RMJ 177 August 11

MONDAY, AUGUST 11 ● New York, vs Mets

Sushi. Ever tried it? I sampled some in the press box at Dodger Stadium one night when Hideo Nomo was pitching. Vile stuff. Yuk!

I’m an adventuresome eater, but I am not one to make the same mistake twice, if I can help it. Luckily, I couldn’t help it today. My broadcast agent, Bob Rosen, asked me to lunch with my literary agent and his cohort, Chris Thomassino.

“Do you like seafood?” Bob asked.

“Love it,” I replied.

He gave me the directions, and the next thing I knew, I was eating sushi with chopsticks.

I had to laugh, internally. I have often thought about my home state, California, in terms of sushi. It’s the Left Coast. The home of the L.A. smug. And the birthplace of the Sushi Generation.  Way cool, man.

I must admit, I was sort of happy to find myself in Sushiland. I have known the pleasures of Thai food; I have languished in the hand-to-mouth sensuality of Morroccan cuisine. A big boiling pot of crawfish, corn on the cob, and new potatoes is finger music beyond compare.

Sushi? It must be pretty good. I can’t imagine it’s only trendy; it’s been around too long. I can only surmise that the Dodgers screwed it up when I was there. Most people think the Dodgers are beautiful people. I admit, they are pretty good. But they do not do sushi justice. This I learned at lunch today.

I had a spinach soup that was delicious, though it had no broth or anything resembling liquid at all. I had sashimi, which I think was a little bit of everything, and it was mostly good. At the end I was full, but not stuffed.     

Several hours later, I was hungry again. This made me feel a little better about repeating something I heard from one of the players who toured Japan in the fall:

“The only bad thing about playing those guys,” he said, “is that two hours later you want to play them again.” I laughed when I heard this, but then I immediately recognized the non sequitur: Japanese baseball, Chinese food. Now I know that it makes perfect sense. What a load off my mind.

 

As we dined, we discussed the possibility of this journal becoming a book. I realized that this might happen, right from the start. It’s not that I consider myself a great writer; it’s just that as far as I know, no major-league manager has ever kept a journal.

As we get closer to talking with publishers, I’m getting cold feet. I have tried present a balanced view of the characters in this journal. Some of them appear more admirable than others; some will be upset with me, I’m sure, and will take exception to what I have written about them.

This is my honest evaluation, but it is only my opinions. I hope I will be able to let it go, because I think the material would be interesting to those die-hard baseball fans who want to know what it is like on the inside. 

Still, I fear reprisal. It is of some comfort to know that nothing can be printed without my permission. I can go back through and edit, but I know I won’t want to take some things out — things that may come back to bite me.

It’s a risky proposition. But, as they say, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

 

Bob and Chris came to the game with one of the publishers. I visited with them down at the end of the dugout for a few minutes. This could give a me the big head, being a hotshot in New York, and talking to people who are interested in a book. All we need to do is lose five games in a row again, and I’ll be right back to my normal hat size.

We did not start another losing streak tonight, however. The Mets started Pete Harnisch, and he didn’t have much.

Pete is a friend of mine, and he’s a closer friend of some of our players. He has spent most of the season on the disabled list with clinical depression. I know what that is like, but it sounds like his case was more severe than mine.

He pitched well in his first outing last week, but I don’t think his arm bounced back well. His pitches seemed lazy, and we made the most of it.

Bagwell is back on the attack again: he had a homer and a double. The guys have taken to calling Chuckie Carr “Mighty Mouse.” It’s a great nickname for him, and he was indeed mighty in this series — as were Bill Spiers and Tim Bogar.  

The Mets must have been wondering why these guys didn’t hit like this for them. Timing is everything in baseball, and in life. Our timing with these three guys was perfect.

Who knows if they will continue to make major contributions to the offense? Who cares?  Their defensive skills have helped us build confidence.

 

We start a long homestand with the Marlins tomorrow. The Big Chief, Ramón Garcia, got the win tonight. He also got his first big-league hit, an RBI double. We won 8-3 and headed for home with a 3-5 trip — and a larger lead than when we left.