Category: Rookie Manager’s Journal

TUESDAY, MAY 27 ● San Francisco, vs Giants

Any hope we may have had about Mike Hampton returning to form was erased in the first inning, when he walked four batters. Luckily, they didn’t get a hit, so we were only down 1-0. 

Mark Gardner was almost as wild for San Francisco. He flirted with danger throughout the game, but once again, we couldn’t get the big hit to put him away. Gardner can be a tough pitcher when he has the feel for his curve ball and good control of his fastball.

He had neither. The only thing he had going for him was us.

Hampton settled down a bit, but he had several lapses. He left trailing 4-3 after six innings.

We tied the game in the seventh, and Tom Martin and Russ Springer kept it that way.

We had ample opportunity to take the lead with minor-league veteran Joe Roa on the mound, but we couldn’t get it done.

At one point, I pinch-hit with Ken Ramos, hoping Dusty would counter with lefty Rich Rodriguez, who was warming up in the bullpen. I was going to answer that move with Tony Eusebio, but I guess Dusty had preconceived that matchup and preferred Roa/Ramos.

I thought Ramos would give us the lead; we had runners on second and third with one out. The count went full, and Kenny popped out to first base. Dusty walked Biggio, and Ausmus popped out to end the inning.

We failed to score off Rod Beck in the ninth, even though Thomas Howard led off with a single. Bill asked me if I wanted to bunt him over, and I said “No, reinforce the green light,” meaning I wanted Howard to try to steal second base. Beck is slow to the plate, and he rarely throws to first.

Howard waited until the count was 1-2, then broke for second. He had a good jump and would have made it, but Gutierrez fouled the pitch. With two strikes, Gutierrez had no choice but to swing.

This is typical of the way we are playing: a little too tentative.

The reason I didn’t have Ricky bunt was threefold:

 

• The possibility of the steal
• A lack of confidence that he would get the bunt down
• Ricky is hot. He’s hitting around .400, and had already hit three line drives in this game

 

Well, he hit another hot shot on the second 1-2 pitch. It was headed up the middle, but it hit the side of the mound and caromed slightly off to the side, toward shortstop José Vizcaino. Vizcaino made a brilliant play on the ball and flipped it backhanded to Jeff Kent. Kent barehanded the ball and nipped Ricky by an eyelash at first.

It was a tremendous double play, but it left me wondering if Ricky was running full-out. It seemed like he should have been able to beat the throw if he was running all out. I asked Bill if he had noticed, and he said he was watching the ball, like I was.

Should I have bunted? In retrospect, yes. In the future, under the same conditions? No. Howard had the base stolen, and Ricky hit the ball hard. The two things I was hoping for, happened — but not at the right time.

This time I used Wagner in a tie game. Why not? We have the day off tomorrow.

Billy mowed them down in the ninth.

With two outs in the tenth, Bagwell singled between third and short, and when Barry Bonds was a little too casual going after the ball, Bags raced into second, safe by an inch. What a ballplayer!

This effort forced Dusty to walk González. I could have hit for Berry, who is slumping, with Spiers, who is hot. But Dusty had a lefthander ready, and in the long run, if we don’t get RBI from Berry, we’re not going to make it.

 

For an instant, it looked like Sean was going to drive both runners home. He hit a hard line drive to left-center, but the Giants were playing him to pull, and Stan Javier made a nice running catch.

Everyone in the ballpark was anticipating the confrontation between Bonds and Wagner in the bottom of the tenth. Wagner got out in front 0-2, then he threw a pitch that was close enough to be called a strike, but was called a ball.

Bonds hit the next offering to center. He hit it so hard it should have been a home run, but the wind held it and he stopped at second.

Kent tried to bunt, and he popped out to Ausmus. Then, on a 3-1 pitch, Wagner hit Mark Lewis on the wrist — or did he?

Umpire Jim Quick, he of the reversed balk call, motioned Lewis to first. I couldn’t tell what the ball hit, so I just stood there for a moment. Then I realized that Lewis stood for a moment before he went to first.

I ran out of the dugout and confronted Quick.

“That ball hit the bat!” I said.

“No, it hit the batter,” Quick replied.

“Then why did he just stand there?” I asked. “Don’t you think he would have grabbed his arm if it hurt, or immediately run to first if it hit him? He didn’t do anything, which tells me it hit the bat.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It would have been ball four anyway.”

“Not if it hit the bat. It would have been strike two.”

 “Well, I saw it hit him.”

 “You saw it nick him at 98 MPH.” I said. “I can understand if you heard it hit meat rather than wood. But I don’t think you could see it. I know I couldn’t.”

“I saw it hit him, Larry, and that’s that.”

As I headed back to the dugout, I wasn’t really mad at Quick. He has been firm-but-civil the two times we have argued. I know he is doing his best, but I feel like he owes me one now. I don’t expect him to try and make good; that wouldn’t be right. But if he does happen to call one our way, I will be satisfied that we deserve it.

In this game, the call had only minor significance; we had considered walking Lewis anyway. His run meant nothing. Still, on a 3-2 pitch, Wagner might have struck him out, which would have changed the way the game ended.

It ended when Stan Javier chopped a grounder to short. It was a little bit toward the hole, and Ricky was playing up the middle to hold Bonds. Still, it was a weak chopper, and I was expecting a force at second at the very least.

For some reason, Ricky couldn’t get started. By the time he got to the ball, he had to stretch for it, and it bounced off his glove and into left field. There is no question in my mind that this ball should have been fielded, but it was not.

The way Ricky is hitting, it seemed our shortstop problems were over. But the fact that he couldn’t beat the rap on the double play in the ninth, then couldn’t get to the ball in the tenth, casts some doubt on his speed. I know he’s not fast, but I thought he was at least average in the speed department. Now, I wonder.

We won’t be able to win our division without decent fielding at short. Now the only way I know I can get the glovework is to play Tim Bogar. Bogey is a good fielder, but he has never hit much. Right now, we need the hitting at least as much as the fielding.

 

After the game, I was asked if I felt good about Wagner facing Bonds.

“I feel good about Wagner facing anyone,” I said. “But I’ll tell you this: Bonds is going to get his hits off anyone. He hit an 82 MPH changeup yesterday, and a 98 MPH fastball today. I know he hasn’t hit well yet this year, but he is still one of the best hitters in baseball.”

 

It was with a heavy heart that I left Candlestick Park for Los Angeles and my father’s memorial service. My sadness was replaced with anger when I was misinformed by a United Airlines representative at the airport, and almost missed my plane.

Judy was starving, but she didn’t have time to eat — even though we were at the airport an hour-and-a-half before flight time. Somehow, the pretzels we got on the plane seemed inadequate.

Well, at least we would see a friendly face at the Burbank airport. I called home just before we got on the plane. The line was busy, but I left a message. When we got to the airport, no one was there. I called home, and Mom told me that when she heard the recording from AT&T, she thought it was someone trying to sell her something.

We took a cab home, and though I was weary when we arrived, I was still mad. The family was having dinner, and there was food for us.

I’m sure everyone thought I was antisocial when I declined dinner in favor of a swim. After thrashing out a mile in the water, I felt better. I attacked the leftovers, then Rick gave me a Cuban cigar.

 

A glass of wine and a little smoke did wonders. I rejoined the family on the lanai, and we shared more feelings about Dad and planned our presentation for tomorrow’s memorial service.

MONDAY MAY 26 ● San Francisco, vs Giants

Up and at ’em again. One o’clock game. Headed for the park by taxi at 9:00.

I felt good about our chances for a sweep in this series. One of the Giants’ few power hitters, Glenallen Hill, is in a terrible slump. Superstar Barry Bonds has not been hitting well, either. Their pitchers — Kirk Rueter today and Mark Gardner tomorrow — are average at best. And they don’t have much team speed.

The fact that the Giants are in first place is a tribute to manager Dusty Baker, and it is living proof of the efficacy of the marathon schedule we play.

There is no way the Giants are a championship team. But for a couple of months, they can be as good as anyone. The proof is in their record.

I would like to think that for two months, a championship team can play average baseball — because that is exactly what we have done. I am satisfied to be one game over .500, but not happy with it.

SUNDAY MAY 25 ● Denver, vs Colorado

Up and at ’em. 8:30 a.m. No rest for the weary. Not even eight hours. Maybe tonight. Maybe not. Another day game in San Francisco. And then another. An off-day for the memorial service, and then a flight back to Houston. Thursday night, we play the Padres.

On Thursday, there will be no wakeup call. Hope I do wake up.

 

I got to the park at 9:30, and I learned that Bobby’s injury was more serious than I had thought.

“It’s pretty swollen,” Dave said. “I don’t think he’ll be able to swing a bat for at least a week. We’re sending him back to Houston to have him checked.”

I talked to Tim Purpura, who in turn talked with Gerry. We decided not to go shorthanded for a week or more. Instead, we called up Ray Montgomery and put Bobby on the disabled list. There goes my right field defense, and a lefthanded bat. Bobby wasn’t swinging all that well, but he was better than those who will replace him.

 

Chris Holt took the ball for us this afternoon. It is tough to have the right “attitude for the altitude” in Denver — especially if you are a rookie pitcher.

We gave Chris a 4-0 lead in the first two innings. But then we quit, and they started. Chris was a little wild — in and out of the strike zone. He walked a few batters and gave up 11 hits. When I relieved him in the sixth, it was 5-4 Rockies.

All things considered, it was not a bad performance. I’ve seen veteran pitchers do a lot worse. José Lima did Chris a good turn, retiring Kevin Young with the bases loaded to end the inning.

We had numerous chances to add runs and win the game, but we just couldn’t get the big hit. Luis González was especially feeble; he could have driven in three runs by just hitting fly balls. Instead, he hit popups — and it is hard to tag up on an infield fly.

Sean Berry dipped below the Mendoza Line (batting average below .200) again. He failed to register even a single hit, and he is now batting .195.

Sad to say, our pitchers are making better contact than some of our hitters these days.

 

When Gerry and I tinkered with the team last winter, it was with the idea of spreading the offense so that we wouldn’t have to depend on Bagwell and Biggio day after day.

Well, guess what? Bagwell and Biggio are the only two players on the team who are producing runs.

Brad Ausmus is hitting way better than we thought he would, but without power. I moved him to the second-spot in the lineup today, and he did well. But that’s not enough.

We need to get some production from Berry, González, Howard, and Eusebio –not to mention Bell, when he comes back.

The pitching has exceeded expectations. But we don’t have the kind of staff to carry the load all year long, in the absence of hitting.

 

We loaded the bases with two outs in the ninth, down 8-5. Perfect place for a grand slam. Howard was the scheduled hitter, and the Rockies had a journeyman lefthander by the name of Mike Muñoz on the mound.

I talked with Bill and Mac, and I decided to pinch-hit with Listach. This was a desperate measure, because Pat hasn’t been playing at all. He has been swinging well during batting practice, but this was the ultimate pressure spot of the game.

In terms of personality, Howard is far superior to Listach in this role.  Thomas is confident; Pat is constantly looking over his shoulder. But Thomas just isn’t swinging well at all, and he hasn’t seen many lefthanded pitchers this year.

When I called him back, he threw his bat down and stormed into the clubhouse. This is unprofessional. He should stay in the dugout and pull for Pat.

This type of behavior would really make some managers mad, but it doesn’t bother me all that much. I like a guy who wants to perform, and who is mad when he doesn’t get a chance.

There were several occasions when I was no gentleman when I was removed from a game. If the guy still has an attitude the next day, then that is a problem. In the heat of the battle, it is not — at least, for me.

 

I was a little disappointed in an exchange between Mac and Pat before the at-bat.

“What does this guy throw?” Pat asked.

Mac got out his scouting sheet.

“He throws a lot of breaking stuff,” he said. “Likes to backdoor you with the curve ball. He cuts his fast ball in on you, and sinks it away. He likes to change speeds a lot.”

This scouting report made Mike Muñoz seem like Tom Glavine. Actually, Muñoz has been up-and-down between Colorado Springs and Denver for the last three years. He’s a fringe pitcher who has little else going for him other than his lefthandedness.

If it were me, I would have told Listach, “This guy doesn’t have shit. Get a good pitch to hit and knock his ass out of the game.”

Listach got a good pitch to hit. In fact, he got several. He ended up hitting one of them in the air to short. It was so weakly hit that it had the arc of a fly ball to the outfield. It just didn’t go that far.

So we went down — not with a bang, but a whimper.

SATURDAY, MAY 24 ● Denver, vs Colorado

I awoke from a stupor to the jingling sound of the phone at 8:30. I started a pot of coffee, then went for a newspaper. Opening to the sports section, I learned that we had lost 8-7. The Rockies clobbered Donne Wall, and we fought back but came up short.

When I got to the ballpark, I had to walk across the clubhouse, and the players steered clear of me as if I had leprosy. Sorry about your Dad, they said, averting their eyes. The coaches, who have reached the age where they have dealt with death themselves, welcomed me back and made me feel better.

I told Bill that I wanted to talk to the team before batting practice. I wanted to clear the air.

 

I know you guys feel bad about my father. But I want to tell you that I am OK. Nobody wants to lose a loved one, but these things happen as you get older.

It was a heartbreaking time for the family, but it was also a heartwarming time. All the children and grandchildren were there, so my Mom had a lot of support. She is doing well, and she wanted me to come back and be with you guys. My brother and sister are still there with her, and I will be able to be back home for the funeral next Wednesday on the off-day.

I have noticed that some of you guys seem uncomfortable, because of the situation. This bothers me, because we have a job to do here today. I don’t want you guys to be thinking about me; I want you to be thinking about beating the Rockies.

I was going to save this speech for when we got home, but I will tell you now:

This stretch of schedule that we have played is the toughest I have been through in 31 years with this team. I am proud of the way we have played, even though I know we can play better.

Once we get through with this road trip, the schedule gets easier. Sure, we play some tough teams, but at least we don’t have so much tough travel.

We are approaching a stretch of games where we should be able to make a move forward. But we can’t limp into it by falling apart on this trip.

Coors Field has been tough on us, and Candlestick won’t be any easier. But we have to win some of these games if we want to hit the homestand with some momentum.

What I am saying is: forget about me, and redouble your efforts. It’s time for us to make our move.

That’s all I have to say.

 

Well, that must have been the greatest speech of my life. We went out and beat the Rockies 7-0.

Bagwell and Biggio hit home runs, and Darryl Kile pitched a masterpiece. He even survived a 40-minute rain delay.

Springer pitched the eighth inning; he hit 97 MPH. Wagner hit 98 in the ninth. The only thing that put a damper on the game was Bobby Abreu coming up with a sore wrist.

With a 3-2 count in the eighth, he grimaced after he fouled off a ball. Dave ran out to check on him, and after a moment, I came out to see what was going on. Dave told me that Bobby had been complaining of a sore wrist for a couple of days, and that he had aggravated it to the extent that he couldn’t swing.

“Can you throw?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said.

“OK,” I said. “Just bunt the ball if it’s a strike. I need you in the game for your defense.”

The 3-2 pitch came, and Bobby swung, grounding out to second base. Later, I heard that he swung because he thought the Rockies would throw at him if he tried to bunt with a 7-0 lead; this is preposterous. Anybody who was watching the game, including Don Baylor, would know that he was bunting because of an injury.

Hopefully, Bobby will be all right in a couple of days. His hitting has tailed off, but his defense has been pretty good. Fact is, Bobby and Derek have been our best defensive outfielders — and that doesn’t say much for the rest of them.

Gonzo is fundamentally sound, but he can’t throw. Outfield defense is one of our weaknesses, and we can’t afford to have Bobby out for any length of time.

 

When I got back to the hotel, Judy was full of news. She had breakfasted at a coffee house and read the local tabloids, circling cigar clubs that featured jazz and swing music. She also bought tickets to a film that was showing at an art cinema.

We had dinner at McCormick’s Fish House, and we walked two miles to the theater. It was in a somewhat seedy area near downtown. The film was a documentary on Cuban music, featuring the mambo sound of composer and bassist Israel “Cachao” Lopez and his many contemporaries. Most of them were past-prime-time players at the time of the filming, but it was a fascinating study on a style of music I have come to enjoy.

Judy is a wonder when it comes to finding unexpected pleasures. She is also a connoisseur of the offbeat experience.

She tried to coax me into a local cigar bar after the film, but after walking a couple blocks deeper into the urban jungle, I bridled.

“I’m not ready for this neighborhood,” I said. “Maybe I’ve just lost my spirit of adventure, but I just don’t feel like dealing with all these freaky people.”

“It should be on the next block,” she said, “It’s supposed to be swing music. It’ll probably be a bunch of old people, like us. How bad could it be?”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking down the street at a bunch of young hooligans standing outside a bar. “I just know that I don’t want to walk any further down this street.”

“OK,” she said. “Let’s just go back. Maybe we can catch a cab.”

Almost as if on cue, a cab appeared at the corner. She started toward it, but I said, “Let’s just walk.”

She looked at me like I was crazy — and at this point, I would have to plead guilty. But I knew she wouldn’t mind. She’s always up for exercise.

On the way back to town, we approached a cheap hotel, just as a rough-looking character came out of the door. I guess I had her feeling uneasy at this point, because she crossed to the other side of the street.

We made it back without incident, and we spent an intimate night together in the cigar bar of our own hotel suite. She even found a French station on the radio.

C’est la vie.

FRIDAY, MAY 23 ● Los Angeles

I guess it was around five o’clock when we went to bed again. I got up at 10:00 and was the last to rise. We had waffles for breakfast; no one ate much.

Mom had been on a starvation diet since Dad’s stroke; we were beginning to worry about her health. We kept suggesting that she eat something, but she wasn’t even drinking her white wine in the afternoon. That was a sure sign of her distress.

I suppose she will eat when she is ready. Hope it is soon.

           

We met with Ed Perrott at the mortuary, and he walked us through the details. The ceremony would be officiated by a Lutheran minister who is my mother’s partner in a folk-dancing club.

We decided that after the minister spoke, we children will all say something, and ask anyone else attendance to speak if they feel the urge. It will be held at 10 a.m. next Wednesday morning. I will fly in from San Francisco on a scheduled off-day, and return to Houston that night.

A long stretch of road work — 19 of 21 days — will come to an end when we finally get home. After that, the schedule gets a lot better for the team.

Thank goodness.

 

Our flight for Denver was scheduled to leave at 6:40. We decided to leave for the airport at 4:00 because of the holiday weekend. It was a good decision; it took an hour and forty-five minutes to make the 25-mile trip.

Our cab driver apologized as he pulled out of the driveway.

“My air-conditioner is out,” he said. “That’s why I have the windows open.”

We didn’t think much of it at the time; it was a warm day, but with the air moving through, it was comfortable.  When we got on the parking lot that is known as the San Diego Freeway, things changed. We crept along at about 5 MPH, and the air was still. It was smog city, all the way.

At least we weren’t nervous. We could almost make our flight if we had to get out and walk.  As it turned out, we could have made it that way. There was an equipment problem, and the flight was delayed two hours.

Because we were hot, we looked for a frozen yogurt concession, but we couldn’t find one. We eventually found a bar, where the Rockets were playing the Jazz on television.  We thought we would only see the first half, but our plane was so late that we got to see the whole game, and they won.

 

Our luck returned to normal when we took off: a baby across the aisle started crying, and the plane lurched through the sky like a knuckleball.

We finally got to Denver at midnight, and our cab driver performed one of the longest soliloquys on record as we made the long journey to downtown Denver. By the time we finally bedded down, it was 1:30, and I had to be at the ballpark at 9:30 in the morning.

THURSDAY, MAY 22 ● Los Angeles

The team has the day off today. I was determined to take a day off from baseball and from this journal. But there is one more thing I need to record.

When I visited my father today, I spent a few moments alone with him. I held his hand and tried to pray, but the words would not come. I was able to summon a silent prayer.

I asked the Lord to consider this child, who came unto the world to serve unselfishly, just as his son Jesus had served:

Even in this effort, I felt feeble. I thought I should have been able to summon more words; more feelings; more love. This is the way it was, however. And I cannot make it better.   

It did get better as the day progressed. I spent more time with him in the late afternoon. I visited with Katy and my Mom. Judy and Laura were already at the hospital with John. John and Laura were taking Katy straight from the hospital to the airport, so that she could join her high-school band on a trip to Disney World. 

Katy asked if she could have a moment to be alone with her grandfather. While she was saying what I am sure she felt was her last goodbye, we visited with the doctor, who reaffirmed the gravity of the situation: we should not expect a miracle.

Katy came out and left with Laura and John, and my Mom spent some time alone in the room. Then Judy and I came in, but Mom was ready to go, so I didn’t spend much time with him. I was feeling a little more comfortable with his heavy breathing, and I thought maybe I could talk to him a little better the next time I had the chance.

           

We had a late dinner at home. Afterward, we really had a good, long talk. We talked about the kids and about our own relationships. We laughed a lot. Rick and I cried a lot. The ladies postulated that it was easier for them to talk to him and to hug him, because they were trained caregivers.

“You guys don’t know how do ‘nurture,’” Laura said. “You haven’t been trained for it. In our society, this is the woman’s place. Don’t feel ashamed if it doesn’t come easily. It’s not that easy for us, and we have played this role all of our lives.”

Everyone encouraged us to let our feelings out. I think we realized that these gentle ladies were indeed our foundation — the source of our strength. This made it easier to explain our own feelings of inadequacy. We let it out, and the catharsis was sweet and easy.

           

The subject turned to practical measures.

What type of service should we have? Mom was confused.

“We were never religious people,” she said. “I don’t think he would approve of a religious ceremony, and I don’t think I would feel comfortable with it, either.”

She said that he wanted to be cremated, but that she didn’t know what it involved. She didn’t even know if she wanted to do anything at all.

“I think it is important for the family to do something,” big Ashley said. “I haven’t really been part of the family, but I think you should do something that will give everyone a sense of closure. I know he has a lot of friends who would feel uncomfortable if they couldn’t share their feelings and say goodbye.”

I was so proud of Ashley. She was born of a childhood marriage that was not supported by my parents. Her mother and I were divorced shortly after Ashley arrived, and she didn’t spend much time with my folks.

I was a mature pitcher, but an immature person, at the time of the breakup. And I was so bitter about the financial consequences that I didn’t pursue a relationship with Ashley for the first few years.

It broke my heart to think about her, so I tried not to. I just went my own way.

There were times when I felt guilty, thinking of her. But still, but I did not see her much at all.

Ashley saved our relationship. As she got older, she took the initiative to call me and invite me to her open-house at school, or her soccer game. She kept at it until I fell into step. By the time she was in junior high, we were good friends. And good friends we stayed until she broke up with her first serious boyfriend at the age of 26. 

She called me that day, all shook up. I went right over, and she cried on my shoulder. It was the most-fatherly thing I had done for her since she was an infant.

For a time, I was worried that our relationship would leave her hard-hearted. But I have seen the look in her eyes when she is with Craig, and I don’t worry about the scar-tissue of our early days anymore.

Everyone agreed that she was right about closure. But what form should it take? Mom mentioned that her friends, Ed and Pat Perrott, owned a funeral home and had helped her with her father’s arrangements. That solved the problem. They would surely know how to conduct a secular ceremony.

But this did not satisfy Judy and Laura. They could not abide seeing Dad off without asking the Lord to bless and keep him.

This led to a religious discussion, in which Mom kept saying that she was baptized Catholic and Lutheran, but she never felt any affinity with religion — never felt very “holy” at all.

Laura and I have been working on her and Dad in recent years. She would take the “why?” approach, and I would take the “why not?”

I understood where they were coming from. It took Judy 20 years to hook me, and I’m still twisting at the barb, though I am comforted to know that I am caught.

Rick has the universal approach. He believes in kindness and generosity. He speaks of karma and God in the same breath. He has spent more time and effort tending to Mom and Dad than Laura and me put together. He has been the dutiful son, just as his father before him, and Mom favors his philosophy to ours.

“I don’t know what else you can do but be a good person,” she said. “As far as I know, nobody has ever come back to tell us what’s on the other side.”

Judy and Laura jumped to attention at this statement.

“Nobody but one man,” they said in unison.

Then they explained, for the umpteenth time, that this is the central difference between Christianity and the other religions.

“As long as we’re talking about practical measures,” Rick said, “what are we going to do if he doesn’t die?  What if they want to get him out of the hospital? Where will he go? Do we give him the poison pill?”

“No,” Laura interjected. “No, we don’t. We don’t play God.”

“What if it’s six months? What do we do then?”

“If there’s a chance he can recover, even if it’s a miracle, then we do what needs to be done,” Laura said.

“I don’t know, honey,” Mom said. “I talked with Doctor Borowksi, and he didn’t give us much hope. If he survives, he won’t be able to do anything for himself. He might not even know who we are.”

“Dad wouldn’t want that,” Rick said. I found myself nodding assent.

“I don’t think he’s going to last six months,” I said.

“What if it’s a week?” Rick said. “Borowski said he would have to leave the hospital in few days. Where does he go?”

“I don’t want him in a nursing home,” Mom said.

“Do you want to take care of him here?” he said.

“I don’t think I could,” she said.

“Look,” Rick said, “I’m not trying to be cold.  You know I love Dad as much as anyone. But I think we have to consider taking him off the heart medicine or something. We have to think about what he would want.”

We all nodded — even Laura.       

“Could you pull the plug?” she asked.

“That’s not my call,” he said. “I think I could if Mom wanted me to, but I don’t know if I could.”

“I couldn’t do it,” Mom said.

 This is where Judy came in.

“I was really unhappy about how it went with my Dad,” she said. “He died in the hospital, with nobody there. They kept him alive for days, and there was no reason for it.

“If I had it to do over, I would want to be there with him at home, even if I had to make the decision to let him die. I would want him to die with dignity, with his loved ones around him — not hooked up to machines with a sterile atmosphere all around him. I think there would be some comfort to being with him at home.”

Mom went off to bed at one a.m. Judy left Laura, Rick, Susan, and me at 1:30.  We finally gave it up around 2:00.

Dad left us shortly thereafter. It was almost as if he had been listening.

 

The phone rang at about 2:30, and Judy picked it up. The conversation was brief. When she hung up, she said, “That was the hospital. Your Dad just died.”

I was still a little foggy. I didn’t cry; I just put on my pants and walked inside. All of the adults heard the phone. All but Mom arrived in the living room at about the same time, but few words were spoken.

The question was whether to tell Mom, but there was only one answer.

Rick, Laura, and I went into her room and covered her with silent tears. Lily lay alongside, innocent in sleep.

Soon Mom began to weep. Rick spoke to her in soft, loving tones. Laura did the same. They had her upper body, and I was hugging her legs. We smothered her with love.

After five minutes or so, Rick and Laura left. I started to go, but I stayed. I sat up and held her hand. We talked a little, cried a little. She seemed a little confused.

I tried to assure her that she had a lot of good life left.

“We want to see you get through this and go on,” I said. “There is a lot of sweet life left for you. With us; with the kids. With your friends.

“I know it probably doesn’t feel that way now, but it’s so important to us that you carry on. You have always been a great source of strength in our family, and we need you that way. That’s what Dad would want.

“He was so proud of you, Larry,” she said.

I fought back the tears enough to say, “He was proud of all of us. And if he could have picked his time to go, this wouldn’t be a bad one. Laura and John are back together. Rick and Susan are doing well, and he has really had a lot of special time with Rick the last few years. Judy and I are well. And he was so proud at Ashley’s wedding.

“None of us wanted to let him go, but we have to get over it — for him and for ourselves.”

I guess I spent another 30 minutes holding her hand. When I got back to the family room, Laura asked how she was doing, and I said, “pretty well.”

We talked some more, and then Rick disappeared. He spent some time with Mom, then Laura did the same. When she came out, she said that Mom was still awake, but she thought she could get to sleep.

The hospital asked if we wanted to come see him, but we all declined. 

We would never see him again.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 21 ● Los Angeles

I felt a lot better this morning. Everything went smoothly, and the kids really enjoyed the flight because Continental upgraded our tickets to first-class. We took a taxi to my folks’ house, and we arrived around 2:00.

Everyone was happy to see us, and I was relieved to learn that my father was still alive, but I was uneasy about seeing him on his deathbed. When he had his cancer surgery, I had come to terms with the abstract idea of his death. Then I was further reconciled to it when he had his first stroke, ten years ago. When he fell and broke his hip, it was further evidence that he was losing his grip on mortality.

But what would he look like now? How would I react? I felt strangely detached. But I felt certain this would change when I saw him.

 

On the way to his room, we passed an open door to another room, where an elderly man lay — looking for all the world like a cadaver. He had no color; he was frozen in time, eyes open, mouth agape. This is what I expected to see with my father; it is similar to what I saw the last time he was sick.

But this time, my father’s brain was broken in the area that controls breathing. Before I even saw him, I heard him: frantically gasping for air, churning like a freight train.

When I saw him, I was frightened. His desperate grasp for life was incongruous with the vacant look in his eyes. I knew he wouldn’t hang on like this if he could just let go, but his body wouldn’t let him. It clung to life like a drowning man clings to a lifeguard: frantic, and with unimaginable strength.

My mother walked into the room and took his hand.

“Larry and Judy are here now,” she said. From what I had been told, he couldn’t hear what we were saying, let alone understand the meaning of the words. 

“Hi grandpa, we love you,” granddaughter Katy said, leaning over and giving him a hug.

Katy was his favorite; the feeling was mutual. She is my sister’s oldest daughter, and the first grandchild with whom he was able to have a close relationship. Katy lay there upon him, and when she came up, her face was awash with tears.

Judy and Ryan stood back; I could tell Judy was saying a silent prayer.

I approached him and held his hand.

“It’s Larry,” I said quietly — sheepishly. I couldn’t say anything more; couldn’t think of anything that felt right. If anything, I felt guilty for being more scared than sad. My eyes filled with tears once again, but they did not overflow as I thought they might – indeed, hoped — they would.

Of our children, Ryan had/has the closest relationship with him. He looked detached, uncomprehending. Julia came up and rubbed his arm, but she looked uncertain in her grief, as well.

And he just kept churning away at his oxygen mask. If he knew what was going on in the room, he would have been embarrassed.

I remember what it was like as he recovered from the first stroke. He kept saying that he wished he had died, because he was so discouraged by his ineptitude. He lived his life to help others; now he had no life without the helping hands of others. This was so frustrating to him that he seemed on the verge of tears all the time.

As distressing as this was to us, at least it was a hopeful situation. We knew he would not die, and we hoped he would regain his faculties — which he ultimately did, with a voluntary effort as great as his body was now involuntarily demonstrating.

Katy was weeping silently, and my mother joined her. I was weepy too, but more for them than for him.

Then I had the most disturbing thought of all: that I was weeping more for myself than anyone else. Was I bemoaning my own mortality at a time like this? I shuddered at the thought. But the thought wrapped me up like a strait jacket.

Still, the tears would not come. Not enough, anyway. Was I this insensitive to the collective misery of everyone I loved? I could not answer this question; couldn’t even plead insanity.

I wasn’t confused. I was quite simply, and disgustedly, numb.

 

We didn’t stay long. No one had the appetite.

The night before, as Judy and I were sleeping in Houston, the family was called to witness the end. For two hours, Katy held his hand.

“You were a great grandpa,” Katy said. “I love you so much.”

The others — Rick and Susan, Laura Lynn and John, Ashley and Lily — sat in grim silence. But death would not come.

Finally, they were told that the crisis had passed. They left the hospital feeling helpless; the next crisis might be the last. And they might sleep right through it. 

The next morning, they visited again. No change. No hope. Just the heaving body of a great man going down — but not easily.

As we returned to the house, they said that they found it easier to go in small groups and stay for brief intervals. We had no way of knowing if he could hear our voices; but assuming he could, we tried to keep up the vigil, little by little.

I went back later, with Laura and Katy. It was much the same with me. I just couldn’t summon an honest, honorable feeling.

 

At home, it was much better. The kids spent a lot of time in the swimming pool, as usual. The adults visited on the lanai, as usual. I watched the Rockets lose to Utah. During the commercials, I switched to ESPN2, where sports news and scores crawled across the bottom of the screen, with race cars winding out above.

First it was Astros 2, Reds 2, in the fourth inning. Then it was 3-3 in the eighth. It stayed that way long past the end of the basketball game, and into extra innings. Rick and I sat in the backyard and had a drink. The ladies stayed in the lanai. I smoked a cigar. Life goes on.

 Suddenly, my mother let out a scream.

“We won it 4-3 in the fourteenth,” she said. This was the best news I could I imagine. Not just that we won, but that my mother cared enough to keep following the score — and that she was excited enough to scream about it.

This was the best win of the year for me, though I had no part in it.

 

I went into the house and called the Dome. Bill Virdon picked up the phone, and I said, “What the hell are you doing, using up all my pitchers?”

TUESDAY, MAY 20 ● Houston, vs Cincinnati

I knew I would have to stay awake for an hour or so when I got home in the nether regions of darkness, while the world around me slept. I did not plan on staying up until 5:30 a.m., but life is like baseball: it is timeless. When I arrived home at 4:00, I saw a note from Judy on the kitchen counter:

Wake me up when you get in.

I had a feeling it was something that would upset me. Most of our predawn heartache has involved our daughter, Julia.

This time it was my father.

He had suffered a massive stroke while he was watching our game with the Phillies.

The prognosis was not good; I had to prepare myself for his death. Judy looked heavy with despair as she left me with my thoughts and went back to bed.

I poured a glass of wine and sat on the deck with the puppies and a cigar. The pups helped a lot, for there is living where there is dying. And there is joy in the blossom of youth.

Still, the sadness came in waves just as the clouds came and went, shrouding the Moon in mystery, leaving it near full, luminous, and flat as a sand dollar.

I didn’t really cry, but my eyes were floating in sorrow.

I think it helped to know that it happened suddenly, and that there was no pain or suffering. Twenty years ago, he endured four hours of colon-cancer surgery. I was in the last years of my pitching career, and this brush with death was devastating to me; it foretold the symbolic death of my essential being.

To that point, baseball had defined me, but now I was clinging to it as if it were a piece of driftwood in the vast, open sea. As we talked before he was gurneyed to the operating room, he wept. I had never seen him cry before, and I remember telling him that it was all right to cry.

“These guys I play baseball with think they’re tough,” I said. “But they would cry too. Nobody can stand up to his own mortality. You’ll get through this. I know you will.”

The fact is, I didn’t know he would get through it. And I was not prepared to lose him. I think his tears were for Mom and for me, for Rick, and for Laura Lynn.

He lived his life for his family, not for himself. It was as if he was born to serve. As a child of the Depression, he was nearly obsessed with his labors to provide for the family. He often brought work home from the office and worked until he slept. On Sunday nights, he sat down to an old Smith-Corona typewriter and hunt-and-pecked his way through a long letter to his parents in Pennsylvania.

And to think I can hardly get around to calling him once a week.

 

I remember my Dad sitting at the dining-room table, with his briefcase and papers. But I also remember waiting for him to come home, so I could pitch to him in the back yard.

In my early teen years, I pitched so hard that the ball often hit him in the shins or on the arm. I learned a few new words during those sessions, but he never quit trying to catch me — until I was smart enough to quit throwing to him.

I remember him taking Rick and me to the park, and he kicked a football way up over the tops of the trees. I was amazed at these powerful punts.  Rick and I circled around underneath, in vain attempts to catch them.

I recall him taking me to Little League signups when I was seven years old. You had to be eight to play, but I wanted to see what it was like. It turned out to be the formation of a new league, and they were a couple of boys short, so I got started a year early. I think this foreshadowed my life in the game.

I had my first date for a dance party in sixth grade, and I was embarrassed to have him take me to pick up the girl, because he was bald. He didn’t tease me or get mad; he just put on his business hat and said, “Let’s go.” 

One night I came home with an extra-credit assignment in Physics. I had no clue how to solve it, but he helped me. He took my textbook and read through it; then he went to work with his slide rule. I was the only kid in that class who got the right answer. I’m pretty sure my teacher was wise to my ways, and I didn’t really care.

I was just proud of my Dad. 

 

All of these images crossed my mind as l looked out at the lake in back of the house. The water has always been special to me: the way it reflects the many moods of lighting, weather, and season. This night, the lake was swollen with rain, and it was tranquil, with lights from across the way floating still-and-silent in murky tones of amber, white, and red.

Seven years ago, just after his retirement, my father had a stroke while I was at spring training. I flew from Florida to California, hoping to beat death to his door. He made a remarkable recovery from that setback, but just as he was getting his mobility back, he fell and broke his hip. The doctors put a couple of screws in the bone to ensure proper healing, but something went wrong.

He was supposed to be pain-free in a few weeks, but a few months later, when he was to take a cruise to Alaska with Ryan and his cousin Ashley, he was still suffering. He suffered through the cruise and through our trip to Hawaii the following Thanksgiving. Finally, it was discovered that his hip bone was dead, and they gave him an artificial hip. 

The past two years, he has been fine, but the illnesses and injuries had clearly taken a toll. He was not real mobile, and though his mood improved dramatically when the hip pain went away, he spent most of his time watching sports and business news on television.

The truth is, he was always a homebody, and he would have been happy to stay home all the time. But my mother loved to travel, and he traveled all over the world with her, for her.

 

He was not a religious man, but he was a faithful servant — at home, at work, and even in his spare time. He always volunteered to help coach our teams, raise funds for our activities, contribute to charities. He was such a soft touch that he was inundated with mail requesting donations. His favorite charity was the YMCA.

After I became a Christian a few years ago, I had several talks with him about spirituality. My sister is more devoted to the Lord than me, and we had a searching conversation with him just last month when I was in LA. I am hoping that his devotion to the YMCA, to his wife, to his children, and to his work, along with the seeds we tried to sow last month, will speak for him now, when he cannot speak for himself.

He never spoke for himself, but always for others.       

 

This afternoon, waves of sadness came over me. I wept some, and I sat immobile a lot. I know I have to get on with things, so I called Gerry and told him that I would be there for the game, but I wanted Bill to manage the team. I called Cubby and asked him to make the coaches and team aware of the situation. I called Barry and arranged the transportation. We will leave tomorrow, with Julia; Ryan and Ashley will fly in tomorrow night.

I laid down for a nap around 5:00 and left for the ballpark at 6:00. When I arrived, Gerry was in my office. It was great to see him, and he struck just the right balance. He sympathized, talking briefly about when his father passed away. Then he got down to business.

Sid couldn’t throw today. His arm is still sore, and our doctor, Bill Bryant, thinks he is finished.  Gerry had talked with Vern, and they penciled in Donne Wall for the first game in Denver.

When I walked into the coaches’ room, a hush fell over them. I tried to break it by being upbeat and talkative, but I’m sure my words didn’t hide my distress.

I walked back into my office and had another disturbing thought:

As I walked through the tunnel to the dugout, I encountered Biggio. He patted me on the shoulder and said he was sorry to hear about my Dad.

“I know,” I said. “It’s tough to know what to say and what to do. But I don’t want you guys carrying my load into this game. We have to go out there with some spirit. Maybe you could spread the word. I’m concerned about it. We need to get fired up.”

 

One thing was evident in the first inning: the Reds were fired up. They have the worst record in baseball, and their manager, Ray Knight, has been fussing and fuming all year. He finally went ballistic last week, tearing a bag from its mooring and slamming it down like a pro wrestler.

I had a few managers who had short tempers. A little rage can be helpful — once in a great while. But if you go off too often, it loses its impact and becomes almost laughable.

Knight was suspended three days for his recent tirade. He started serving those days today at his home in Albany, Georgia.

Before the game, the Reds had a closed-door, players-only meeting. I’m sure they are hoping to play like champions during Knight’s absence, to show their management that they can do better without him. The same thing could happen to me some day, but I am going to try my best not to have too many tantrums. I haven’t had any yet.

 

Deion Sanders led off with a single, and then Curtis Goodwin got a drag-bunt single. Then they pulled a double steal. Barry Larkin grounded out to drive in a run, then Reggie Sanders singled to center to drive in another run.

Reggie Sanders never stopped running as he rounded first, and Mouton’s throw to Biggio had him cold at second, but Bidge dropped the ball. Chirs Holt stiffened and we got out of it with just two runs. But the Reds had clearly thrown down the gauntlet.

They got another run in the second, and John Smiley was pitching well for them. Still, we rallied to tie the game at 3.

In the eighth, Russ Springer ran afoul of Lady Luck: he jammed Hal Morris, and the ball dribbled down the third-base line for a double. Then he jammed Willie Greene and broke his bat in half. The ball went looping over Bagwell’s head, and he missed it by a foot or so.

Joe Oliver hit a liner to short, and it looked like we were out of it with just one run, but the ball knuckled toward Ricky Gutierrez and caromed off his glove, allowing Greene to score.

In the ninth, the Reds got another run on two broken bats and a dribbler up the middle. In all, they got fourteen hits, and at least ten of them were weak. They were full of vigor, and we seemed flat. We still had a chance, but it got away.

 

After the game, I had to endure a media session. They knew about my father, so I had to address this subject with microphones in my face.

“Is your father going to make it?” someone asked.

“No,” I said. “If he survives, there won’t be much left of him.”

There were several radio reporters, and four or five newspaper guys. I thought they were sensitive in their questioning. I was really glad there were no TV cameras; I must have looked like hell.

 

When I got home, Judy was packing for the trip and Ryan was already in bed. I tried to call home several times, but the line was busy. I finally gave up and went to the deck with the wine, the cigars, and the puppies. I felt better outside than in the house; don’t ask me why.

Judy finally came out and handed me the phone. I talked to Rick, and he said there was no change; Dad’s breathing had been shallow, and at one point the nurse called to say that she thought he was near the end.

The family raced over to the hospital, and by the time they got there, he had lurched back into the fight and was breathing rapidly.

Everyone there, it seems, is praying that he will let go. But there is no assurance that this will happen.

Tomorrow, we will see for ourselves. 

MONDAY, MAY 19 ● Philadelphia, vs Phillies

Today we were held hostage in Philadelphia.  Staying over after a Sunday day game to play a Monday-night game is a recent phenomenon. I wonder if our appearance on Fox’s Baseball Night in America has anything to do with it?

I don’t mind staying over that much, really. If it were September, when the travel gets under your skin like a chigger, and airplane food tastes like mush, it would be different. But this is our longest trip, and it’s almost over. Even though we only get to stay home two-and-a-half days, it’s nice to have one East Coast trip behind us.

On Thursday, we head for Denver and San Francisco, and the wives are allowed to come along. I know Judy will enjoy the break from her routine, and I will be glad to have her with me.

 

I woke up early and walked all over town this morning. I really need to start getting more exercise. My weight is all right, but I need to firm things up a bit.

When I returned to the hotel, I saw The Perfessor talking with Jim Deshaies and Bill Brown in the lobby. I asked Vern when he was going to the ballpark, and he said, “One o’clock.”

“Why don’t we just sleep there?” I asked.

“Well, Mac has extra hitting at 2 o’clock, and I have to throw to them,” Vern replied. “You don’t have to come out that early if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll be here waiting for you at 1 o’clock sharp,” I said. “I’m tired of walking around town, and I’m just about finished with my book. I don’t have anything to do but wait for the game anyway. At least if we check out of the hotel and go to the yard, it will seem like we are starting on our way home.”

 

When we got to the park, half the team was there; I think everyone felt the same way. Philadelphia is a much nicer city than it was ten years ago. But how much brotherly love can you stand? We’ve spent five nights here, which is the length of our average homestand this year.

Mac didn’t have any trouble getting volunteers for extra hitting today. Eight guys flailed away for an hour. Their labors were unimpressive. Well, maybe they were saving their good swings for the game.

I consulted The Perfessor regarding Mike Hampton.

When I talked to Gerry last night, he was so pissed off that he wanted to send Mike back to the minors. Vern and I aren’t ready to give up on him yet.

We watched the video of his performance, and we came to the same conclusion: He just isn’t hitting his spot low-and-away with the sinker. His other pitches were OK, but the sinker doesn’t sink when it’s belt-high. Instead, it rises — right over the fence.

Vern doesn’t feel like he has established good communication with Mike. I haven’t had a lot of luck talking to him, either. He is quick with the barbed repartee, but short on sharing true feelings.

Somehow, we have to get through to him.

I asked Vern if he would mind if I stood alongside the next time they work in the bullpen, and he welcomed the idea. We don’t have exactly the same take on what he needs to do to get the sinker to behave, but we both feel that sending him to the minors is too drastic a measure.

Gerry came by before batting practice to check on our pitching plans, and to talk about Mike. He wants a plan of attack, and I think he is right. Sometimes we are so sensitive about feelings that we let things go along, hoping for the best.

If we are going to skip him a start, and try to work with him on the side and maybe get him a couple of innings in relief, we need to tell him what we plan to do and ask him what he thinks would help.

We did this in the outfield during BP, and it was more of the same: tight-lipped, noncommittal. It was like trying to draw water out of a rock.

I feel we did make some progress, in the sense that he admitted that he was not pitching well; he could have brushed it off by saying his previous two starts were good, and this was just an off day. But he didn’t say that.

He said that he knew he wasn’t pitching well, and that it was not a physical problem but a mental thing.

“I just don’t have any confidence,” he said. “It’s like the chicken-and-egg thing. I have to pitch good to get my confidence back, but I can’t pitch good without confidence.”

“That’s a start,” I said. “There are ways to build your confidence between starts. It may take a little extra work, but if your arm is healthy, we can do it.”

I was hoping for some sign of eagerness at this suggestion, but his response was something like, “whatever.”

I made a mental note to try to talk to his wife, Kautia. She is a bright young lady. Perhaps she can give us some insight into his reticence. I just have to believe that this goes beyond pitching; that it is something deep down inside that is resisting help.

Most guys are too hopeful about getting help from coaches; they are looking for help all the time. But Mike seems to be a joker on one hand, and a hermit on the other. Sometimes he is the cockiest guy on the team; other times he looks like a lost soul.

           

The game with the Phils went better tonight.

D.K. has passed the Enigma title on to Mike, and he has taken up the sword of the staff like Sir Galahad. Seven innings; one run on a two-out solo homer on a 3-2 pitch; 8 strikeouts; one walk. He even got a base hit and drove in a run after the Phillies walled Ricky Gutierrez to pitch to him.

Sean Berry finally got off the Interstate (a batting average in the .100s; a guy hitting .145 would be on “I-45”) with a two-run homer to get us started. Biggio hit a solo shot to make it 3-0. Gonzo finally got a couple of RBI singles, and then Bagwell showed the Fox crowd his flair for the dramatic by hitting his 13th and 14th homers of the year. The second one made it 9-0 and was the 1000th hit of his career. In between, he walked, stole second, and scored.

There is no way we can win the pennant with Biggio and Bagwell shouldering most of the load. But there is also no way we can win it without them.      

John Hudek came in and pitched the eighth, giving up a three-run homer. Billy Wagner gave up a solo in the ninth. This happens all the time when guys who normally pitch in close games come into a blowout, because they need work to stay sharp. Most of the time it doesn’t make any difference, except in their earned run averages. In this case, it may affect Hudek’s confidence, as he is in a bit of a slump.

I’m not as worried about him as Vern and Gerry.  They haven’t seen him at his best, and I have. I have seen him pick off both corners of the plate, time after time, with 93-95 MPH fastballs.  His fastball is back in that range now, but he is not hitting corners. I believe he will return to form. I hope he believes it.

 

I was also hoping this day’s journal would get me from Philly to Houston, but I am written-out; my word-processor’s battery is almost dead; and we are still an hour from home.

SUNDAY, MAY 18 ● Philadelphia, vs Phillies

I still remember a meeting we had one spring — must have been around 1975 — when Preston Gómez was managing the Astros. It was a meeting for pitchers and catchers only, and the subject was walks.

Preston came right to the point: In 1974 we had 601 walks (56 intentional). The Dodgers only walked only 464 — the fewest in the league. And only NINE of those walks were intentional! So his message was that if we had better control, we could win our division.

And after citing these alarming statistics, he said that if a pitcher walked more than two batters in a game, he would be immediately removed from the competition.

When the meeting was over, we had walks on the brain. As a result, we walked more batters that spring than ever before. A steady stream of pitchers paraded from the bullpen, each wilder than his predecessor.

After a while, it was ridiculous; then it became laughable; and then sublime. Somewhere after sublime, we lost the touch. We just couldn’t walk enough batters to keep the music playing, and finally, the parade was over.

I held a meeting today with our hitters. Mac presided, and he did a fine job.

“We are going to win this division,” he said. “I know it and you know it. We can do it the hard way, or we can do it the easy way.

“The easy way is to be aggressive and bunt, run, steal, and hit our way over the opposition. The hard way is the way we’ve been doing it: by sitting back, waiting for home runs. We can’t keep waiting for Bags and Bidge to hit a home run. We have to make things happen.”

He went on to talk about putting pressure on the other team. I asked which guys liked to hit-and-run, and all but Sean Berry and Jeff Bagwell raised their hands.

“What counts do you like?” I asked.

They said they didn’t care, but they didn’t like to do it with a 2-0 count or with two outs in the inning. Bill stressed the importance of getting a good lead — even when we weren’t planning to run — so that the other team wouldn’t guess our intentions by the length of our leads.

I told them that I thought they were all good hitters.

“I wouldn’t let you hit 3-0 if I didn’t believe in you,” I said. “But right now, we are struggling. I would like to be more aggressive. Don’t worry about being picked off. Get a good lead. Don’t worry about being thrown out. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and the catcher will make a bad throw. If we get a few steals and work a few hit-and-run plays, it just might shake something loose and get us going.”

We got a lot of feedback from the players. They all realize that we have wasted a lot of good pitching, and that we could be three or four games ahead of our current pace with even average run production.

The meeting broke up in a great spirit of togetherness, but I still felt dubious about the impact it would have. I hate to call attention to this type of thing, but we aren’t even to the ridiculous stage yet.

Then again, maybe we attained that status this afternoon, as a minor-league marvel by the name of Garrett Stephenson shut us down, and we lost 5-3.