Category: Rookie Manager’s Journal

MONDAY, JUNE 16 ● Kansas City, vs Royals

Our first impression of Kansas City is the Ritz Carlton and the Plaza Neighborhood. For some reason, I did not preconceive this city to be charming, but that is the first word that comes to mind. Charming, cosmopolitan, stylish — all words I did not expect to use.

Maybe I have spent too much time in downtown St Louis. Maybe I expected earthy, honest, and traditional. Maybe that is how I perceived the entire Midwest.

This neighborhood in Kansas City is up-to-date, in a retro-trendy kind of way. I’ll just say it’s a lot more interesting than St Louis — the Gateway Arch notwithstanding.

We had lunch at a sidewalk café. The food wasn’t up to expectations, but we enjoyed the passing parade. Judy took off on a sightseeing tour. She loves to explore new places by herself. I went back to the room, to work on scouting reports.

We took a cab to the ballpark at 2:00. The cabbie told us there was high water between the hotel and the stadium, so he would have to take us a roundabout way. This I perceived to be a bunch of bullshit. And when we took the bus home after the game, my notion was confirmed. This sort of sophistication goes beyond urbane and into the realm of urban decay.

At least he told us he was going the long way. In New York, they just do it.

           

Kauffman Stadium is a delight. The clubhouse is commodious, and the manager’s quarters ample. The only thing that betrays the 25 years of its existence is the shower stall. The nozzle must have been designed for short guys like Earl Weaver — or some other Earl from centuries past. The spray hit me in the chest.

That was the end. Let me start at the beginning of this most pregnant day of baseball.

 

I addressed the team before batting practice. I asked them to gather around, but Derek chose to sit in his locker behind me. I started by saying that though I wanted them to think for themselves, it was not acceptable to ignore signs because you think you have a better idea. I mentioned the situation where Derek did not run on the 3-1 count, but I did not name him as the culprit.

I also reiterated my position that we should get a good lead and a good jump on 3-1 and 3-2 pitches and on hit-and-run plays. I felt like I was staring at mostly blank faces, but I saw some signs of approval.

Oddly enough, Thomas Howard was nodding yes as I spoke. One thing I have learned is that you can’t judge a ballplayer by his outward demeanor. It’s the book-by-its-cover adage.

I recall players insinuating that young Willie McCovey was lazy, because he didn’t seem to hustle. He just moseyed along — for 25 years — playing day-after-day on his way to the Hall of Fame. By the time he retired, he was a role model. The last word anyone would have used to describe him was lazy.

Anyway, I am still perplexed by Howard. Sometimes it seems he doesn’t give a damn — like he’s a mercenary ballplayer, a hired gun. Other times, it seems he is a confident and determined ballplayer: a guy who doesn’t bullshit, but lets his bat do the talking. When I do spend some time with him, he seems intelligent and dedicated.

As my speech went on, I meandered into the part about improving our fundamentals by doing short practice sessions before batting practice at home. Gerry was standing in the back of the room. The players were caught between us.

I asked them what they thought, but they didn’t — couldn’t — say much.

           

When we broke into groups, I went with the pitchers and catchers, because I wanted to make sure Vern mentioned that Jose Offerman and Jeff King were swinging hot bats. I also wanted him to mention the running game that the Royals employ. After speaking with him, I went back to the position-players meeting, and joined it in progress.

Seems Derek took charge, and he was in mid-diatribe. What he said made almost no sense at all. There was a common thread, however: we should have a set lineup. The rest of it was the incoherent ramblings of a chastised child. At least that’s the way I took it.

If I hadn’t mentioned not running on the 3-1 pitch, I don’t think he would have spoken. But I’m glad he did. The other players didn’t pay much attention to him. It is not an admirable trait to make excuses when you are not performing. The players favor deeds to words. 

But at least Derek got his emotions out in the open. I’m in favor of venting, and I thanked him for his honesty and asked if anyone else wanted to speak. When no one else came forward, I asked Mac what he thought about a set lineup. He said he favored it. Said it would be good if we could find eight guys who complemented one another. Then he issued a challenge to stick to the fundamentals.

“If we had guys who could bunt, hit-and-run, move runners from second to third, get them home from third with one out, we wouldn’t have to worry about set lineups. We would be winning, and everyone would be happy.

“Take the last road trip, for example. We were 4-4, but if we executed the fundamentals properly, we would have been 6-2 minimum. That’s my concern. Not the lineup. Fundamental hitting.”

“As long as we’re doing this,” Bill said, “I’ve got something to say that has been building up inside me for the last few weeks.” He raised his voice, and his face got red. There was no pretense of hiding the anger.

“I’ve got the ass. I admit it. But I’m tired of guys on this team worrying about what everyone else is doing.

“He can manage,” he said, pointing to me. “We can coach. Derek, you’re the last person that should criticize someone else. You aren’t even doing your own job.

“And that goes for everyone — even if you are doing a good job. It goes for Bidge, Bags, everyone. If you just do your own job and do it well, we won’t have any problems. I know I’m pissed, and I don’t care, because this needs to be said. There are too many guys worried about somebody else. Do your own job. That is all you have to do.

“We have a good club. But we aren’t going to be worth a shit if all we do is worry about everyone else. Do your own damn job. That’s all you have to do.”

There was a brief pause. Then he continued, “Okay, let’s go over the outfield positioning. Offerman: Play him shallow and slightly to the off field … ”

I was so grateful to Bill for showing this emotion, and for saying what I should have said myself. He is normally a stoic guy, and when he went off, he really got everyone’s attention.

It didn’t seem to carry over into the game.  We failed to get Biggio over to third after his leadoff double, failed to get him in. Later, we fouled up a big inning with bad baserunning. Then we gave them a four-run seventh when we did not have the range at shortstop and in center to make the plays that could have held them scoreless.

These were not misplays; they were evidence of a structural weakness that we identified in spring training. We simply do not have a good defensive centerfielder or shortstop. It is hard to pitch around those two positions — especially when third base is a little shaky too.

I had another case of bullheadedness in the seventh when I brought Russ Springer in to pitch, with men on first and third and on out.

“Don’t worry about Goodwin,” I said. “We are not going to throw through. Don’t worry about the runner at third. If he scores, we’re still tied. Just blow these next two guys away. Blow it by them. You’re the man for the job. Strike them out. Pop them up. If they hit a fly ball and the run scores, so be it. But if you get the next two hitters, the worst thing that could happen is that we will be tied up.”

In my mind, these were specific instructions to try to throw fastballs by Jay Bell and Jeff King. It might not have worked, but I’ll never know.

Brad Ausmus had a “better” idea. He wanted to trick them by throwing cut fastballs and curve balls away from the hitters. Springer followed his catcher, right down the primrose path. He walked Bell and fell behind King. Then he had to throw King fastballs, and he nearly got the third strike by him, but Brad couldn’t hold the foul tip.

On the next pitch, King doubled to center. The ball should have been caught for a sacrifice fly, but James Mouton turned the wrong way. Two runs scored. Springer walked Chili Davis. Tom Martin came in and gave up a single to Johnny Damon. We lost 5-2. 

Talk is cheap. But I plan to do a little more of it tomorrow. This time it will not be meetings, but individual chat sessions with Springer and Ausmus.

SUNDAY, JUNE 15 ● FATHER’S DAY ● Houston, vs Minnesota

I thought about my Dad when Judy and the kids gave me my Father’s Day card and a Hawaiian golf shirt this morning. He wasn’t much of a golfer, nor was he much of a beach fan. He did like Hawaiian shirts, however. I guess he liked to loosen up after a hard day’s work. He was always a hard worker.

I thought about how nice it would be if we could win a championship this year, and I could mention him on TV in front of the whole country.

           

When I got to the ballpark, I met with the coaches. They were generally disinclined to start practicing fundamentals before batting practice.

“Tell him to get us a shortstop and a centerfielder,” Mac said. “It’s not fundamentals we’re lacking, it’s ability. You have to have the horses.”

Bill’s opinion was that we would lose the team if we started having punitive workouts.

“If we drop out of the race, it’ll be different,” he said. “Then we won’t care how they feel. But we’re still in the race, and I think we should save our energy for the game. I think they take too much batting practice as it is.”

Cubby didn’t think workouts would be well-received.

“You’ve got to understand, this is a different brand of ballplayer,” he said. “It’s not like when we played. These guys do whatever the hell they want to, and if you put any heat on them, they call their agents. I’ve had superstars shit on me more than once, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

When we met with Gerry later on, we struck a compromise plan. It stemmed from Bill reminding us that in spring training fundamental drills, a lot of players are just standing around waiting for their turn.

“I don’t think you want a lot of guys out here standing around,” he said.

“What if we worked in smaller groups?” Gerry asked.

This idea struck a chord.

We already have Ricky Gutierrez doing exercises to improve his footwork. We have Sean Berry on a program designed specifically for his shoulder problem. Why not bring starting pitchers out to bunt at game speed against a pitching machine?

What about designing a drill for our fake-bunt/steal-a-base routine? It worked well at first, but then we abandoned it because the bunters were not executing the move like Tim Foli.

What about a pickoff-play drill? A bunt-play drill? What about working with some of the outfielders who have problems going up against the wall? What about full-speed bunting practice for some of our better runners?

I think these things make sense, and I hope the players will buy into it. If we have a 20-minute drill every day we are at home, and it only involves 4-7 players, it shouldn’t be such an imposition or a drag on much-needed game energy.

I am going to announce this program in Kansas City tomorrow night. We will start it on the next homestand.

Cubby made another suggestion, based on feedback that Biggio wasn’t getting enough fielding practice.

“He always takes grounders during the first group, then sits on the bench during the next group. If I throw to the first group, I can’t hit to him. He doesn’t want to catch grounders in the second group. I guess that doesn’t fit his personal program.

“If we went to 15-minute sessions, he could field in the first or second group and he would only rest on the bench for 15 minutes. This would also have the benefit of having fewer hitters in each group, which would allow everyone more time for their preparation in the field.” 

“Do you see any problem in this for the outfielders, Bill?” I asked.

“Not at all,” he said.

“How about you, Mac?”

“No problem.”

I felt pretty good about these changes. I hope the players will feel good about them too.

           

The game was tough again. It started like déjà vu.

Knoblauch walked; Lawton hit a home run. Like Kile, Chris Holt stiffened and held them scoreless until we pinch-hit for him in the seventh.

José Lima pitched better than ever, retiring five consecutive batters before Knoblauch singled, bringing Lawton to the plate.

I went to Wagner. Tom Kelly went to Greg Colbrunn. Colbrunn hit Wagner’s second pitch to third and Spiers, who played a brilliant all-around game, made the play.

With each passing inning, my respect grew for the Twins. No, they were not blessed with great speed or great power. Their pitchers didn’t throw very hard. But they were fundamentally sound. They simply did not do things to beat themselves.

In the ninth inning, they finally broke down. Eddie Guardado walked Derek Bell with one out. Mike Trombley came in and walked Sean Berry, hitting for Spiers. Then he walked Brad Ausmus on a 3-2 pitch.

With Listach hitting .180, we were still a long way from home. But Pat has been swinging a little better lately. I decided not to hit for him. At least he would have a better chance to beat the rap on a double-play grounder.

“We could squeeze here,” I told Bill. He smiled.

“That’s your call,” he said.

Normally the squeeze is employed only when there is a tag play at the plate. But with Derek Bell running, it wouldn’t take a perfect bunt to win the game.

“If the first pitch is ball one, let’s do it,” I said.

Well, wouldn’t you know, the first pitch was ball one. I was worried on two counts. First, Bell might miss the sign. Second, Pat might foul up the bunt. It’s a pressure play all the way. We’ve tried it three times this year, with two fouls and a missed sign.

This time, both players got the sign, and Pat popped up the bunt, down the third-base side. Terry Steinbach fired out from behind the plate, and was on it in a flash. But for some reason he simply dropped the ball. Bell sped by and scored the run — or did he?

Steinbach thought fast. He threw the ball to third, but Ausmus thought fast too — and ran fast and was safe at third.  If he had been out, the Twins would likely have turned the double play, because Listach, in his disgust over bunting poorly, wasn’t running to first. A third-to-first double play would have negated Bell’s winning run.

Talk about winning by the skin or your teeth!

We were lucky to say the least, but then, we had been hitting in bad luck all weekend long.

           

Now it’s off to Kansas City and a three-game set with the surprising Royals. Bob Boone’s team is two games below .500, but still in second place, just 3-1/2 games behind the Indians. I didn’t think the Twins were a good ballclub, and they were tough. I don’t expect the Royals to be any easier.

Judy is with me on this trip. Neither of us has been to Kansas City. We are looking forward to the visit.

 

SATURDAY, JUNE 14 ● Houston, vs Twins

Judy stayed up to commiserate with me last night, so I was a little bleary-eyed when I arose at 9 a.m. I had to be at Norton Ditto at 10 to pick up some clothing and to be fitted for another sports coat. There were quite a few customers, and I spent a lot of time talking baseball, though that was not my predilection.

Owner Dick Hite kidded me about the billboard of me and Rudy Tomjanovich that he put up along the Loop near the Galleria. In the photo, Rudy has his elbow resting on my shoulder. He makes me look like a pipsqueak. I know he is only a few inches taller than me, but I don’t mind.

Through some miracle of trick photography, I was made to look thin. I would much rather look short-and-thin than tall-and-fat. In the juxtaposition of photographs, Rudy came out looking like a giant, and I looked like the beanstalk.

“We had them do the proportions so it would look right,” Dick said with a smile.

“You got it just right,” I said.

Next Thursday, we are going to play golf and have dinner. Rudy and his wife Sophie might join us. It will be interesting to see what Dick thinks of the proportions when he sees them in living color.

 

I got back in time to pick up Ryan and head for the Dome with Cubby. Ryan’s team, the Stars, is going to a clinic that takes place before batting practice. We arrived half an hour before the clinic, so I could catch Ryan in the bullpen. His arm is finally feeling better; I guess his growth-plate problem is subsiding.

I thought he threw the ball pretty well, and he seemed to enjoy it. Probably felt like a big shot, as a lot of the kids who were there for the clinic saw him getting the special attention. Vern came out and checked his mechanics. Then we played some long-toss.

Ryan spotted his team as they came out into the outfield, and he ran to join them. “He’s blessed with a good arm,” Vern told me. I was proud to hear it, but I don’t think he has an arm like I had at that stage.

I could always throw harder than any other kid in my neighborhood – or, later, in high school. Ryan is definitely above-average, but there are several other kids around who throw harder. That’s all right, though. Darryl Kile didn’t even make his high-school team, and now he is our best pitcher. Each kid develops at his own pace.

The important thing for Ryan, or any other kid who wants to be a ballplayer, is perseverance. There is so much failure in baseball that a lot of good athletes quit in favor of another sport. I think he has a chance to be pretty good. I hope he stays with it, but I will not pressure him.

           

D.K. was our pitcher tonight. That made me feel pretty good about our chances.

The feeling didn’t last long.

Knoblauch singled for openers, then Matt Lawton followed with a homer. In effect, we were beaten after the second hitter of the game, but it didn’t seem that way.

Biggio hit a solo homer leading off the first. We had several chances to break through against four Twins pitchers, but we never got another run.

In the meantime, Kile settled down and pitched a fine ballgame. I took him out for a pinch-hitter, down 2-1 with one out in the bottom of the seventh. Bill Spiers delivered a pinch hit and raced to third on Biggio’s single. Thomas Howard ripped one up the middle, slightly on the third-base side. Pat Mears was playing up the middle, and he turned it into an easy 6-3 double play.

Twice earlier we had first-and-third with one out. Sean Berry ripped one off the pitcher’s glove, and it deflected to Knoblauch for a double play. The other time, James Mouton hit a line drive up the middle, and the pitcher stabbed it and then got Bagwell to end the inning.

We weren’t playing our best, but we were a lot better than last night. Unfortunately, Russ Springer and José Lima failed to hold the line. We lost 6-1. It was our third loss in a row, but it felt like ten.

FRIDAY, JUNE 13 ● Houston, vs Twins

This Friday the 13th could give a fellow triskaidekaphobia (fear of the number 13) – at least, a fellow wearing the livery of the Astros. Our interleague rivals in this historic game, the Twins, thought it was their lucky day.

About the only silver lining I could see in this one was that Chuck Knoblauch had a perfect day. Chuck is a native of Houston. He attended Bellaire High School, where he was coached by his Dad, Ray. Ray was such a good coach that Bellaire was a perennial powerhouse. Families would move across town so that their aspiring ballplayers could be coached by Ray Knoblauch.

Chuck went on to Texas A&M, then signed with the Twins, whereupon he became one of the stars of the game. I know it was a great thrill for him to play so well in front of his family and friends. And to be honest, I didn’t mind him tearing a hole in our defense, because our defense — the pitching and the fielding — was so bad that the Twins would have won easily, even if Chuck had gone hitless.

This was clearly our worst effort of the year. And our worst player in this, our most pitiful showing, was the returning hero, Derek Bell.

I had heard from Gerry that Derek was unhappy during his rehab assignment with New Orleans. I guess he didn’t get the star treatment down there: no special favors, no posh locker rooms. And to make matters worse, he didn’t even have his Bentley, so he couldn’t recline properly on the way home. Gerry said that he complained constantly, and he kept asking to go back to Houston to work out on his own.

Before we left on the trip, he told me that he could be ready in a week, but he thought it would be better to take couple of extra days to make sure.

“Besides,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to have to break back in in LA, against their pitching staff.”

Now there’s a real team player for you. Proud enough to own two Bentleys but still humble enough to fear the Dodgers’ pitching staff.

Since he did not take serious batting practice while he was in Indianapolis with the Zephyrs, he wasn’t ready — even for the soft-tossing Twins pitchers. He did manage to get a hit, but he also managed to screw up several plays in right field, his preferred position. On the second one, a slicing fly ball, he got twisted around and almost fell down.

Bill turned to me and said, “Watch this. Tomorrow he’ll want to play center again.”

 

We lost the game 8-1, and I was a little testy with the reporters. Not too much this time. I guess I was more subdued than anything.  What am I supposed to say about how I like interleague play? I wouldn’t like World Series play if we played like this. Honestly, there was no way to judge the Twins. They could be a great club, but we made so many mistakes it sort of darkened their spotlight.

I know Gerry and Drayton like to stay positive and upbeat. Most of the time it is easy for me to do this, because I’m generally a happy guy and my expectations of myself my not be as high as Tony La Russa’s or Jimmy Leyland’s. But no manager above T-ball could be satisfied with what we did tonight.

I told the press it was our worst game of the year. What else could I tell them? They were watching the game.

 

Drayton was right there in the front row tonight. He had to be aching. With each loss, our financial future dims. And with a loss like this, even the owner gets blamed.

I remember when we lost nine in a row last year. The talk shows killed us. People were blaming the players, the team, the general manager, the manager, and the coaches. I made a comment one night that we broadcasters would be next on the firing line. That very night, a caller ripped into the announcing team.

 

We have now lost two in a row, and we are two games below .500, but only a game out of first place. Still, there is growing unrest, and I don’t think it is totally unfounded. We have been bumbling along for six weeks now. The tough travel is behind us. Our injured players are coming back. We have no good excuses.

It’s time to play ball.

THURSDAY, JUNE 12 ● off day in Houston

Up and at ’em at noon! Breakfast of Champions. Out the door, golf clubs over the shoulder. Today Cubby and I are guests of the Duncan family.

Carlos is a Virginia grad, like Mike. Better still, he has played the investment game better than Cubby or I played baseball.

Houston Country Club is his course. It is one of the most prestigious courses in the city. Carlos’ friend Titus was the fourth, and by far the best, player in our group. He fired a 73 at us, and it could have been better than that if he had sunk a couple of makeable putts.

I hit one 300 yards on the second hole. That was my last good shot.

Cubby played reasonably well, so I couldn’t use the lack of sleep as an excuse. As we came up to the 16th tee box, I told Carlos, “This is a great-looking hole, but I don’t think any of them will suit me better than the 19th today. I could plop down, have a cold beer, and forget this round in a hurry.  I might have to demand a rematch so you can see that I’m not really this bad.”

“I’ve been there, myself,” he said.

I suppose most golfers have gone to The Land of Lost Swings and Missed Putts. It was not first time for me, and it will likely not be the last.

Judy and Jan met us at by the pool, and we had a few cool beverages with Carlos and Titus and the Duncan entourage.

           

Judy and I left the country club for the distinctly unclublike, yet equally convivial atmosphere of the Mucky Duck saloon. We met Dave and Stephanie Labossiere, Rob and Kelly Matwick, and our old beat writer Neil Hohlfeld and his wife, Lynn, for an evening of acoustic music.

The headline attraction was Lucy Kaplansky. She wooed us with soft ballads and lullabies, attacked us with protest songs, and endeared herself to us with self-deprecating humor and twinkling eyes.

This evening was on Dave. He admires female folk singers, and Lisa is one of his favorites. I was drinking Guinness at $3 a pint. I reached capacity at two pints about 30 minutes before the end of the show. I did not have trouble falling asleep when we got home.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 11 ● Los Angeles, vs Dodgers

One day, many years ago, pitcher Tom Dukes was sitting in his locker, smoking, just prior to an early day game. He said he was having a Mexican breakfast: a cup of coffee and a cigarette. That image stuck with me. I think about it occasionally when I have to get out of bed and do something important right away.

This morning, we all met with Dad’s accountant and lawyer to discuss estate matters. I thought we were going to make decisions regarding the allocation of estate property. Instead, we got an overview of the plan and were left with the task of assigning assets.

As meetings go, I consider this one a waste of time and money. I shudder to think of the fees that we will pay for the two hours we spent talking strategy.

The gist of the matter is that they are the professionals, and they should make a recommendation and explain it to us so that we can either sign off on it or make adjustments. What we covered today should have taken no more than ten minutes on the telephone.

Not to worry. Dad left Mom with a nice nest egg. No matter what she does with it, it should allow her to live comfortably for the rest of her days.

The one thing that really bugged me was the IRA tax. Under current tax law, the $1.2 million that Dad saved for retirement will be taxed at about 75 percent. “You’d have about $300,000 to split once Uncle Sam took his share,” the lawyer told us.

This will not kill us, but it is killing families who have small businesses. The estate tax is so severe that they have to sell their businesses to pay the tax. Then they have to find new jobs. And this is supposed to be the greatest form of government in the world? Work all your life, pay taxes, save part of what is left for retirement and to pass along to your heirs. Give most of it back to the government when you die.

I understand there is talk of reforming the estate tax to help people with small businesses: farmers and the like. I hope they pass legislation to that effect before Mom dies. I think they will have ample time; she looks a lot better today. And she was attentive and alert during our meeting.

           

I saw my old broadcast partner, Dewayne Staats, at the ballpark today. He is covering the game for ESPN along with my old teammate, Dave Campbell. Dewayne’s wife, Dee, had a brain tumor removed about six months ago. She still hears ringing in her ears.  We are getting to the age where mortality taunts us. 

I’m hoping Dewayne finds his way back into our broadcast booth; I think he would like to get back to everyday work in baseball. It’s nice to do assignments for ESPN; it allows a little extra time at home in the summer, which is nice when you have young children. 

Dewayne and Dee have two girls, both lovely, both just a few years away from moving out of the house and into their own lives. He doesn’t need to be home as much in the summer anymore. Besides, the Astros are still his favorite team, just as they were when he was a young lad growing up in East Alton, Illinois.

 

Tonight’s game was all Dodgers. They pecked away at Mike Hampton, and finally chased him in the fifth inning. Mike did not appreciate being removed from the game in the fifth inning, behind 4-3 with a man on third and two outs.

If I had been pitching, I would want to stay in too.  After all, how much worse could it get? Your ERA is going up, regardless. If you get the next out, you have a chance to get lucky. The team might just have a big inning and make you a winner. Why not stay in?

In this case, it was because I did not have confidence in his ability to make good pitches. If he gets going, and starts pitching well, I’ll leave him in games like this. Ramón Garcia got the last out of the inning.     

Ramón, however, did not strand his own baserunners. Neither did Mike Magnante, nor Jose Lima. It was garbage time in the end. We never threatened to make it a game.

 

After the game, we took off for the LA airport. Got there about 12:15. It took an hour to get off the ground, though. We don’t fly American much, and I can see why. We had trouble on the other end too, standing around on the tarmac in Houston from 6 o’clock until 6:30.

Barry Waters was fit to be tied.

“I’m going to have to stop by church on the way home,” he said. “With some of the language I used on that guy, I’ll probably have to say a hundred Hail Marys.”

“Dennis Liborio was pretty loud too. I hope the girl who was unloading the bags didn’t hear him. I’m not sure he realized it was a girl.”

 

When we got to the Dome, I had one more job to do: send Ken Ramos back to the minors. We met in my office and talked briefly. He understood, and he was not mad, but he did want to know why I had not given him at least one start.

“I probably should have, Kenny,” I said. “But I’m a rookie manager, just like you’re a rookie player. Sometimes when you’re new in a job, you press a little bit. I think you were pressing a few times at the plate. It’s only natural.

“There were several times when I thought about writing your name on the lineup card. Each time, I thought about Gerry and Drayton. I don’t manage for the writers or the fans; I don’t care what they think. I do care about the general manager and the owner.

“If we were on a roll, winning 8 out of 10 or something like that, it would have been easy. But the way we have been struggling, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’m sorry I didn’t get you in there. But don’t give up. I know you can hit big-league pitching, and you do too. We might need you later this year. And next year is expansion.

“You have conducted yourself like a true professional, and I appreciate your effort. Good luck. I hope to see you back here soon.”

As I left my office, Kenny was with Barry Waters, trying to get in touch with his wife so that she wouldn’t drive to Houston as planned, but wait for him in New Orleans instead. They weren’t having any luck. I fear she was already on the road.

TUESDAY, JUNE 10 ● Los Angeles, vs Dodgers

Breakfast on the lanai. More dry, sunny weather. Not too hot; just right.

I wouldn’t want to live in LA. It has grown into a chaos of humanity that is a little disturbing. But this leafy enclave my folks have created here is mighty nice. Ryan loves to visit. With the pool, the guest house, and Laura’s three girls, he lives like a king.

 

I swam a mile after breakfast, then Rick and I went on a grim errand. He asked me to go along, because he thought he might break down. I had no such fear. In fact, he was considering hiding the ashes from Mom, for fear that seeing them would throw her deeper into despair.

I had another slant on things.

“If it were me,” I said, “and Judy died, I would want to have a nice urn, maybe something that was a favorite of hers. And I would want it in a special place in the house where I would see it from time to time and feel that she was still there with me.”

“That’s great,” Rick said. “That’s a totally different way of looking at it than I had.  Maybe Mom will feel that way too. I hope so.”

The secretary at the mortuary was alone in the building when we arrived. It was her first day on the job. Actually, I think her concern over whether she was doing things the right way softened the delivery of the death certificates and ashes. In trying to help her with the paperwork, we actually got the goods in the car and headed home before we had a chance to dwell on the contents of the packages.

Rick put the ashes in a closet in Dad’s office. Later, he told Mom where they were, in an offhand manner. She didn’t seem upset, but who knows how she really feels?

I’ll say one thing: she’s getting her girlish figure back the hard way. She’s still not eating.

           

Tonight we played a better ballgame. We won the battle 6-3, but we may have lost one of our best soldiers in the process: Shane Reynolds had to come out after three innings. He has had a sore knee for a while. Now, it seems he may need surgery. No wonder he hasn’t been pitching well. He never told us how much he was hurting.

I have done the same thing myself, but it is not good for the ballclub. We may have been able to win some of the games he pitched if we had started Ramón Garcia, for example. You think you are going above-and-beyond for the team when you play with an injury. Most of the time, you are hurting the team while you do further harm to yourself.

José Lima, Mike Magnante, Russ Springer, and Billy Wagner collaborated to hold down the Dodgers. The big blow was struck by Biggio, with the bases loaded in the eighth inning.

“Let’s see if Biggio can hit the jackpot,” I said to Bill, hoping he would try to hit rather than work the count as he often does. Well, it wasn’t a perfecta, but almost. He hit the first pitch, a 95 MPH fastball form Antonio Osuna, off the top of the wall in left-center, clearing the bases.

MONDAY, JUNE 9 ● Los Angeles, vs Dodgers

It was sunny this morning, and we decided to go to the beach. Even though Mom is in low spirits, she couldn’t resist. Dad didn’t like cold water, let alone the cold salt water of the Pacific Ocean. He wasn’t real wild about sand, either. I suppose his antipathy traces to his youth in Pittsburgh.

Mom grew up in Southern California. She is a fine swimmer and a beach-lover. It has been many years since she has plopped down on a towel in the sand and enjoyed the salt air and the soothing roar of the surf.

After a while, she went walking with Susan. Rick and I went, like lemmings, to the sea. The water was warm for these parts: 72 degrees. The waves were sort of choppy with the onshore wind, but we managed to ride a few of them anyway.

Just when we were about to swim to shore, a school of dolphins passed by. In all the years I bodysurfed at Zuma Beach, I never saw a dolphin. But Rick says he sees them occasionally near his home up the coast in Oxnard.

I was a little scared at first. Who wouldn’t be, with those fins slicing through the water? But he saw them about the same time I did and said, “Hey, look at the dolphins. It’s our lucky day. They’ve come to surf with us.”  They didn’t stick around for the rides, though; they just kept heading north.

I don’t get to bodysurf much anymore, and I doubt I would enjoy it as a daily ritual as I did in the summers of my high-school years. But I still enjoy the rough-and-tumble, rollicking rides. The cold water invigorates, the rolling surf captivates, and the sun anneals the experience so that you will remember later on when your trapezius tingles.

 

On the way home, we stopped by a crab shack for lunch. Mom ordered clams, but she didn’t eat many. Rick, Susan, and I had squid sandwiches, and they were great. It would be difficult for me to lose weight by swimming. When I jog or play racquetball, I am not hungry afterwards. After swimming, I am ravenous.

The conversation was lively. We laughed a lot, and Mom was right in the middle of it. Later, Rick said it was the first time she has shown any zeal for life since Dad’s stroke.  It was good therapy.

 

The night did not follow the course of the day. Chris Holt was sluggish, and the Dodgers clubbed him hard. It didn’t help that we also played shoddy defense. We took a 3-2 lead in the third inning, but it didn’t last long. The final score was 8-3.

When I got home, Mom was still up. We talked for a while, and then she went to bed. Rick and I adjourned to the yard — me with my cigar, both of us with wine. Susan likes to taste cigars. She has to get there for the first puff, however, as she is, for some unknown reason, repulsed by the slobber. She stayed up just long enough to get a whiff of my Fuente 8-4-6, then she hit the hay.

 

We lasted another half-hour, talking mostly about Dad.

SUNDAY, JUNE 8 ● San Diego, vs Padres

This turned out to be a real nice day at the ballpark. Darryl Kile continued his progress toward the All-Star game with a five-hit shutout. If you had told me that he would do this in spring training, I would have said you were crazy. But that’s the beauty of baseball. As my old broadcasting partner Milo Hamilton is wont to say, baseball is the most unpredictable game in the world.

We got a bonus today when three players who have not been hitting well, hit home runs as part of our 9-0 win. First it was Sean Berry, then James Mouton, and the last and longest was launched by Tony Eusebio.

 

After the game, I headed for LA. I was in a cheerful mood, listening to Oldies and singling along. When I came over the grade on the 405 freeway, the San Fernando Valley spread its arms to hug me like relatives at a family reunion.

At this poignant and unexpected moment, I welled up with tears, and a few spilled over. It was the first moment of sadness I have experienced since Dad died.

The emotion passed, and I was buoyed when Rick, Susan, and Mom greeted me enthusiastically. I have been calling home just about every day, and things seemed to be going well — at least, over the phone.

After we talked a while, it was clear that there are more bridges for Mom and the rest of us to cross before we recover from Dad’s passing. At several intervals, Mom and Rick got misty-eyed. Their grief brought mine to the surface again.

 After Mom went to bed, Rick confessed some concern for her.

“She’s still not eating much, and she’s having trouble sleeping.” he said. “I guess I thought she would bear up to it a little better, but she has been weak. We’ve never seen that side of her, but I should have known. I mean, living with someone for 50-plus years and then losing them, it has to leave a big hole.”

The Valley sky was remarkably clear as we sat by the pool and reminisced. I smoked a Hemingway cigar, and it was delicious. The moon was a sliver and the soft, blue glow from the swimming pool bathed us in the mood of our musings.

We talked about Dad’s ashes.

“They were supposed to come on Friday, but the guy was running late,” Rick said. “He called about six o’clock and I told him to forget it. I guess he’ll try to do it tomorrow. I hope it doesn’t upset Mom too much. The death certificate hasn’t come yet, either. I just hope the finality of these things doesn’t get to her.”

I am so grateful to Rick for spending these critical days at home. Once, when my sister Laura Lynn was having marital problems, he called me from Hawaii and said that one of us had to be with her for a few days, because she was so distraught that Mom was afraid she might do something foolish.

It was the last day of the baseball season. After six months of constant travel, working days, nights, and weekends, I was not thrilled about making another trip. I was looking forward to a vacation, but he was already on one. I could see why he thought I was the man for the job, but I still resented him living it up in Hawaii while I was on a mission of mercy.

As it turned out, those few days were the best I have ever spent with my little sister. We went for long walks in the mountains, talked about important things, got to know each other a lot better. Now, Rick is doing the family duty while Laura and I must work.

There is so much strength in the family unit. I would guess that most of our country’s social problems are directly related to broken homes. We Dierkers have been lucky.

SATURDAY, JUNE 7 ● at San Diego, vs Padres

This was a good day in every way but one.

Dave and I went to Mission Beach to do some blading. It was overcast and cool. An onshore wind had the ocean churning out a percussive backbeat. Navigating upstream along the concrete boardwalk was a little tricky. I nearly pitched headlong into a rush of exercise freaks. They probably viewed me as the salmon — and a lunker at that.

It must be frightening to face 6’4” and 230 pounds, careening out of control. More frightening for them than me.

I have been clumsy and absent-minded all my life. Little accidents are part of my image. That’s how I got my nickname: Sluggo.

We skated for an hour-and-a-half. Near the end, I was exhausted. I became careless, hit a crack in the pavement, lurched to the side, twisted, and came down plump-on-the-rump in a patch of geraniums.

“This is a nice place to take a break,” I told Dave when he came back to check me out. I guess Dave is the ideal blading partner for me, because he is the Astros’ trainer.

The game with the Padres was a nail-biter, just like the day before.

Rookie Heath Murray was wild in the first inning, and we got to him for three runs. Donne Wall looked sharp, and he breezed through the early innings with only a solo homer by Wally Joyner marking his slate. We continued to put the pressure on Murray, but he kept dodging bullets.

Tony Gwynn homered in the fifth to make it 3-2. The next inning, Donne wavered, and the Padres tied the game. I brought Ramón Garcia in with one out and men on first and third.

Well, actually, I thought I was bringing in Garcia.

When Ramón started warming up, he was on the mound closest to the seats. We got Blas Minor up to throw, because we preferred him against lefthanded hitters. Garcia moved over, and Minor stepped onto the mound Garcia was using. So when I went to the mound to get Wall, I motioned for the righthander. The umpire asked which one, and I pointed to the mound by the seats. I thought Alan Ashby already had the message by phone that we were going with Garcia; apparently he did not get the news. My eyes bugged out when I saw Minor cross the foul line.

I wasn’t sure if I could change horses at this stage, but after thinking about it, I decided that it would not be good for either pitcher, let alone for the team, to make a radical reversal. I wasn’t even sure the umpires would let me switch; I just acted as though I wanted Minor all along. Can you imagine the look on Vern’s face when I got back to the dugout?

“I screwed up,” I said. “I thought Chief was on the right.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bill said. “It doesn’t make that much difference.”

One of the reasons I didn’t try to reverse myself was that it was sort of a coin-flip call anyway. Minor promptly threw a double-play ball to get us out of the inning, and there were high-fives all around in the dugout. 

           

Gonzo opened the sixth with a homer, and we went back on top. Ray Montgomery got a hit to left, and tried to advance on a bobble by Rickey Henderson. The throw was there in time, but as Quilvio Veras applied the tag, I saw the ball. When Greg Bonin called Montgomery out, I shot out of the dugout like a sprinter.

As I approached second base, Monte was trotting off the field as if he had accepted that he was out. Now I wasn’t so sure, and I was venturing farther out, like a swimmer caught in a rip tide.

By the time I finally got to Bonin, he was 30 or 40 feet into right-centerfield. He was in a world of his own thoughts, and he was shocked to hear my voice. When he turned, I was yelling.

“He didn’t have the ball! The ball was on the ground,” I said.

“What?”

“The ball was on the ground,” I said, pantomiming what I thought I had seen.        

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was. I saw white. I saw the ball. You were on the other side. You must have been blocked.”

We continued in this vein for a minute or so. He wasn’t going to change his call. He hadn’t seen what I saw.

As I turned to go back to the dugout, I looked at Veras. He had a sly smile on his face. And guilty eyes. Caminiti was smiling as I passed third base.

Cubby said he thought Veras had juggled the ball, and that Cammy said Veras “snow-coned” it (caught it in the end of the web of his glove). The guys in the dugout weren’t sure; some said they saw the ball, some didn’t.

When the inning was over, I walked to the other end of the bench, where several pitchers were looking at a TV monitor.

“He snow-coned it,” Chris Holt said. “I can’t believe it didn’t shake loose when he tagged Ray.”

Here I was, up 4-3, with egg on my face. I could see the headline in the paper the next day:

 

BLIND MAN MANAGES ASTROS

 

Well, at least I got my first real knee-jerk tirade out of the way. I didn’t cuss Bonin. Fact is, I was so flustered, I couldn’t even remember his name. 

Minor got into trouble in the seventh, and I brought Mike Magnante in to pitch. Mike got two outs, but the tying run scored in the process.

In the top of the ninth, we got men on first and second with nobody out. Bruce Bochy played his ace, Trevor Hoffman. Hoffman got out of it.

At this point, we were strapped for pitching; the only relievers available were Garcia and Wagner. Billy has had a little tenderness in his elbow lately, and I didn’t want to use him until we had a lead.

Chief pitched well in the ninth, and in the tenth for that matter. The Padres hit three grounders through the infield, then pinch-hit with Scott Livingstone. If we got him out, Hoffman would be finished, and we would have the strategic advantage.

I turned to The Perfessor.

“Isn’t this great?”

“What?”

“This,” I said, spreading my arms out toward the field. “Just being part of this. It’s great.”

“You got that right,” he said with a smile. “This is what it’s all about.”

It didn’t stay “great” long. Livingstone hit a 1-2 pitch through the left side of the infield, and we lost 5-4.