RMJ 220 September 23

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 ● Houston, vs Cubs

Papaya, passion fruit, mangos — all sweet and delicious — crowned the bowl of health-nut cereal Judy prepared for me when I got up at 9:30. Beats the hell out of bacon and eggs in the locker room.

I retired to my study to write, and I was interrupted by Julia a few minutes later. She had come to give me my birthday presents, and she was in a terrific mood.

This child has lived a hard life in her 21 years. She started with colic, spent six months wearing braces to straighten her legs, struggled in school, and succumbed to nearly every temptation of the teenage years. She is finally getting it together now, and the beautiful child within her is coming back out with age.

“I got you this Doctor Seuss book, because it reminded me of when you used to read to me,” she said. On the inside, she wrote I’ll read this one to you if you like.

I told her that José Lima reminded me of a Dr. Seuss character, and she didn’t really understand until I leafed through the book and found a Lima lookalike: elbows akimbo, rump and legs trailing, eyes popping out.

She started to laugh. “That’s him,” she said. We both laughed until we had tears in our eyes.

Judy was doing volunteer work at Ryan’s school, so Julia and I had some special time together. I haven’t done nearly enough of this, and I suspect that an absent Dad may have led to some of her problems.

I wasn’t there for Ashley, either, so I am not wringing my hands with guilt. But I am so happy that Julia is finally starting to blossom, and I am looking forward to spending a lot more time with her.

When she was in her teen years, I made several hapless attempts to be her friend. We went on outings together, but our physical proximity did nothing to close the vast chasm of misunderstanding and mistrust that lay between us.

Now the words come easily. I feel thrice blessed.

 

It was still pouring down rain when Cubby and I entered the Dome at 2:30. My visit with Julia put me a paragraph or two behind, but it was worth it — and now the imminence of our long-awaited reward stared me in the eye like a hypnotist.

I knew it would be a long wait until game time. After I prepared the lineup, I did a quick workout and started the vigil.

Gerry came by to talk about playoff details, and how we should handle the celebration. I think we both felt uneasy about counting unhatched chickens, but we had no choice but to prepare. Talking with him helped pass the time.

I took out my Big Bamboo amulet, put it in my pocket, and made my way to the dugout. The crowd was small, as I expected, but an expectant hum filled the air. The umpires came out, wearing their street clothes; their bags were lost in transit.

“How the hell am I going to argue with a guy who looks like he’s on a Sunday picnic?” I asked Bruce Froemming. He just laughed.

“Same way you always do,” he said.

 

The Cubs touched Kile for a run in the first. We matched them on Biggio’s triple and a grounder by Derek Bell. They scored again in the third. Bagwell hit a massive homer to centerfield to tie it again in the fourth. Kile wavered again in the fifth, but he cut his losses to one run. We were down 3-2 when Biggio connected in the bottom of the frame.

Bagwell and Biggio; Biggio and Bagwell. It’s a familiar refrain. I shudder to think where we would be without them.

In the top of the sixth, Luis Gonzáles made a fabulous catch on Scott Servais. What would have been a leadoff double became an out. After that, Kile stiffened and the Cubs went down in order.

Richard Hidalgo doubled to start our half of the sixth. Spiers moved him to third with a grounder. Tony Eusebio singled Richard home, and we had our first lead. 

Ricky Gutierrez singled up the middle. With men on first and second, I put on the bunt sign for Kile, even though I knew it would take a perfect bunt to get Tony to third.

The Cubs charged, and Kile took ball one. The way they charged in on the pitch left the infield wide open. I was so dubious of our chances to sacrifice that I took off the bunt. Kile responded with a single to center. Cubby waved Tony home, and the play was close. I believe they would have had him, but he kicked the ball out of Servais’ mitt.

Kile went to the whip with the 5-3 lead, and he didn’t have any more trouble until Mark Grace led off the ninth with a single. Sammy Sosa, a dangerous home-run hitter, came up as the tying run.

I had Wagner ready in the bullpen, but Sosa is a free swinger, and I felt better about Kile keeping the ball in the ballpark.

In our dugout, you could practically hear the hearts pounding and the nerves humming. The crowd fell silent.

Sosa chopped the first pitch to third, but Spiers had only one play. Grace advanced to second, we got the first out.

Kevin Orie was due. He is a great breaking-ball hitter — and to be honest, Wagner was probably my best option. Scott Servais was on deck, and he has hit Kile and Wagner well. I went to the mound, and Kile assured me that he was still strong.

“You’ve got the next two hitters,” I said.

D.K. jumped ahead of Orie, but he eventually walked him. Now the tying run was on base, and Dave Clark came up to hit for Servais. I would have let Kile face Servais, hoping for a double play, but I wanted Wagner for Clark, and I really didn’t care if they pinch-hit with a righthanded hitter.

I strode to the mound and summoned Wagner.

“Guess you changed your mind,” D.K. said.

“Servais was your man,” I said. “Now it’s up to Billy.”

Darryl wasn’t mad. He has become such a great competitor and a great team player — always ready to go on, never angry when I take him out.

“Go get ‘em, kid,” I said. And Billy got ’em: Ryne Sandberg, hitting for Clark, and rookie Miguel Cairo. Both on strikeouts. The crowd went wild.

 

When we got to the clubhouse, it was the bottom of the ninth at Shea Stadium and the Mets had runners on first and second with two outs. The Pirates had a 5-4 lead. I told Rob to hold off the press off for a minute, and I stood in front of the TV with all the other guys.

Edgardo Alfonso hit a grounder to first; the Bucs won again. Our magic number dropped to two and Gonzo yelled, “The hell with the Mets! We’ll win it ourselves.”

The way we’ve been playing, I was inclined to believe him. 

The press contingent was large enough to fill my office. I went on and on about Bagwell, Biggio, and Kile. Most of the reporters left, except Fran Blinebury of the Chronicle and David Liss from Houston OnLine. David is a hard-working guy; he probably covers more games and asks more questions than anyone in this city, but sometimes he can get a bit tiresome.

“What about Bagwell and Biggio, and what they mean to this team?” he asked.

“David, I’ve just answered that question twice. You heard my answers. Why do you want to make me say it again?” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said, averting his eyes.

I could tell that my sharp reply hurt his feelings. Fact is, I have been a bit short with the press a number of times this year. I usually regret these comments, even as I utter them. But this is the first time I have been fractious after a winning game.

Fran relieved an awkward moment by asking another question. I guess I should just chalk it up to the pressure. I suppose the heat I feel is also felt by our players and the people who cover the team — especially the young guys like David, who are really caught up in the race.