RMJ 165 July 30

WEDNESDAY, JULY 30 ● Houston, vs St. Louis

We are two-thirds of the way through the season. If we continue to play at this rate, we will win 87 games. That could well be enough to win the division — but will it give us enough confidence to beat the Braves in the playoffs?

I’d feel better if we showed real improvement during August and September, and we finished with more than 90 wins. I know that sounds greedy, but if we make the playoffs, I know I won’t be satisfied just to be there.

We lost an excruciating five-game series to the Phillies in 1980. Four of the five games went extra innings. It was the first time we had ever been in the playoffs, and I was satisfied with our effort.

In 1986, we played the Mets a best-of-seven. Again it was a fierce, well-played series. We lost the sixth game (and the series) in 16 innings.

In 1980, the Phils became world champions. In 1986, the Mets did the same. In the aftermath of the sixteen-inning game, I was overcome with sorrow. Close wasn’t enough.

I have no desire to win the Central only to fight bravely and lose to Atlanta. I won’t be happy just to make the playoffs.

Don’t get me wrong: I will be satisfied to win the division. But I won’t be truly fulfilled by anything except the World Series. After 32 years with the Astros, I’ve been in the foyer, but have not set foot in the shrine. I’ve seen love’s labor lost — again and again.

 

Last night, I considered doing something radical with today’s lineup: I thought about playing J.R. Phillips instead of Jeff Bagwell. I thought about having Spiers lead off, and put Biggio in the three-hole.

I wonder what would happen if I did something unconventional.

In the early part of the year, I tried to coax the team out of a role orientation. Knowing your role is important to today’s player; I don’t think it should be. I believe players should understudy several roles. I believe in a team of interchangeable parts.

This philosophy did not go over well at first. Guys were saying things like, “I’ll be glad when we finally get to a set lineup” or “I still don’t really know what my role is on this team.”

I feel like saying, “Your role is to play a large or small part in the winning of a baseball game.”

Lately, we have been playing so well that everyone on the team has helped us win games. Chuck Carr hit a home run.  Bill Spiers stole a key base. Sean Berry made a game-saving play at third. We have simply been operating in a clutch mode.

If we could beat the Cardinals again, without Bagwell and with role-reversals, what would that do to their psyche? To ours?

I don’t think it would kill us if they won. If we won, I think it would bring us closer together, in a we can do whatever needs to be done mentality.

 

When I got to the park and looked at the matchup numbers, I realized that my only logical play was Phillips-for-Bell.  This did not force anyone else to play a different role.

I waffled in that regard, but I really wanted to win this game, and I knew that Wagner was not available to close it.

I asked Dennis Liborio to send Derek in to see me when he arrived. In the meantime, I got La Russa’s lineup, with a handwrittten note on the back explaining that he thought the PR department would make me aware of the roster changes the previous night. I thought that was considerate, and I thought about sending a note back, but I refrained.

For one thing, I am a rookie; I don’t consider myself his equal. For another, I don’t like to get too chummy with the opposition. If it was Garner or Howe or someone I know better, it would be different. But in this case, I decided that if I didn’t have an easy chance to talk to him, I would just let it slide.  

When Derek came in, I told him that the lineup was nothing personal, and to be ready to take over midway through.

“I need to get him three or four at-bats,” I said.  “I’m very well pleased with the way you’ve been playing lately, and you’ll be back in there Friday.”

He accepted this without any apparent distress; I hoped nothing would boil up later.

 

During batting practice, I talked to Tal about Derek. The Merced deal is dead; he just went on the disabled list with a sore shoulder. I had no reason to proselytize, but I still wanted Tal to understand.

I told him about Derek’s personality; how it’s hard for him to maintain concentration.

“Everybody knows he has rare ability,” I said. “What they don’t know is that he has to have his own special signs with Cubby, and he has missed them enough that I just don’t put anything on. In that sense, he is unmanageable, just as his personality is unmanageable.

“What you end up with is a guy who has an abundance of talent, but he isn’t really helping the team. The other guys get a little pissed off about it. But if he starts playing better — and it looks like he might — it won’t be a serious problem. If we start losing, it could be hell.”

Tal was reasonable. He agreed that we would probably get better value by keeping him. He can only get better, and his salary could be a bargain if he returns to form.  That would make him much more valuable on the trade market.

 

Tal was wearing the same baseball-print Hawaiian shirt that Susan found for Ryan — the one he wore when we had dinner with Drayton in Chicago.

“That’s a great shirt,” I said, telling him the story of how we were going to get more of them.

The shirts reminded me that tonight is the Larry Dierker’s Excellent Hawaiian Adventure promotion. I looked around and noticed that almost everyone in the stands was sporting a Hawaiian print. It was a loud show of support — cameramen, reporters, fans, club employees.

It was great — for a while.

Half-an-hour before game time, they trotted me out behind second base, where 2,000 houlis in their various luau gear waited in anticipation for me to draw their name out a hat for a free trip to Hawaii.

But first the Hawaii Visitors Bureau had to adorn me with a lei, and Continental Airlines gave me a Hawaiian shirt.

I drew the first name out of the hat. It was Francois something-or-other. Francy bounded out of the throng looking like a pirate, with a shaved head and a gold loop in each ear. He was fired up.

The second winner was a lady, and she was thrilled, but more subdued.  They gave me the microphone, and I thanked the sponsors and made my exit, looking like a contestant on quiz show.

It was somewhat humiliating. But I am not easily humiliated, so I took it in stride.

Judy was sitting in Drayton’s box behind home plate. I put the lei around her neck and shook hands with Ryan for luck.

This Hawaiian thing has gotten out of hand. The gift shop has reordered six times. There is a serious run on aloha shirts at the Dome, which is nice — as long as we win. It will look sort of silly if we don’t.

I am reminded that aloha means hello and goodbye. We may as well try to have a little fun while we’re at it.

 

Biggio led off with a walk, and Phillips drove him in with a sacrifice fly. The Cardinals touched Kile for a run in the third.

Bidge started another rally in the fourth, and Ricky finished it with a two-run triple. Up 4-1, with Kile on the mound, seems like a lock to some folks; I know differently. It’s not that I doubt Kile; it’s just that I respect the Cardinals. They have some clutch, veteran players.

And the PA announcer kept bellowing winning numbers in Larry Dierker’s Excellent Hawaiian Adventure between innings. I was mortified to hear my name so many times. I thought that if I were in the other dugout, I would want to kick this showboat’s ass.

Well, wouldn’t you know, the Redbirds started fluttering their wings — and before long, they had six consecutive runners; had tied the game; and had the winning run on first with two outs.

We were lucky to get the second out on a baserunning gaffe; D.K. was on the ropes. I had already visited him once, so I couldn’t go to the mound again without taking him out. He was still throwing well; only one of the hits was really tagged.

Dmitri Young came up to pinch-hit, and I bit my lip and stayed with my pitcher. Young hit a sharp ground ball to Biggio to end the rally.

We went to the bottom of the eighth tied, and came out of it up 7-4 on a three-run triple by — who else? — Biggio.

Tom Martin got them out in the ninth, but not without putting men on second and third. It was another nerve-wracking game, but somehow it did not bother me, like last-night’s game.

 

I suppose we all worry about failure. I certainly don’t want to lose – ever — but I am afraid of being embarrassed, like anyone else.

If the Cardinals had won last night against Wagner, it would have been big. But because they didn’t, they couldn’t gain the momentum of a sweep. A win is a win, and vice versa. But some wins are “more pregnant” than others. Can you be more pregnant?  In baseball, sure.

The press coverage of the series was great. Attendance was way above average. We continue to play good baseball, and some of our wayward souls are returning to the flock.

One shadow looms ominously in the wings of tomorrow: Mark McGwire. Word is that the Cardinals have a deal made for him, if they can negotiate a long-term contract with the slugger.

Am I worried? A little. Could he make up seven games in two months? Only if we let him.

The burden of proof is still on them. If we play well, they can’t catch us.