RMJ 66 April 21

MONDAY, APRIL 21 ● Off day in San Diego

When I saw Vern in the lobby this morning, he informed me that he had not slept well at all. I slept like a baby, and was feeling fine as we boarded the minivan that Dave Labossiere rented to take us to Torrey Pines for our first off-day golf outing of the year.

I cannot think of a better place to enjoy a day off than San Diego. It was a little foggy in the morning and never really did get sunny, but the mild breeze chased the fog out of the canyons and left us with a delightfully cool-and-cloudy day.

I made sure I was on the same cart with Cubby, as I was eager to hit his Great Big Bertha driver again. Now I want one. It wasn’t that I hit the ball so far today; he outdrove me on almost every hole. But I did hit it far enough — and more importantly, straight enough — to have a shot at almost every green.

I played the irons well-enough to avoid my major weakness — chipping — and ended up shooting 78 from the back tees.  I was purposely trying not to figure my score as we closed in on 18; I knew I had a chance to break 80 for the first time since my thumb injury.

Even not counting, I knew I was on pace and did the typical, “I’m not really this good,” choke on 17 and 18. I hit one in the water on the par-3 17th, but salvaged a bogey with a 12-foot putt. Then I ruined a good drive on 18 with two mishits, leaving myself in a trap. This time I missed a 12-footer, but still made bogey.

It was a great day.

When we totaled up the bets over lunch, Cubby and I made a clean sweep. Naturally, we bought lunch to even things out.

Bill and Vern played in our foursome, and Dave, Jim Deshaies, Vince Cotroneo, and our television producer John Quigley Reynolds made up the other.

The ballplayers went to Del Mar Country Club, where the bets were undoubtedly higher.

Writing that reminds me of an off-day in Chicago, my rookie year. The veterans invited me to go to Sportsman’s Park for the horse races. They rented a limo and stopped for provisions at a liquor store. We dined in the clubhouse, and continued wagering and drinking until our meal money was gone.

We had to take public transportation back to the city — and it was the first stop on a three-city trip.

I had a similar experience with casinos when I played winter ball in the Dominican Republic in 1967. Since that time, I have done very little gambling, except on the golf course. I especially avoid bets that favor the “house.” The way I look at it, they’re not in business to lose money.

Gambling on the golf course is different; most of the time, your success or failure is directly related to your own performance. This type of betting is stimulating. It makes you concentrate more, and usually play better.

It is ironic, I suppose, that I now play uncertain odds on other people’s abilities every day. So far, I have been lucky. When we have hit-and-run, the batter has always made contact. When we tried a squeeze play in the Dodgers series, the batter fouled the ball off. Our success rate on steals has been fair. And our decisions on pitching changes have really paid dividends.

I know there will come a time when our luck will change. Like players, I have noticed that managers are prone to streaks and slumps. You may look like a genius for weeks on end, but the inevitable slump will catch you unaware, just when you are getting full of yourself.

The secret is to have long streaks and short slumps. That’s easy to say, and not so easy to do.

The best insurance against long slumps is good players. I continue to believe that we have enough talent to win if I don’t try to play Napoleon and overestimate my own importance.

           

When we got back from the golf course, I took a luxurious nap, a baptismal shower, and a long walk. The sun set on San Diego Bay like a satin gown.

I passed several homeless men along the way, and I gave them each a dollar. Years ago, I explained to my friend Bill Greif that I never gave money to beggars, because the beggars outnumbered my dollars. Bill was a pitcher with the Padres, and he was known for his beanball tactics. I am sure many of the hitters he strafed would have been surprised to hear him say, “I just give what I can.” 

“They’ll probably just buy some cheap wine,” I said.

“Maybe so,” he replied. “But at least there is joy in the giving.”

Since that time, I have followed his advice, and have found it rewarding.

It occurred to me that the beggars are like autograph-seekers at the ballpark: they seldom get what they want or need. As a ballplayer, you cannot possibly fulfill every request, but you can share communion from time to time and acknowledge a common bond.

 

I took my new book Pig Earth to Sally’s restaurant and had seared tuna over mushroom risotto. I read of the ritual slaughter of a pig by a peasant family in France as I lingered over this exquisite meal.

Most of the time, I am gregarious. But sometimes I enjoy a little solitude. Most of the time, I have a few drinks. Tonight, I go dry.