RMJ 93 May 18

Pitching	IP	H	R	ER	BB	SO	HR	ERA	BF	Pit	Str	Ctct	StS	StL
Garrett Stephenson, W (1-0)	7	6	1	0	0	4	0	1.29	26	96	66	46	6	14

 

Biggio was the first batter, and he struck out on a changeup. We had heard that the change was Stephenson’s best pitch, and he showed us right away.

“This guy is like (Bob) Tewksbury,” Biggio said as he slammed his bat back into the rack.

Our first six batters went down in order.

The Phils hammered Mike Hampton for two runs in the second and three more in the third.

In our half of the third, Ricky Gutierrez got a hit leading off. He was promptly picked off first as he tried to extend his lead.

In the fourth, Biggio singled to center. On the 2-1 pitch, we signaled for a hit-and-run play. Biggio got an average jump, and the pitch was up and away. Abreu said later that he got the sign, but he just froze up. Biggio was thrown out stealing as Bobby watched with the bat on his shoulder.

In the seventh, Mouton bunted for a hit. It was our first bunt hit of the year. Then he tried to steal second and was thrown out.

We did manage to score a run off Bottalico in the ninth. It was too little, too late. Honestly, we should be able to beat the Phillies with three runs most of the time, as they are in a rebuilding mode. But Hampton didn’t really get his act together until we were five runs down.

Ces’t la vie. Ces’t la guerre.

Maybe we can’t do it with Bagwell, Biggio, and good pitching. But today, Biggio reached three times on a single, a walk, and getting hit with a pitch. He scored two runs.

Bagwell had two doubles and a sacrifice fly to account for two of the RBI.

The turning point came on the sac fly. We had the bases loaded with one out in the seventh, when Bagwell worked the count to 3-0 against Stephenson. The next pitch was — you guessed it — a changeup. The next was another change, and Bagwell hit it foul down the third-base line. The next pitch was a fastball, and he flied out to center and we had to settle for one run.

           

I have put Cheo on alert that he may have to do his table dance soon. This might get us to the laughable stage, if it works like it did when he was a player, ten years ago.

He performs his table dance in the middle of the clubhouse, usually to the accompaniment of loud music. He does it naked, with all extremities akimbo.

This may or may not have the desired effect; his body doesn’t look quite as provocative as it used to. I know one thing:

It will help as least as much as the meeting.

We are closing in on desperate. And desperation comes before the ridiculous stage. Something must be done to jump-start this process.

 

I had dinner tonight with Joe O’Rourke. Joe directed Astros’ telecasts back when I started broadcasting. He had already been a director for many years. In fact, he worked some Game of the Week shows in the Fifties.

Although we are separated by almost a generation, we have similar views on television: we like to watch the pictures, and we don’t like to have graphics smeared all over the screen. I often quote him when asked about sports on television:

“If I wanted to read,” he once said, “I’d get a good book.”

In one sentence, this describes the problem with sports journalism today.

In a concerted effort to drive radio and newspaper reporters out of business, the TV people have cluttered the pictures with words and interrupted the announcers’ dialog with sound bites. It is difficult to really watch a live game, because the action is so broken up with replays and charts.

One of our new-age directors got upset with me once because I wouldn’t talk on every replay. In his view, that was my job.

“You guys replay a common ground ball to short, and want me to say something that adds to it,” I said. “There’s nothing more to say but to repeat what the play-by-play guy has already said. That’s why I don’t talk; it’s repetitive and boring. Besides, we miss the next pitch half the time.

“One of these days, someone is going to hit a home run on that pitch, and you are going to miss it.”

“No chance,” he said. “We always have a camera on the action, and we can just replay it.”

I started to protest, and then I just shrugged and shook my head. “I’ll try to come up with something to say in the future,” I said. 

Do you suppose it would have done any good to mention that the live action is the essence of the broadcast? 

I don’t.

These TV guys know they have the radio guys beat, because of the pictures. And they have the newspaper guys beat because of the graphics. Everything is devoured in the voracious maw of the tube. And the writers peep about the locker rooms and the dugouts, looking for table scraps.

The sad thing is that that television focuses on star power, rather than teamwork. The players become TV stars, and they primp and pose and do everything humanly possible to savor their time in the limelight. They step in and out of the batter’s box, adjusting their batting gloves. They pace around the mound.

Now the managers are doing it too. I would guess that Tommy Lasorda spent twice as much time on the field when the game was on national television.

Most modern managers spend a lot of time on the mound; not me. If I can’t pitch, I don’t care to be out there. I’ll go out to change pitchers, and that’s about it. If the infielders want to know which bunt play we’re running, they’ll have to get the sign from the dugout. 

Almost every modern method of strategy increases the “dead time” in a game. I may lose my job because of my Neanderthal ways, but I refuse to be a part of the slowing of the game.