RMJ 146 July 11

FRIDAY, JULY 11 ● Pittsburgh, vs Pirates

As usual, I had trouble getting to sleep after the game. It’s not that I am reviewing tapes, or planning an attack for the next day; it’s just that I’m all wound up, and I am not sleepy.

I suppose I had slept about five hours when the telephone rang. In 15 minutes, I was down on the street with a cup of coffee and a bran muffin, ready to go – well, sort of.

Our tee time was 7:45 — an uncivilized hour for activity, in my opinion. But I really wanted to visit with these guys, and I still had to get to the park early for player interviews.

 

The visit was nice. The golf cost me $20, which Blass and Giusti promptly applied to lunch. As the food went down, the old stories came out. During these BS sessions, it’s fun telling stories about your teammates.

As usual, a few Doug Rader stories were told: hijacking a cab. Prowling naked through the halls of a hotel. Hitting golf balls in the locker room. Pooping on Joe Pepitone’s birthday cake.

The “naked” theme came up more than once.

Blass mentioned that he and a few teammates swam naked in the Tyler-Davidson fountain at Fountain Square in Cincinnati.

I remembered the Astros Olympics at the Marriott Hotel in Atlanta. This hotel was built so that half of the rooms faced inward, toward the pool. The naked relays started about 2:30 in the morning. For that reason, I guess, we were not apprehended. Luckily, the dark, empty hours of the morning cloaked the Pirates at Fountain Square as well.

Recalling these racy days led to a discussion of odd characters in the game. Seems like we had a lot of zany guys; the Bucs did too.

Where have the wacko ballplayers gone? Perhaps they are hiding behind the conduct clauses of their lucrative multiyear contracts; I surely wouldn’t blame them. Who knows? They may be doing the same things we did, and we don’t know it because now we are the old codgers who sleep during the dark, dashing hours of the morning.

 

I called my Mom when we got back, to check on her and to give Judy the news about Irene Hunsicker. Judy wasn’t there, but I had a nice talk with Mom, and I left Irene’s number with her.

Mom was cheerful. She talked about going on a cruise with the whole family during the Christmas holidays. She said that the kids were out back romping between the hot tub and the pool.

“Have you been swimming?” I asked.

“No, I just haven’t been able to since Dad … ”

She started to cry again; I was perplexed. How could the pool set her off? She was the swimmer; he hardly ever swam, as far as I remember. I felt like she was strong enough, so I pursued the question.

“How come it upsets you so much to think about the pool?”

“I don’t know, Larry,” she said. “I think it’s this mental picture I have of working with him to rehab after his stroke and his hip surgery. I used to hold his hand, and we would go through the routines. I just keep thinking about … ”

Now I understand: the old coach was out there with her pupil. There is a bond that develops in this relationship that may be a little different than the bond between husband and wife.

I can see them now, holding hands and dancing in the pool.

I started to break down, but I managed to change the subject. She collected herself rather quickly, which is a good sign. It seems like the mourning process is working its way from the inside out.

Even though Mom and Dad spent more than fifty years together, I am mildly surprised Mom’s grief has been so profound.

She was the coach. A strong, authoritative figure. She was the figurehead of the good ship Dierker. I thought she would plow through the bounding main of sorrow without going off course. I believe she is still on course, but this storm has her wavering.

I am told that she grieved when I left home to play pro baseball at age 17. By the time I got back, she was fine.

The depth of her feelings is comforting to me, in an odd way. I think it is because she seems soft and vulnerable. She has always seemed so tough — almost too tough for a mom. Now I know that her strength has its limits, and for some reason, this is comforting. Maybe it’s because it makes her seem more human.

And, perhaps, easier to live up to.

 

Vern called and we headed for the ballpark at 2:00. When we arrived, a few pitchers were already there, and we continued the meetings.

It’s funny how these things go. Vern did not read my reviews. As I talked to each pitcher, I asked for a response. Vern added his garrulous two cents here and there.

The pitchers were true to their own personalities.

John Hudek and José Lima spewed like broken hydrants. Chris Holt and Russ Springer were talkative. Darryl was enigmatic in the strong, silent mode of the hero.

What a difference a few months have made in him! No more word games, no testing or teasing; just good, solid work. Who would have thunk it?

 

And who would have thunk we would score ten more runs tonight, with Bagwell in a minislump? Derek Bell had three hits, including a double and a home run. Sean Berry had a good day as well.

Mike Hampton had the best day: he pitched a five-hit shutout.