RMJ 171 August 5

TUESDAY, AUGUST 5 ● Miami, vs Florida

Cubby and I played golf this morning at Weston Hills, the site of the Honda Classic. It is a fine course — long and tough. There is a lot of water, and a lot of sand. To make up for the lack of tree-lined fairways, they have let the rough grow shaggy — and that was my undoing.

At first, I thought it would be a good day. I went three-up, parring the first three holes, while Mike struggled to hit it straight.

On the fourth hole, I hit my drive about ten yards to the left of the fairway, in the high rough. I searched and searched and never found the ball. With two strokes for the lost ball, I took a double-bogey. What’s more, the ball was brand-new.

I’m not one to spend a lot of time looking for balls when I hit a bad shot, but this was a good drive: 260 yards or so, and just a little off-line.

The next hole, the same thing happened. I found my ball on the next hole; saw a little piece of white under the grass. I hit it well, but it did not hold the green; it rolled right across and into a trap. My trap shot wasn’t too swift, and I three-putted for another double-bogey.

I hit a good drive on the next hole, and I had a wedge shot to the green. The pin was placed tight against the bulkhead of a lake, and I decided to go for it. The ball landed on top of a piling, about ten feet from the pin, and bounded into the lake.

It was about 10 in the morning, and the temperature was rising almost as fast as the humidity — but not nearly as fast as my ire. What started as a good round was going all to hell.

As a pitcher, I could maintain my poise and dignity under fire. Most of the time, I can do it in golf.

But not today.  

What really fried me was hitting the ball so well and not scoring.

At the turn, I called Pat Summerall. I was supposed to visit with him on his talk show last week, and I forgot. I wanted to redeem myself, because he is one of my favorite sportscasters, and I have never met him.

The visit went well, but it took 15 minutes. Cubby had a hot dog while he waited. I was starving, but we were in a time crunch: we had to get back to the hotel by 1:00 to get checked out and get to the ballpark by 1:45 for extra hitting.

I don’t really have to be there; all I do is shag in the outfield. But I think it is better if I am there. Perhaps I will miss a practice session like this once in a while, if I get a few years under my belt. Not now.

 

The sun bore down upon us as we thrashed though the back nine. I was sweating like a roofer. I picked up on several holes, to save time and energy. Cubby didn’t do much better, but he did well enough to win all the bets.

The early van to the ballpark was filled to overflowing, so Bill and I rode with Vern and his aunt and uncle. I felt drained when I got to the park, but a fruit smoothie got me going. I came up with a lineup, and went to the field to shag.

Vern and I played catch; he had better stuff than I did. It did not seem to be my day. Perhaps it would be my night.

 

The game got off to a promising start.  We had runners at first and second in the second inning. I gave Bogey the bunt sign, with Chuckie on deck. I wasn’t real optimistic about our prospects, because if Chuckie failed to get a run home, D.K. would be next to hit, with two outs.

When the count went to 2-1, I decided to gamble and took off the bunt sign. Bogey hit a double to left-center, and both runners scored.

I think Tony Saunders, the Marlins’ rookie lefthander, just threw one in there, expecting the bunt. I have told our pitchers several times that they should not ever let up in a bunt situation. I learned through experience that you can prevent a successful sacrifice by throwing good stuff.

Still, I have noticed that many pitchers — including some of our guys — lose velocity when they think the batter is bunting.

The Marlins got to Kile in the second inning, and they tied the score. They are really swinging the bats well, and D.K. didn’t seem to have his good control. He hung a curve ball to Charles Johnson in the third, and Johnson hit it about 450 feet.

We were down 4-2, but still not out by any means.

Ricky Gutierrez hit a solo homer to right in the fourth to make it 4-3.  Then Bogey tied it up with a two-out RBI single in the fifth. We took the lead in the eighth on two singles and Biggio’s grounder.

Then came the ninth. It made the golf course look like a stroll in the park.

 

It started with lineup changes: Billy Wagner came in to pitch; Luis Gonzalez took over in left; and Brad Ausmus replaced Tony Eusebio behind home plate.

Wagner immediately walked Edgar Renteria — a guy who seldom draws a walk. If Billy had even come close, Renteria would have swung the bat.  He was throwing his fastball harder than the last couple of times out: 97-99 MPH.

I held my breath as Billy threw Gary Sheffield a hanging curve ball. Sheffield let it go by, then got a jam-shot single on a fastball. Bobby Bonilla popped up after watching a curve ball go by letter-high.

“I wish he would stop throwing curve balls,” I told Vern.  “All he has to do is hit a couple corners, and we’re out of here.”

“I hear you,” he said.

“Do you want to go out and tell him?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “He’s throwing strikes now, and I don’t want to break up his rhythm.”

Jeff Conine came up to hit for Darren Daulton, and Billy threw the ball right by him twice. Then he started overthrowing: rushing with his body so that his arm couldn’t catch up.

Vern was yelling, “stay back.” I was grinding my cud like a hyperactive Heifer. Conine fouled a pitch and finally took a walk. That brought Moises Alou to the plate.

Alou is a good fastball hitter. Billy ran the count to 1-2 with raw heat. Then he threw another high curveball.

“What the hell is he doing?” I asked Vern.

“He’s throwing what Brad is calling,” Vern answered calmly.

“How many freaking times are we going to have to tell him not to call for curve with two strikes in the count?”

“I don’t know,” Vern said. “Seems like we’ve told him about fifty times already.”

“How the hell did he get into Dartmouth, if he can’t even remember that?”

“He can remember. He’s just stubborn.”

About that time, Billy threw yet another hanging curve, and Alou delivered the game-winning hit.

Everyone on the bench was frozen in the pose they had held before the pitch. Everyone but me.

I tried not to say anything that any of the other players would hear, but I may not have succeeded. My rage may have rendered my expletive-laced mutterings audible; I don’t know.  

 

Brad should have noticed that every curve ball Wagner threw was high. For that matter, almost all of his fastballs were high. This is an indication that he is rushing his delivery. It is impossible for him to throw a good curve this way. And it was unlikely he was going to slow down his delivery, despite the instructions Vern was giving from the dugout.

I have to talk to Brad again. I don’t want to call pitches from the dugout, but I may have to institute a sign to tell him not to call for an offspeed pitch.

I’m sure he wants to win as badly as I do; he just has a different opinion about how to do it. If I had given him a no-curve sign and Alou had won the game by hitting a fastball, it would be my responsibility. I could live with that. But I don’t know if he could.

 

The other thing that frustrated me about this game was Wagner. Sure, he’s a young pitcher. But we have told our pitchers not to throw slow pitches with two strikes, unless they are sure they can do it with good motion and keep the ball at the knees or below. I don’t see how in the world Billy could have had that feeling after hanging four consecutive curves.