RMJ 154 July 19

SATURDAY, JULY 19 ● Montreal, vs Expos

One of my favorite diversions along the National League circuit is a jaunt on Mount Royal. On a sunny summer day, especially on the weekend, the little mountain is an anthill of activity

The hardwood trees have spread their green canopies after the long, naked winter. A wide bridal trail of ash-colored cinders snakes up, down, and around. It is the perfect surface for jogging, biking, and riding horses.

There are arboreal coves, where dappled sunlight dances in the wind and folks lay out their picnic spreads. Many smaller trails curl away from the main road. Children scurry up and down these paths, eyes bright with wonder, shrill voices cutting the soft summer air.

Chipmunks dart daringly from bushes for crumbs of bread. Birds and butterflies flit in and out, as the passing parade of leisure provides a different scene at each bend in the road.

I used to jog up the hill, past the little lake where paddleboats meander. I would stop at the museum, where a semicircular apron of concrete forms an overlook from east to west. For a quarter, you can get a telescopic view of the mountains that lay between Montreal and Quebec City.  

I used to go by myself, and I enjoyed the role of solitary observer; but in recent years, I have taken a guided tour up the mountain, up the stone steps and trails, up the 164 wooden steps that we have nicknamed the Dierk’s Dread. My old broadcast partner, Bill Brown, could jog up these steps. The rest of us could hardly walk them without stopping to rest.

One day I saw an odd-looking fellow jogging down the road as I was going up. He was a large man, with orange knee socks and yellow shorts. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and holding both ends of the towel that was draped around his neck. As he got closer, he began to look familiar. At thirty paces, a broad smile crossed my face.

“Rusty! What the hell are you doing up here?” I inquired.

“Just taking a little jog to get loose,” he said. “I love it up here.”

It was Rusty Staub, my first major-league roommate, and one of the most eccentric ballplayers I have ever known. Rusty was about 38 years old at the time, and he was still playing for the Expos.

“You’re going to wear yourself out running up and down this mountain,” I said. “What if you have to play tonight?”

“Oh, I don’t run up,” he said. “I take a taxi up to the museum and then I jog down.”

In a sport where personalities tend to blend together in a dull beige, Rusty stands out. He is one of a kind.

I was only 18 when I met him, and he was 21.  I was a typical young ballplayer, running the streets at night looking for girls.  He wasn’t into that. As a matter of fact, he remained single throughout his career.  He was just different.  Maybe it was too much Jambalaya.  He sure did like to cook, and he specialized in Cajun dishes. 

In Houston, he lived in a high-rise condominium — an odd choice for a young man.  He often had lunch downtown with bankers and lawyers.  The rest of us would be bored to death with his lifestyle. 

When he was traded to the Expos, he learned to speak real French — not the kind he already knew from his youth in New Orleans.  He was the toast of Old Montreal.  He sported curly red hair with sideburns. They called him Le Grand Orange.  Lots of players thought he was amusing.  Most of them envied his quick, powerful swing.

That choked-up hack worked rather well for him for 23 years.  He would likely have a plaque in Cooperstown, if not for Frank Cashen going back on his word.  Cashen signed Rusty to a two-year deal, with the promise that he would be the Mets’ everyday first-baseman.  With more than 2,700 hits, he would almost certainly would have reached the coveted 3,000 mark playing every day for two years. 

Then Cashen signed Dave Kingman, and Rusty was relegated to pinch-hitting.  I could see Cashen’s point.  At that juncture, Rusty was well overweight.  He loved fine meals, and especially fine wines.  He even had his own wine, but he would have been better off signing with an American League team where he could be a DH and get more at-bats. His hitting was almost good enough for the Hall of Fame as a first-baseman/outfielder.  But his fielding and baserunning were below average. 

He needed 3,000 hits.  That’s baseball. 

 

The weather was delightful today, but I didn’t make it out of my room except to get a newspaper. With writing, phone calls, and preparing for the Expos, I just didn’t have time to do Mount Royal. Instead, my old broadcast mates enjoyed the tour.

 

Tonight we take on an old friend — or perhaps I should say, an old enemy — Jeff Juden. Juden was the Astros’ number-one draft choice in 1989. He made it to the big leagues with us, but only for a brief interval. We traded him because he was lazy and fat. The Phillies couldn’t stand him, either. Same with the Giants. The Expos claimed him off a scrap heap of waivers in 1996. He is still only 26 years old, and he has finally found himself here in Montreal.

“Is Juden any better, or is he still a jerk?” I asked former Astros reliever Dave Veres.      

“He was pretty good at first,” Veres said. “But now that he’s had some success, he’s gone back to his old ways.”

Success, indeed. Juden almost pitched a no-hitter his last time out. His record is 11-2.

I thought we were going to take him down a notch in the first innnig. Craig Biggio singled to open the game, stole second, and after Chuckie Carr popped up, he stole third.

At 6’8” and 265 pounds, Juden is slow. It takes him a long time to get the ball to the catcher, and he doesn’t have a good pickoff move. The Expos are highly susceptible to the stolen base: they have nabbed only 16 of the 136 players who have attempted to steal against them.

Bagwell walked and stole second. Gonzalez walked to load the bases. But Bell grounded into a double play. There was a palpable groan in the dugout; I sensed that the guys really wanted to beat this big oaf.

Shane Reynolds picked up where he left off in Chicago. He was wild, and he gave up a couple of walks and two hits in the first inning. We were down 3-0, right from the start.

Most of the time, we have been unable to overcome early deficits. But this time, the guys stayed with it.

Bagwell doubled his next time up, and Gonzo drove him in with a single. With two outs in the fourth inning, Bogar worked the count to 2-0. Bill asked me if I wanted him to take a pitch. Normally I would say yes because a walk would get the pitcher up to the plate, and we could start the next inning with Biggio.

This time, however, I decided to let Bogey hit. He drove the 2-0 pitch over the leftfield fence, and we closed to within a run. The next time up, Bagwell hit a two-run homer. A cheer went up in the dugout.

Reynolds reached 83 pitches after five innings, and we took him out, leading 4-3. Shane pitched great after the first. What a relief it was to see him back in form!

We immediately nuked Juden and built a 6-3 lead, stealing a season-high seven bases in the process. 

The Expos scored in the seventh, and I had to bring Tom Martin in to get the last out.

In the top of the eighth, Chucky Carr was called out on two pitches that looked well out of the strike zone. He complained, but home plate umpire Gary Darling shooed him away. We scored two more runs anyway.

Martin gave up a run in the eighth, and we scored two in the ninth. The Expos came up, down 8-5.

I decided to let Springer have a chance at closing. Wagner was available, but I was hoping to save him for tomorrow.

It didn’t work.

Russ hit a batter and then walked the next guy. Wagner came in and gave up a hit and a walk. Now it was 8-6, and the Expos had the bases loaded with only one out. Luckily, Wagner got the next two batters, and we won the game.

 

Afterward, I was thinking about the burden of a bad reputation. With Juden, it showed up in the intensity of our effort to beat him. With Carr, it was evident in the umpire’s calls and his subsequent body language.

This game is tough enough when everyone likes you. Guys like Juden and Carr are behind the 8-ball, and it will take them years to get out — if they get out at all.