RMJ 85 May 10

SATURDAY, MAY 10 ● Miami, vs Florida

I got up early today and went Rollerblading with Dave Labossiere.

Dave is one of the most interesting guys I have met in baseball. He is a loner of sorts; he likes to go off by himself and pursue his hobbies: photography and skating and golf. I have the same hobbies, but I don’t run around with him much because he starts too early in the morning.

He is a sensitive and thoughtful guy, and I think we could become real close friends if he would just have a few beers at night and start out a little later in the morning. He cannot do this, however, because he is so conscientious. Just in case anyone needs treatment, he gets to the ballpark early. He’s usually the first to arrive.

This morning, I was a little slow on the Rollerblades, having enjoyed the grape while writing my journal. I was slow and cautious. I haven’t been on the blades much lately, and I don’t feel real good about urban maneuvering — especially quick stops.

When we got to the beachfront, we had clear sailing in gentle breezes. The passing parade of humanity was beautiful and strange. You can cover a lot of landscape in two hours on Rollerblades, even if you stop to rest occasionally. This sport is somewhat dangerous, but it beats jogging 10:1.

 

As usual, we arrived at the ballpark several hours before we had to be there. I am getting so fond of the camaraderie of our staff that it doesn’t bother me to hang around without much to do.

It is also a good sign, I think, that many of the players come out early.

One thing that bothers me is our reluctance to take chances on the bases. If the pitcher is quick to the plate, we don’t go. If the pitcher is slow, but the catcher throws well, we don’t go. I suppose there is always a reason not to go, but the worst of all reasons is the one I suspect:

I believe if I could get in the baserunners’ heads — Biggio, Bell, Mouton, or Listach — the thought process would be: We haven’t been getting many hits. We’re struggling to score. I can’t afford to be thrown out. It will kill the inning.

My process is: We’re not getting many hits, so we need to force the action. If we’re going to go down, let’s go down in flames.

I used these exact words on Sean Berry tonight. Sean is still trying to overcome his shoulder surgery and his groin pull. At the plate, he is tentative, swinging late on fastballs and trying to check his swing in vain on breaking pitches.

Last year, when he drove in 95 runs, he was aggressive — almost to a fault. After a couple of agonizing at-bats and a throw that almost got Biggio killed on what turned out to be a force play (but should have been a double play), I went to him in the dugout.

“Sean,” I said, “I don’t know this guy who is wearing your uniform. It’s not the guy I saw last year. You were aggressive. Now you’re tentative.

“I’m going to tell you right now that I don’t give a shit if you strike out. I want you to go for it. Don’t be afraid to fail. Fuck failing. We all fail in this game. But we cannot fear failure. We need to go for it. Go for the downs. Rip away.

“You’re a good hitter, and you know it. Trust yourself. Go for the ‘hero play’ at all times, on offense and on defense.

“I believe in you. I know you can do it. You have to fight your way out of this. You can’t feel your way out.”

This is the first time I have approached a player during the game. Until now, I have been reluctant to get into a guy’s head while he is performing. But tonight, I just felt I had to say something.

I also said something to Mouton and Listach:

“If I send you in to pinch-run,” I said. “I want you to steal second. Except for Tony, the rest of the guys you might run for can go first-to-third on a single, and score from first on a double. The difference is that you guys can steal, and they can’t.

“When I bring you in, more often than not, I want you to steal. I know everyone in the ballpark is aware of that. I know the pitcher and the catcher and the opposing manager will try to stop you. But you can’t say, “well, I won’t go on this pitch, because I want to see his move. I won’t go on that pitch, because they might pitch out. I won’t go on this pitch if it’s a slide-step.

“There is always a reason not to go, but I want you to go. If you get thrown out, it’s my fault, not yours.”

Vern and I talked about this, and we are going to institute an informal baserunning drill. We will use two pitchers and two baserunners. One of the pitchers will be the first-baseman, and the runners will take their leads. The other pitcher will work on his routines for holding runners, while the runners work on their jumps.

I did this with Lou Brock my last year in St. Louis. It really helped me a lot to get his feedback. At the same time, he was working on his running game. He’s the one who asked me to do it.  How’s that for a superstar who plays every day — half of them in the St. Louis sun?

If we could get a couple of pitchers and a couple of baserunners doing this for ten minutes each day, we would improve in both areas.

 

Tonight’s game was another nail-biter. We won 4-2. The Marlins have a great lineup, and they will score a lot of runs this year. I believe we will too. But both clubs have been struggling to score, playing a lot of close games.

Last night I had my first confrontation with an umpire: Larry Vanover. It came after Bagwell hit a ball into deep right-center. From my vantage point, it looked like the ball hit the top of the wall and came back. That’s the way Vanover called it. But our dugout came alive in protest.

“Get out there,” I heard someone say. And I knew this was the time.

When I got out to second base I said, “What did you see?”

“I saw the ball hit the top of the fence and come back,” he said.

“That’s what I saw too,” I said. “I’m not really pissed, but I know the guys wanted me to come out and argue. This is my first argument with an umpire. I really don’t know what else to say.”

“Well, I called it the way I saw it,” he said. “And that’s the way it’s going to be.”

I sort of waved my arms around for effect. And then I said. “Fine, that’s the way it is, and the way it will be.”

Tonight was a different story. With two outs and the pitcher at bat in the fourth inning of a 1-0 game, Bill Spiers broke from third as if he was going to steal home. Rick Helling stepped off awkwardly, and third-base umpire Jim Quick called a balk.

I was really pumped. What a great play by Spiers! Jimmy Leyland was fired up, too. He came out to argue, even though it is illegal, and grounds for immediate ejection, to argue a balk call.

“They’re going to run him,” I told Bill.       

But then a most unexpected thing happened: Quick reversed his call before Leyland got to him. When he motioned Spiers back to third, I shot out of the dugout without thinking. The last thing I considered was that I might get kicked out.

I ranted and raved. I did imitations of Helling’s move. I showed him how he couldn’t have stepped off properly from the position he was in.

When it comes to balks, I know what I’m talking about. After all, I was a pitcher.  And I know I was right.

One thing I have to say for Quick, though: he didn’t run me. He let me have my say. And I said a lot. He didn’t get mad; he just kept saying. “He stepped back with his right foot, and I missed it. I made the mistake, and I have to correct it. I know how you feel. But I can’t consider feelings. It’s not easy for me to change my call in front of all these people, but I feel like I have to get the call right, no matter what.”

His logic and his tone were disarming. What more could I say? I finally quit arguing and went back to the dugout.

Naturally, we failed to get Spiers home.

 

The Marlins took advantage of the situation immediately, but it could have been worse.

With the bases loaded and only one out, Bobby Bonilla hit a sinking liner down the first-base line. Jeff Bagwell made a great play to get a glove on it, and it rolled into shallow right field.

Moises Alou held for a moment, to make sure Bagwell didn’t catch the ball on the fly. He was late getting started to second, and Bagwell chased the ball down, threw across his body on the run, and nailed Alou at second. It was the kind of play where you don’t believe it, even after you’ve seen it.

If the ball had gotten by, it would have been two or three runs in and only one out. As it was, it was two outs with men on first and third. Chris Holt got the third out, and the Marlins had to settle for one run and a tie game.

 

In the fifth, we got the bases loaded with one out, and Leyland brought Dennis Cook in to pitch to Billy Spiers. Normally I don’t like to start using bench players early in the game, but with the sacks dripping, I felt like I had to fire one of my bullets. Ricky Gutierrez came through with a two-run single.

In the bottom of the fifth, Holt survived another uprising. A looping line-drive hit, two infield hits, and a weak ground-ball out gave the Marlins a run in and two runners on, with only one out. Holt got Jim Eisenreich to hit into a double play.

I’ll say this for Holt: he is a workhorse. He never shows any emotion; he just keeps plodding along.  Just when you think he is about to be knocked out, he makes a great pitch and gets out of trouble. 

In the seventh inning, the Marlins threatened again, and Holt was starting to lose velocity. I brought Russ Springer into the game, and he retired the side.

In the eighth inning, they led off with John Cangelosi. Cangy was with us last year, so I know his game. Before Russ even left the dugout, I told him, “Look, Cangelosi is going to try for a walk. Go after him with fastballs.

“If he gets on, he’ll take a big lead, to make you think you can pick him off. Don’t try. His game is to disrupt you. He’s not that fast. Make him stop. Brad can throw him out if he tries to steal.”

Well, sure enough, Russ walked him, Cangy took a big lead, and Russ tried to pick him off. He threw the ball by Bagwell and down the right-field line. Biggio raced over from his second-base position and ran the ball down. In one motion, he slid by the ball, picking it up with his bare hand, and popped up to his feet, firing to third. The throw was perfect, and Cangelosi was out.

It was a one-in-a-million play.

Springer then retired Renteria, and he had a long battle with Gary Sheffield before Sheff finally singled to left. With Alou coming up, I went to Wagner.

When I got back to the dugout, Springer said, “Is Wags going to hit for himself?” My shoulders slumped as I realized that I should have made a double-switch with Bogar for Berry. This would have given us better defense, and allowed Wagner a chance to rest on the bench. Wags struck out Alou on a 3-2 pitch, and we went to the ninth — with Billy scheduled to bat second.

I walked down the dugout in front of the players and said, “I fucked up. I should have double-switched. Now we have to do it the hard way. Pick me up, guys.” At this stage, I wasn’t going to take Wagner out of the game.

He just about gave me a heart attack when he tried to bunt for a hit and went sprinting down the line. It was a close play, and when he got back to the dugout, he was out of breath. Luckily, he hadn’t pulled a leg muscle.

Biggio was the next hitter, and I called him back from the on-deck circle.

“Waste as much time as you can,” I said. “Billy needs a breather.” When Biggio finally finished pine-tarring his bat and walked back to the plate, Leyland did a wonderful thing: he went to the mound to talk to his pitcher, Mark Hutton.

“What could he be telling him?” I asked Bill.

“Probably that Biggio is going to take a pitch, and that he should throw it in there for strike one,” he said. 

It had to be more than that. Leyland stayed out there until the umpire came out to make him leave. It looked like he was stalling, and I was delighted. By the time he left the mound, Billy was composed and ready to pitch.

But Biggio wasn’t finished yet. He worked the count to 2-2, then hit a home run to give us a 4-2 lead. This was a huge hit, because the Marlins had home-run hitters coming up in the bottom of the ninth.

 As it turned out, Billy didn’t need the cushion. Bonilla popped out on the first pitch, then Billy went to the whip and struck out the last two hitters. His last pitch was 99 mph.

The victory snapped an 11-game losing streak for us in Miami. The clubhouse was alive with jubilation.