RMJ 64 April 19

SATURDAY, APRIL 19 ● Los Angeles, vs Dodgers

I woke up at 10 a.m. It always amazes me how easily I can adapt to the night-owl schedule. It took me forever to get used to the 7 a.m. wakeups at Kissimmee.

Breakfast with Mom and Dad was a delight. They had already read the paper, and they filled me in on the coverage. I had no appetite for news.

A double serving of sourdough toast with homemade plum jelly, with some strong, steaming French roast coffee, got my spirits stoked in a hurry. 

Mom took me on a tour of her famous rose garden. I hope I have her energy when I am her age.

Dad is another story. A stroke and a hip replacement have taken his physical vitality. He still has his wits about him, and he enjoys the hubbub when the family comes home, but he doesn’t move around much anymore. Ten laps around the pool after his morning stretching exercises gets his blood going. He spends the rest of the day reading and watching sports and business news on television.

We took the cover off the swimming pool in anticipation of my sister’s arrival with her three daughters. Mom swam 20 laps, and I did 100. It felt good to get a workout after laying off running with the calf injury.

Laura Lynn arrived about 1:00, along with her husband John and daughters Katie, Ashley, and Lily. I didn’t have time for much more than a light lunch and a short visit, because we were going to have extra hitting at 2:40.

 

Today was a different type of day at the park — by a long shot.

Revised copies of the matchups were on my desk, and they looked pretty good against Hideo Nomo. For some reason, we have hit him pretty hard, so I had a lot of candidates for the lineup.

The press came in waves today and took a great deal of my time; I didn’t even see extra batting practice.

I had a lot of trouble filling out the lineup card too. Derek Bell was about the only guy who had trouble with Nomo; he was 1-for-10. Thomas Howard was swinging the bat well, so I put him in center and hit him second. I knew this might bother Derek, especially if I played Bagwell the next day against his nemesis Ismael Valdez.

I thought I would catch Ausmus, because both catchers were about equal versus Nomo, but Tony Eusebio had the edge against Valdez.

I wrote down the lineup, and then I had reservations. I didn’t want Bell moping on the bench, and I remembered that Tony had caught all three of Darryl’s starts. I wasn’t sure if the favorable hitting matchups were worth the potential psychological hazards.

I went looking for Vern to talk about D.K. and Tony. I found him in the bullpen catching Shane. He said he was almost finished, but Shane wasn’t happy with his curve, and he threw a little longer than usual.

As Vern and I walked back to the clubhouse, he suggested that I ask D.K. if he preferred one catcher to the other. I wasn’t sure this was the best advice, because I didn’t necessarily want D.K. to think about this issue. If he became attached to Tony and then Tony got hurt, then where would we be?

My problem was solved when I found him in the lunchroom playing cards. There was no way I was going to talk about this in front of everyone, and no way I was going to make such a big deal of it as to call him into my office.

When I got to my office, I found that Cubby had been busy as a beaver. He had found my lineup card and transferred it onto the dugout card, the home team’s card, and the card we put on the dugout wall. At this point, I was leaning toward playing Bell, but that would have changed several other spots in the lineup.

I ended up saying an internal “what the hell” and leaving the lineup in its original form.

 

The game was a beauty; a real nail-biter. It took three hours and fifteen minutes to play, and we won 2-1.

Nomo was brilliant; we couldn’t touch him. But we did manage to get one run when Ausmus hit a hanging split into the leftfield corner, scoring Spiers from first. This happened about two seconds after Bill Virdon said, “A ball down the leftfield line would go good here.” That tied the game at 1.

D.K. and Brad were working beautifully together. They survived several threats, and going into the top of the eighth, it was still tied.

Bobby Abreu got a hit with one out, stole second, and went to third on a wild pitch. The Dodgers brought the infield in, and Spiers smacked a hot grounder to the left of shortstop Greg Gagne. Gagne went to his left, stabbed it and whirled to throw home. It was a great play, and I thought it would get Bobby, but it was slightly off target and Bobby had a great jump. He scored easily.

With one out and a man of first in the bottom of the eighth, Todd Hollandsworth hit a smash to Biggio — a sure double play. But Bidge booted it, and he couldn’t pick it back up. All hands were safe.

This was especially distressing to Biggio, because he had already failed in an RBI situation and had vented his rage by smashing his bat in the runway between the dugout and the clubhouse.

Vern and I had a debate about whether to bring Billy Wagner in at that point to face Todd Zeile. Kile had thrown more than 100 pitches, and he was clearly near the end of his psychological rope. But he was still throwing hard and getting ground balls.  We wavered back and forth, and finally Vern said, “Why don’t you go and talk to him?”

This was the perfect advice, because if Vern had gone out, he would have been forced to decide himself. If he came back, Kile would have to face Zeile. If Kile gave him a mixed signal, he would have had to go to the bullpen without my consent. (Usually the first trip is the made by the pitching coach, and the second by the manager. But this was an exceptional case.)

When I got to the mound, Biggio and Ausmus were already there. “How do you feel?” I asked.

“I feel fine?” Darryl said. “No problem.”

“How is he throwing?” I asked Brad.

“He’s still throwing well,” he replied.

“OK,” I said. “It’s your game, D.K. Go after him, and don’t worry about a thing. Billy is ready. Even if he gets a hit, we’re still going to win this fucking ballgame.”

“Pick me up, D.K.,” Bidge said. “You can do it.”

On the second pitch to Zeile, he did it. The ground ball went to Spiers at short. It was a tough pickup, but he made it and we got the double play.

The bench erupted in affirmation for the move, and the results. Billy and Darryl got heroes’ welcomes.

 

Then came the ninth. We didn’t score, and I brought Wagner in to finish. I also made a double-switch in case they tied the game. Bogar came in at short; Bell went to center; and Mouton moved to left, with Gonzalez coming out. This gave us sure hands in the infield and strong arms in the outfield.

When I made the substitutions, I told home plate umpire Dana DeMuth, “This is my fanciest move of the year.” These guys know I’m a rookie, and he returned my smile.  

The smile was wiped from my face when Gagne greeted Wagner with a solid single to center. Tom Prince came off the bench and bunted Gagne to second. At least we had an out.

We played Brett Butler shallow in the outfield so we would have a play at the plate. Wagner got ahead in the count, and Butler hit a slow grounder to short, moving Gagne to third with two outs. Wilton Guererro was the scheduled hitter, and I feared him because of his speed; he could beat out a hit in a heartbeat.

But Bill Russell decided to go all-or-nothing. He brought power-hitter Billy Ashley off the bench to pinch-hit. Ashley had homered off Wagner to beat him last year.

Though I was as nervous as I have been so far, I felt good about Wagner’s chances. He is a strikeout pitcher, and Ashley strikes out a lot. This time Wagner won the duel, but it was scary.

Ashley hit a towering fly ball to right, and Abreu caught it just in front of the warning track.

It was, in my estimation, the biggest win so far. The whole team spilled out onto the field for a congratulatory gauntlet of high-fives. As I returned to the dugout, I saw Laura and John, the girls and my mom, waving their hands and smiling. I waved back and headed for the locker room, high as a kite.

There was a tremendous feeling of community in the locker room.  The only downside for me was Bell’s attitude: he walked out to center field in the ninth and lobbed the ball one time to get his arm ready. Somehow I am going to have to get him involved in the spirit of the team.

When I got home, everyone was waiting up — even Dad. We shared a couple bottles of wine and then it was bedtime. No rest for the weary; the battle would be rejoined tomorrow, less than twelve hours away. I still had to pack, sleep, and drive to the ballpark — which would allow only six hours for sleep.

I didn’t think this would be a problem, however, the way I was feeling.