake it. Still, I don’t know if I could have raged if he had just turned away and shrugged me off.

 

Everyone was fired up when I got back to the dugout, but Derek grounded out to end the inning.

In the eighth, we scored a run on Bagwell’s single and Abreu’s double. We came up short in the ninth, leaving the bases loaded. Ricky Gutierrez made the last out.

Afterward, a radio reporter said, “How did you come up with Gutierrez as a cleanup man? That’s a joke.”

“Who would you like to have hitting cleanup? I asked. “Have you got any better ideas? Would you like to make out the lineup?”

This put the guy on the defense, but it also got those pens and pencils going. I knew it would be in the paper the next day, and I didn’t care. I didn’t even get too upset after the rhubarb with Gregg; I guess I’m getting hardened to the task. A month ago, I would have been distressed by my lack of composure. Now I go wild and don’t even care.

I guess I’m making some good progress in this job.

 

When I got home, Judy was jogging, and Ryan was playing video baseball with a friend. I wasn’t sleepy, but I sure didn’t feel like doing anything. We were supposed to go to a 30^th birthday party for Gonzo later on, and I just laid down to cool out.

Judy came back, and she thought I was mad. I wasn’t asleep when she turned out the lights, but I did fall asleep later, and I didn’t wake up until after the party was started. She was still in her jogging clothing, and Ryan was at a friend’s house.

I mentioned the party, and she gave me the quick, over-the-shoulder glance of disapproval. She was cooking dinner. 

“I didn’t think you wanted to go, because you were sleeping,” she said.

We had a brief exchange, but I sure didn’t want to do the rhubarb thing again. I just sat quietly, reading the paper. Ryan came home and we had dinner. We played Yahtzee and then went to Ryan’s room.

He is happy now because he gets to quit his team and join a new one. He thinks he will get a chance to pitch. Who knows?

 

Judy read to Ryan. We were all in his bed — the three of us and the two dogs. It was what the sushi crowd might call quality time.

 

For the first time, I questioned myself for taking the manager’s job.

 

Is this what you really want? Is it because of the money, the fame, the perks? Is it for all the wrong reasons? Or is this just a bad day that will turn good tomorrow?

 

I think it will be the latter. The next month will surely answer those questions.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 29 ● Chicago, vs White Sox

I went to Niketown today. This is one of the perks of being back in uniform.

Each year, I have noticed that players leaving Chicago have big bags of Nike goodies. I’m not sure how they allot the giveaways, but my deal was for $1,000 in two installments. Judy and Ryan went last time we were in town, so this was my first trip. It is quite a production.

You go to the fifth floor and introduce yourself. They check their roster, and tell you to “just do it” on the other four floors. The gear covers a wide range of activities, including running, tennis, basketball, golf, skiing, climbing, biking, and leisure.

The $500 goes pretty fast at full price; I got a ski jacket and a sweatshirt for myself, a pair of shoes for Judy, and some sweats for Julia. The total came to $501. I took out a dollar, and they told me not to worry about it.

I don’t know how they can be so loose and fast with their money. I think they made Tiger Woods a pretty good deal, too.

 

New Comiskey Park isn’t nearly as nice as the other new baseball-only ballparks. It is monochromatic (blue) and it is symmetrical and sterile.

Even so, it is a major improvement on the multisport bowls of my era.

The White Sox made a big mistake when they erected the New Comiskey in the demolition dust of Old Comiskey.

If you go to a game at Wrigley Field, you can spend time before and after in the cafés, shops, and taverns in the quaint North Side neighborhood. The same neighborhood charm beckons fans to Fenway, and it lures them to the new ballparks in Cleveland, Baltimore, and Denver. Our new ballpark in Houston will be the same way.

At Comiskey, the game’s the thing. If you went for a stroll in this neighborhood, you might get mugged. Fact is, they found bullet holes in several seats in the upper deck.

I don’t know how the White Sox could have ignored the reason for the demise of the old ballparks in St Louis, Cincinnati, and Philadelphia. When a ballpark is surrounded by urban decay, folks don’t get that romantic impulse to go to a game.

Luckily, the Sox benefit from superstation WGN. Without this advantage, they would be in bad shape.

The Braves didn’t really get it right, either. There is no neighborhood to speak of around Turner Field, and you cannot get there on MARTA.

It is discouraging to know that the baseball owners, who are making decisions that will usher the game into the next century, have so little knowledge of the history of the game and the nature of its fans.

 

Another example of this myopic vision is the futile attempt to win the hearts of the young. Great sums of money were spent on demographic studies that prove the 16-25 age group is not interested in the sport; I could have told them that for free.  

From the time a teenager gets his wheels, until the time he or she settles down to raise a family, it is party time — fast and furious. This type of activity is antithetical to baseball.

When we bastardize the game to attract the young, we alienate our older fans. With too much loud music, too many mascots, and too much hype, we portray our sport as a three-ring circus — and we lose the pastoral pleasures that made baseball the American Pastime.

I’m not for a return to the old days; I don’t mind music and mascots, and I love the DiamondVision features between innings. I just think a little more discretion is in order.

We all know the 1994 strike is the reason for the decline in attendance and TV ratings, but we make ourselves look as foolish and transparent as a chastised child when we go garish trying to recover attention.

 

A little more than 20,000 fans came out to see us play the White Sox on a Friday night. Again, we made many mistakes, and this time it didn’t take a great team like the Braves to capitalize and beat us.

Three times in one inning, our infielders couldn’t get the handle on the ball after catching it — and the Sox scored twice, when they should not have scored at all.

But these mistakes were physical; our mental mistakes were made by one man: Derek Bell.

Midway through the game, he swung at an ankle-high 1-0 curveball when Bogey had second base stolen. If he had taken the pitch, it would have been a 2-0 count with a man on second. Instead, it was a dribbler back to the mound for out number three.

The next time he came up, there were runners on first and third and nobody out. Biggio was on first, and the White Sox pitcher was slow to the plate. Biggio would have stolen second for sure if Derek had been patient.

I would have had no problem with him swinging at the first pitch if it had been up in the strike zone, where he could drive it into the outfield. But he swung at an ankle-high breaking ball again, and he tapped the ball to third. Bidge was out at second, and the run did not score.

Luckily, we got that run home on an errant pickoff throw. But we could have had a big inning if Derek had been more patient.

He did make a great catch in right-center early in the game. But in the eighth inning, he didn’t even try to catch a ball that Frank Thomas hit to right-center. There were two strikes in the count, and our scouting report said that we should shade him to right with two strikes.

For some reason, centerfielder James Mouton was playing straight away. This was partly our fault for not moving him. Mouton ran halfway across the outfield chasing the ball; Derek jogged over to watch. It was a high, slicing fly ball, and it didn’t even make it to the warning track. Mouton’s route to the ball was somewhat circular, and he still got a glove on it as he dove. Derek could have been standing under it, if he had hustled.  

Thomas ended up on second, representing the tying run. Russ Johnson made a great diving play to rob Albert Belle, then Robin Ventura hit a sinking liner to right. Derek had no chance to catch it, but I guess he felt he had to make up for the other play, so he came racing in and dove in vain. He didn’t even come close; the ball skipped by him for a triple. Mike Cameron singled that run home, and we lost 5-4. If we had a heads-up right-fielder, we would have taken a 4-3 lead into the ninth inning.

 

I suppose Chicagoland fans are aware of our two great players. Those who have not been to Wrigley got a firsthand view of it. Bagwell hit a homer and drove in two runs; Biggio hit a single a double and a home run, drove in a run and scored twice. If he keeps it up, he might score 150 runs this year.

He may have to score that many, if we keep playing sloppy baseball. But I don’t think we will. I believe we have another hot streak in us. And I think the guys do too. But the murmurs in the clubhouse tonight were unsubtle. To summarize, I would say, “If we can’t win it with him, let’s win it in spite of him.”

Anything that can rally the troops is all right with me. But I would surely have it another way if I had my choice.

 

Before the game, I asked Paul Weaver, our American League scout, to sit in on our meeting as we discussed the White Sox. It gave him a chance to see how we use his information. After the game, I had a few beers with him and commiserated about the game.

“Your report was right on the money,” I said. “Too bad we didn’t implement it on Thomas in the eighth.”

“I know,” he said. That ball has to be caught.”

“It’s the human element, Paul,” I said. “If the players don’t use the information, it’s of no use. Luckily, most of the guys get it right most of the time.”

THURSDAY, AUGUST 28 ● Atlanta, vs Braves

I suppose The Mask of Apollo is putting me in a tragic frame of mind. The book weaves characters such as Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Homer, Greek playwrights, actors, and political leaders into a plot rich with philosophy and rife with treachery.

It is impossible to ignore the comparison between the book and the power struggles of the diamond and the intrigue of the backroom politics.

 

We are still wavering on the Dave Clark trade. The Cubs are clearly willing to part with him, but we have to decide what price we are willing to pay. The money will amount to about $180,000.

The players they want are only marginal prospects, but the contribution he can make is impossible to predict. He could help us win a couple of games, which could be the difference in winning or losing the division. Or he could see very little action and provide no help.

This is a tough call — and in the end, Gerry will have to make it.

One thing that may argue in favor of the deal is injuries. Tank Howard aggravated an Achilles’ injury last night, and Chuckie strained his left shoulder in batting practice today and had to be scratched from the lineup.

These injuries are thought to be minor, and we should know how long they will be out before Sunday, when we have to set our playoff roster. If those two guys are still hurt, we will likely make the deal.  

On the upside of the injury equation is Sean Berry, who is recovering rapidly from his calf-muscle pull.

 

It is hard to see how Denny Neagle wins so many ballgames. He doesn’t throw all that hard, and his breaking stuff isn’t really sharp. His changeup is excellent, and his control is good. These attributes, combined with the ability to hold runners, along with confidence and poise, allow him outpitch guys who throw harder, like D.K.  Both were 17-3 going into the game.

The difference in this one could be measured in inches and feet. Ryan Klesko and Javy Lopez hit 800-feet-worth of home runs. Lopez’ long ball followed a catcher’s-interference call on a pitch that Klesko grounded to short for the apparent third out of the inning. The interference could not be seen on the replay, but Tony Eusebio felt it.

“He didn’t hit my mitt,” he said. “He just hit the lacing.” Lopez hit a three-run homer on the next pitch.

Later, James Mouton hit a fly ball to the outfield and trotted to first. Bill stopped him on his way back into the dugout.

“You have to run a little better on a ball like that,” Bill said. “You never know when a guy will drop it, and you’d be mighty embarrassed if you didn’t make it to second.”

Well, wouldn’t you know? One inning later, Tim Bogar hit a fly ball to Klesko. Bogey hustled around first, and was halfway to second when Klesko dropped the ball. Bogey made a big turn back to the dugout; he had dropped his eyes just before Klesko dropped the ball.

We screamed at Bogey, but the Braves got the ball back in in time to tag him out. What a way for him to come back from a funeral leave.

Kile was the next batter, and he could have bunted Bogey to third.

Biggio hit a long fly to left. There is no way of knowing what would have happened if Bogey had been safe at second, but there is a pretty good chance he would have scored.

Kile went the distance, but the Braves won 4-2.

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 27 ● Atlanta, vs Braves

I arose at 9:00 so I could have breakfast and read the paper before I met Jim Gund for a photo session at International Records. Howard Cohen was most hospitable. He bought the coffee and waxed poetic, escorting me around the small-but-artful space that is his musical kingdom, taking care to position me for the camera.

Howard’s father, Milton, who is a remarkably spry veteran of 88 years on the planet, came out from the storeroom, gesticulating widely and speaking with live-eyed passion and infectious humor. Milton’s wife, Fay, sat behind the register, running the business, taking it all in.

Jim shot a couple of rolls, but I doubt it will make the cut at SI. It will seem, I fear, a bit too folksy.

Here’s a joke for you, as told by Howard:

 

It is the time of the High Holy Days, and the rabbi is feeling very emotional. He kneels before the Ark of the Torah in prayer and says, “Most high, most perfect God, I humble myself before you. I am unworthy of your profound holiness. I am but a grain of sand in the sea of your divinity.”

The sweet sorrow of this confession is more than the cantor Samuel can bear. Now he approaches the Torah and kneels alongside the Rabbi:  

“Dear God, hear my humble prayer. I am most unworthy of your grace. I am nothing, not a speck of dirt, before you.”

Sol, who has come by to make a delivery, and who is seldom seen at the temple, is filled with passion. He too, kneels before the Torah.

“God help me, for I, too am unworthy. I am nothing. Bathe me in your light and your goodness.”

About this time Samuel nudges the rabbi and whispers under his breath, “Look who thinks he’s nothing.”

 

Howard gave Jim a CD when we left. Jim accompanied me back to the room, where he posed me writing my journal and smoking a cigar. It was a silhouette pose, in front of the window — the type of pose that could be dreamy if the subject had a more comely profile and did not have a cigar. Forgive me for being unworthy. I forgive you, SI, for not using this shot. I may not forgive you if you do.

 

The Perfessor and I left for the Braves’ beautiful new ballpark at 2:30.

If you think the Braves are prospering on their excellent baseball organization alone, consider this: Almost every new stadium had been named after a corporation or product.  The price for this imprimatur can be as much as fifty million dollars. The Braves’ new ballpark is named Turner Field, after the owner of the team. This practice goes back to the days of William Wrigley, when owners weren’t desperate for money.

The Braves will never be desperate for money as long as they play on the Superstation TBS. They could finish last and make money. Without the Superstation, the Braves would not be perennial superheroes — and their new playpen might be named Teledyne Stadium.

The Braves will likely make a deal for a relief pitcher in the next few days, to ensure another division title. They won’t have to ask, “How much does he make?” They are like Nike: they’ll just do it.  That won’t stop them from mining amateur gold, either. They spend $14 million a year on scouting and development. We spend more than most teams, at $6.5 mil.

 

The impending pennant race has refocused attention on me, and us. I did interviews for ESPN, FOX, CNN radio, and a chat session for the Atlanta Constitution. Jim Gund was shooting photos all the while.

Just before game time, I saw Gonzo hand Bagwell a $2 bill.

“Put this in your shoe tonight,” he said.

Bagwell frowned. “What for?”       

“Don’t ask, just do it.” Gonzo replied. “I got one for myself, too.”

I assume both players carried amulets into the fray. The heroes and casualties were so plentiful that the game story should have been written by Homer. I suppose I could invoke the muse to help my unworthy pen, but I don’t know how.

With Greg Maddux going against Chris Holt, the odds against us winning were 11:5, according to USA Today. You will not see longer odds in a major-league baseball game.

As is so often the case, odds don’t mean much when a pitcher is sharp — and in this game, Holt was at his best.

We drew first blood in the fourth on a double by Ricky Gutierrez and a single by Bill Spiers. Tony Graffanino hit a hanging slider over the left-field fence to tie the score in the fifth.

It was still tied at 1 when Keith Lockhart reached on an error leading off the bottom of the eighth. Kenny Lofton singled to right, and Derek tried to throw Lockhart out at third, missing the cutoff man and allowing Lofton to move up to second.

With Mark Wohlers tuning up in the Braves’ bullpen, we drew the infield in. Jeff Blauser lined a shot back at Holt; he knocked it down and threw Blauser out. Chipper Jones was due, and I wanted him to bat right-handed, so I brought Tom Martin into the game.

Brad wanted to walk Jones and try for the double play with Fred McGriff, but I did not want to load the bases. Sometimes it takes a few pitches for a relief pitcher to get used to the mound, and McGriff has a good eye and might draw a walk. The double play is a one-in-ten shot.

“Don’t give him anything good to hit,” I told Martin. “Strike him out or pop him up. If you walk him, you walk him.  

“We can’t afford a fly ball,” Brad said.

“No, we can’t afford a deep fly ball,” I corrected. “A popup or a short fly ball will work just fine.”

Martin got Jones to foul back a couple of pitches. On a 1-2 count, he tried a curve ball, and it was a good one. Jones went down and hit a hard ground ball, and it just got by a diving Gutierrez. Gonzo missed the cutoff man, and Jones moved up to second.

The crowd roared approval, but Martin didn’t quit. Down 3-1, he retired the next two hitters.

Our prospects looked rather bleak as Wohlers came lumbering in from the bullpen. The crowd screamed for Astros blood, but Spiers shut them up with a leadoff triple. Ausmus hit a sacrifice fly to make It 3-2 Braves.

With a 2-1 count on Carr, Bill turned to me and said, “I hope he throws him a strike, because he’s going to be swinging.”

Wohlers delivered the strike. Carr swung. The ball arched over Andruw Jones and into the seats in right field. The game was tied.

Russ Springer came in and walked the first batter in the bottom of the ninth. Then he found the range and blew them away with a fusillade of 95 MPH fastballs.

We got a couple of baserunners in the tenth inning, but did not score. In a way, we now had the advantage, because they had used their only lefthanded reliever — Alan Embree — and Wohlers was also through for the night. But each time we failed to score, they had two more innings to win it.

Bobby Cox was running out of players, and so was I. The Braves had rookie righthander Kerry Ligtenberg on the mound. He has good stuff, but he has trouble holding runners.

With one out, Biggio walked and stole second and third. Derek Bell brought him home with a looping single to right. Our dugout erupted. Then the skies emptied. The game was delayed for half-an-hour by rain.

Mike Magnante came on when the rain ceased, and he got the first batter. But then Danny Bautista got an infield hit. It was really frustrating, because Billy Spiers was playing in for the bunt at third. With two strikes, he moved back. Bautista dribbled the ball down the line, and Billy made a great play but missed the fleet Bautista by half a step.

Cubby asked me if I wanted to guard the line. I said, “no.” I have never believed in the “prevent defense” in football or in baseball. I believe in playing for the most-likely occurrence.

Magnante struck out Andruw Jones, but then the least-likely occurrence occurred. On a 3-2 pitch, Greg Colbrunn hit a bouncer down the third-base line, fair by inches. Bautista was running. He scored easily, and we were tied again.  

Tony Graffanino flied out, and we came up in the twelfth.

We went down without a murmur, and John Hudek came into the game. Hudie survived a hit and a walk, and we came up again in the 13th.

With one out, Biggio was hit by a pitch. Bell came up, and I told Bill to give Cubby the don’t run sign. I was just hoping that Derek wouldn’t hit into a double play. If Bidge had stolen and Derek made an out, they would walk Bagwell. Derek made the out, and Bagwell came up. This time he came through with a homer, and we led 6-4.

Hudie went back to the mound and was greeted by a Bautista single. Andruw Jones followed with a fly ball to the wall in center. Then Michael Tucker drew a walk. At that point, Hudie looked exhausted, and I considered bringing in José Lima; Vern wanted to give Hudie one more hitter.

The first two pitches to Graffanino missed by a mile. I couldn’t wait. Lima came in and threw ball three, then he got two called strikes and after three foul balls, Graffanino popped out.

Now last night’s hero, Javy Lopez, came up representing the winning run. This time Lima did not quake. He struck out Lopez on three pitches.

 

At 12:45, five hours after it had begun, the players and coaches who were still in the dugout spilled onto the field in victory.

Lima was jumping up and down; just about everyone else wore the wan smile of one who has faced death and survived.

Biggio was covered with dirt from head to toe. Gutierrez was limping. Eusebio, who came in in a double-switch and had to catch the last two innings — and will have to catch Kile tomorrow with an injured knee — trudged to the mound to congratulate José. González, Carr, and Bell walked in from the outer garden. The infield dirt looked like a mine field.

The troops gathered behind the mound to press the flesh in victory. They exited stage left, a slow procession of weary heroes.