RMJ 226 September 29

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 29 ● Travel to Atlanta

Judy got about three hours’ sleep, and I got five. I figured we would snooze on the way to Atlanta, but everyone was excited, and we found ourselves in the middle of an airplane chat session.

I apologized to Cheo, and he just laughed.

“I’ll take you to a Cuban restaurant when we get home,” he said. I think you need some black beans for your brain. You been thinking too much.”

Of all the coaches, Cheo is clearly the most-popular with the players. He has always been that way. When the spirit on the ballclub is running high, he is right in the middle of it. When we are a little down, he may start yelling in mock defiance. He has been invaluable in the role of the liaison with the Latin players.  I may have to ask Cheo to take on extra responsibility next year, because Bill might not be back. He told me that he is tired of all the traveling; that coaching isn’t as much fun when his back is hurting and he can’t hit fungos to the outfielders.

“If we go all the way, I’ll probably be back,” he told me. “Otherwise, I may not. I haven’t decided yet.”

I’m sure Cheo would do a good job with the outfielders, but Bill would be hard to replace. His many years in the game, and his stoic personality, lend a sense of strength and assurance to the club. His willingness to get in someone’s face creates a zero-tolerance attitude.

If I were him, I would be more inclined to come back if I didn’t reach the Series. But I am not him — that’s for sure.

It would be a helluva hole to fill. And besides, we won’t get to go skydiving. There was a party after I was hired, and a guy I didn’t know talked to me about skydiving.  I thought I might like to try it, and I mentioned it to Bill. He told me that if we won the World Series, he would go skydiving with me. 

 

Our suite in Atlanta had two bedrooms and a pulldown bed. I left instructions at the desk for Rick and Susan to cancel their room and stay with us, and then I left for the workout.

We had our meeting before we took the field. I told the hitters to look for mistakes against Greg Maddux.

“He’s only walked 20 guys in 240 innings this year. No one can do that without throwing a lot of pitches over the middle of the plate,” I said.

“Don’t give him too much credit. He makes his share of mistakes up in the zone. Be ready. And don’t be surprised if I put the hit-and-run on. He likes to pitch righthanded hitters low-and-away. Be ready to hit-and run.”

The team seemed loose during infield and batting practice. I spent my time answering the same questions over and over again:

 

Yes, I think we can beat the Braves.

We will have to outpitch them.

I don’t expect to score a lot of runs.

Holt will pitch Game Four, unless both Kile and Hampton have low-pitch-count games.

 

Those are the answers. You can figure out the questions.

One of the writers told me that there was a good piece on me and the team in the New York Times. Turns out the SI piece made the cut too. I’m glad it didn’t come out in time to jinx us during the season.

Now all we have to do is overcome the SI curse and the Braves.

 

Judy had been frustrated in her attempt to get a workout. The treadmills at the hotel exercise room were in use. She tried a health club down the street, and they wouldn’t let her in. She tried the hotel again; no luck. When I walked in the room, she was doing sit-ups. If she had slept more than three hours, she might have been bouncing off the walls.

Howard and Judy Cohen picked us up at 7:30 and took us to the Palisades restaurant. We dined on Chilean sea bass, mussels, and salad, as we talked about travel opportunities in the Mediterranean, children, and dogs.

Judy asked if there was a good place to jog near downtown. Howard’s face twisted, hard in thought. If she had asked about a restaurant in Sicily, he would have had a ready reply.

Finally, he said, “I know a place that would be delightful. It’s even fairly flat, and you don’t get much flat land in Atlanta. We’ll take a walk there after dinner. It’s on the way.”

The neighborhood where we walked is one of the oldest in Atlanta.  It is just across Peachtree Street from the art museum.

A thin mist veiled the neighborhood in an otherworldly glow. The houses squatted like giant boulders. Long-armed ancient oaks, draped in Spanish moss, loomed like goblins on All Souls’ Night.

Judy expressed some misgivings about running the curving streets of this neighborhood. She probably imagines getting lost, swept back into another place in time.

 

Rick and Susan greeted us with wine and cheese. Rick and Ryan started a game of cards. We used to call it Topps, after the gum company.

One player throws a card out on the floor, 6-10 feet away. The next tries to “top” it. When a card is topped, the winner gets all the cards. This game is much more interesting with baseball cards. But for now, playing cards are fine.

 

I retreated to the bedroom and my new book, The House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton. This story isn’t the least bit funny in the beginning — but it is sufficiently boring to put me to sleep quickly.