RMJ 133 June 28

SATURDAY, JUNE 28 ● Chicago, vs Cubs

Up and at ’em for Fox again. The game starts at 12:15, and Dave Labossiere and I hit the road at 8:00. The wind seems the same, but I think it will be warmer today. Might even touch 90 degrees. As we approached Belmont Avenue, I yelled at Dave, “Do you want to check the horse?”

He was wearing a headset, gliding along to the rhythm of the beat. He didn’t hear what I said, but he knew I had spoken to him. He skated on, and when we stopped to cross the highway, he asked what I had said and I told him, but it was too late to go back. 

The horse is part of a statue. It is rearing up on hind legs, with General Sheridan astride.  Back when I was playing, the team bus always drove past this statue and someone on the bus would say, “Don’t look at the horse’s balls. You’ll go 0-for-4.” Cheo Cruz always got a kick out of this. He would scream out, “Don’t look the balls horse.”

In recent years, the rookies of practically every major-league team are charged with painting the balls in team colors. If we came in behind the Phillies, for example, the balls would be maroon; we would paint them gold. The next day, the veterans would find out which rookie actually did the deed, and enlist a ballpark cop to come into the locker room and make the arrest.

When this happened to Todd Jones a few years ago, he cried. Several others have been handcuffed and led to the door before the team finally started laughing. It’s a great way to make the rookies earn their stripes. Brings everyone closer together.

I imagine the city of Chicago is probably wise to this by now. I doubt they do any cleanup work until after the season.

 

I went over to talk to Drayton in the owner’s box just before the game. He invited me to join him and his friends from Temple, Texas, for dinner.

“Judy is with me,” I said.

“Bring her along,” he said. “We all have our wives along too. They’re spending all our money on Michigan Avenue this afternoon.”

“Well, Ryan is here, too.”

“Bring him along.”

“My brother and his wife are here, too.”

“Bring them, too. The more, the merrier. We’re meeting in the lobby at 6:45.”

This was an offer I could not refuse. I just hoped for a win, so that dinner would be more pleasant.

Because this was a Fox game, we didn’t start right at 12:15. Instead, the umpires started the game when they got a cue from the producer of the telecast. We started at 12:17.

But actually, we never started at all. It was one of the ugliest games of the year from an Astros point of view.

Ramón Garcia got a pitch up and out over the plate to Mark Grace in the first inning, and Grace gave himself a 33rd birthday present by hitting it into the bleachers. After that, Ramon settled down and pitched a fine ballgame, despite four errors behind him.

Our hitters were once again baffled by an unfamiliar pitcher. Jeremy González was throwing hard, but seemed to be hanging a lot of off-speed pitches. We were timing the ball well, but swinging under it, popping up. There was a lot of frustration in our dugout, and some destruction down the runway, where furious ballplayers screamed obscenities and smashed their bats.

It was 3-0 when we came up with our big rally in the seventh. Two walks, sandwiched around a single, loaded the bases. Ricky Gutierrez hit a fielder’s-choice ground ball, and we scored a run. I pinch-ran with James Mouton, and he immediately stole second. When the ball got away, Ausmus streaked home. Now we were within a run.

Two more walks loaded the bases for Bagwell. Kent Bottenfield came into the game and struck Bagwell out.

In the bottom of the eighth, Sosa homered off John Hudek, and that was that. We lost 5-2.

 

The writers asked if the four errors bothered me. I didn’t even remember four errors. A couple of them were tough plays. Maybe I thought they had been scored hits. As it was, we got only two hits in the game.

“I don’t know about the errors,” I said, “but I can tell you this: you don’t win many games with two hits at Wrigley in the summertime.”

Bagwell told the writers he didn’t feel good at the plate.

“I’m not swinging real well right now,” he said. “It’s frustrating. I don’t think anyone in this clubhouse is happy with the way we’ve played this year. But you look at the flip side, and we’re still in first place.”

We won’t be there long, if we keep playing like this.

 

Skating back from the game was almost as frustrating as the game itself. Great hordes of humanity swarmed the lakefront. The hike-and-bike trail was an obstacle course.

I wanted to skate fast and blow off some steam; instead, we had to weave our way through the traffic. It was so crowded that I was barely able to sneak a peek at the lake. Couldn’t even check the action on the volleyball courts.

As we approached the stoplight at Michigan Avenue, just a block from the hotel, it was red. I slowed down, stood up, and was rolling slowly to a stop when a young couple took a hard right and cut right in front of me. I tried to make a sharp turn to the right, but I hit a crack in the sidewalk. Down I went, in a heap of anger. I felt a small click in my right knee, and screamed several epithets as my assailants scurried away.

I immediately knew my knee was injured, though there was no pain — just the click. I had a similar fall on the ski slopes a few years back. It didn’t require surgery, but it did cause some discomfort for a couple of months. Dave checked it out and told me to call him if it started to swell.

When I returned to the room, Judy had left a voicemail message that she and Ryan had gone to the aquarium and would be back at 6:30. I did a little writing and when 6:45 came with no Judy in sight, I called Rick and invited him to dinner and that I would meet up with them later.

When I got to the lobby, Drayton and Elizabeth, and their friends from Temple were waiting. Drayton was in good spirits.

“Where’s Judy?” he asked.

When I told him, he suggested that I wait a little longer and bring her along. “Bring your brother and his wife, too,” he said.

I wasn’t going to argue. And when I got back to the room, Judy was there.  We hustled to get ready, and we joined the dinner party just as the appetizers were being served.

I was fearful this dinner would be a jury trial, with me defending myself and the team. The outsiders — his and mine — saved me. The only thing that was grilled was the fish. It was an altogether pleasant evening.

 

After dinner, Rick suggested we go to the Days Inn to see if we could watch the Holyfield vs Tyson fight. It wasn’t on in the lobby bar, so Rick and Ryan started walking the floors, looking for an open door. When they came back disappointed, I said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a show, anyway. Boxing is only one step above pro wrestling. It’s a joke.”

I’ll be darned if I wasn’t right. Mike Tyson bit Evander Holyfield twice, and was disqualified in the third round. As we finished our beer, the debacle was reported on ESPN.

It was the first time I had guessed right all day. I limped back from the Days Inn, knowing it would be hard to sleep.