RMJ 113 June 7

SATURDAY, JUNE 7 ● at San Diego, vs Padres

This was a good day in every way but one.

Dave and I went to Mission Beach to do some blading. It was overcast and cool. An onshore wind had the ocean churning out a percussive backbeat. Navigating upstream along the concrete boardwalk was a little tricky. I nearly pitched headlong into a rush of exercise freaks. They probably viewed me as the salmon — and a lunker at that.

It must be frightening to face 6’4” and 230 pounds, careening out of control. More frightening for them than me.

I have been clumsy and absent-minded all my life. Little accidents are part of my image. That’s how I got my nickname: Sluggo.

We skated for an hour-and-a-half. Near the end, I was exhausted. I became careless, hit a crack in the pavement, lurched to the side, twisted, and came down plump-on-the-rump in a patch of geraniums.

“This is a nice place to take a break,” I told Dave when he came back to check me out. I guess Dave is the ideal blading partner for me, because he is the Astros’ trainer.

The game with the Padres was a nail-biter, just like the day before.

Rookie Heath Murray was wild in the first inning, and we got to him for three runs. Donne Wall looked sharp, and he breezed through the early innings with only a solo homer by Wally Joyner marking his slate. We continued to put the pressure on Murray, but he kept dodging bullets.

Tony Gwynn homered in the fifth to make it 3-2. The next inning, Donne wavered, and the Padres tied the game. I brought Ramón Garcia in with one out and men on first and third.

Well, actually, I thought I was bringing in Garcia.

When Ramón started warming up, he was on the mound closest to the seats. We got Blas Minor up to throw, because we preferred him against lefthanded hitters. Garcia moved over, and Minor stepped onto the mound Garcia was using. So when I went to the mound to get Wall, I motioned for the righthander. The umpire asked which one, and I pointed to the mound by the seats. I thought Alan Ashby already had the message by phone that we were going with Garcia; apparently he did not get the news. My eyes bugged out when I saw Minor cross the foul line.

I wasn’t sure if I could change horses at this stage, but after thinking about it, I decided that it would not be good for either pitcher, let alone for the team, to make a radical reversal. I wasn’t even sure the umpires would let me switch; I just acted as though I wanted Minor all along. Can you imagine the look on Vern’s face when I got back to the dugout?

“I screwed up,” I said. “I thought Chief was on the right.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bill said. “It doesn’t make that much difference.”

One of the reasons I didn’t try to reverse myself was that it was sort of a coin-flip call anyway. Minor promptly threw a double-play ball to get us out of the inning, and there were high-fives all around in the dugout. 

           

Gonzo opened the sixth with a homer, and we went back on top. Ray Montgomery got a hit to left, and tried to advance on a bobble by Rickey Henderson. The throw was there in time, but as Quilvio Veras applied the tag, I saw the ball. When Greg Bonin called Montgomery out, I shot out of the dugout like a sprinter.

As I approached second base, Monte was trotting off the field as if he had accepted that he was out. Now I wasn’t so sure, and I was venturing farther out, like a swimmer caught in a rip tide.

By the time I finally got to Bonin, he was 30 or 40 feet into right-centerfield. He was in a world of his own thoughts, and he was shocked to hear my voice. When he turned, I was yelling.

“He didn’t have the ball! The ball was on the ground,” I said.

“What?”

“The ball was on the ground,” I said, pantomiming what I thought I had seen.        

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yes, it was. I saw white. I saw the ball. You were on the other side. You must have been blocked.”

We continued in this vein for a minute or so. He wasn’t going to change his call. He hadn’t seen what I saw.

As I turned to go back to the dugout, I looked at Veras. He had a sly smile on his face. And guilty eyes. Caminiti was smiling as I passed third base.

Cubby said he thought Veras had juggled the ball, and that Cammy said Veras “snow-coned” it (caught it in the end of the web of his glove). The guys in the dugout weren’t sure; some said they saw the ball, some didn’t.

When the inning was over, I walked to the other end of the bench, where several pitchers were looking at a TV monitor.

“He snow-coned it,” Chris Holt said. “I can’t believe it didn’t shake loose when he tagged Ray.”

Here I was, up 4-3, with egg on my face. I could see the headline in the paper the next day:

 

BLIND MAN MANAGES ASTROS

 

Well, at least I got my first real knee-jerk tirade out of the way. I didn’t cuss Bonin. Fact is, I was so flustered, I couldn’t even remember his name. 

Minor got into trouble in the seventh, and I brought Mike Magnante in to pitch. Mike got two outs, but the tying run scored in the process.

In the top of the ninth, we got men on first and second with nobody out. Bruce Bochy played his ace, Trevor Hoffman. Hoffman got out of it.

At this point, we were strapped for pitching; the only relievers available were Garcia and Wagner. Billy has had a little tenderness in his elbow lately, and I didn’t want to use him until we had a lead.

Chief pitched well in the ninth, and in the tenth for that matter. The Padres hit three grounders through the infield, then pinch-hit with Scott Livingstone. If we got him out, Hoffman would be finished, and we would have the strategic advantage.

I turned to The Perfessor.

“Isn’t this great?”

“What?”

“This,” I said, spreading my arms out toward the field. “Just being part of this. It’s great.”

“You got that right,” he said with a smile. “This is what it’s all about.”

It didn’t stay “great” long. Livingstone hit a 1-2 pitch through the left side of the infield, and we lost 5-4.