RMJ 227 September 30

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 30 ● Atlanta ● Playoffs, Game 1 vs Braves

I left for the ballpark at 9:00 with Vern and Cubby. Had bacon and eggs upon arrival. I felt calm; no nerves yet. I wondered if the jitters would come, or if being the underdog would allow me to relax. No way to know.

More interviews, batting practice, a crossword puzzle. Then a meeting with the umpires.

An article in USA Today stated that the umps were going to take a no-tolerance approach to the playoffs. It listed nine infractions that would be cause for ejection: 1) Spitting 2) Spraying of tobacco 3) Physical contact or arguing within arm’s length 4) Threats 5) Animated, energetic gestures 6) Insults 7) Abusive language 8) Extended arguments 9) Throwing of objects.

The only one of these that bothered me was the part about the gestures. What am I supposed to do — stand with my arms at my sides, and speak quietly?  Arguments are part of the entertainment of baseball; always have been. The umpires know this, but somehow they just don’t get it. They want respect, and they deserve it — but like it or not, they are actors.

I don’t like it one bit, myself. I would prefer to just stay in the dugout and accept the calls. But if I do go on the field, I need to show our fans and our players that I care.

I can wave my arms wildly and say, “I really didn’t see the play, but I had to come out here for my players’ sake.” As far as the fans know, I am calling the guy every name in the book. This seems to be what they don’t like: the impression that they are being berated.

Civil arguments are great in the courtroom, but this is the ballfield. The umps are way off-base on gesturing.

Crew chief Harry Wendlestedt pooh-poohed the whole thing.

“This wasn’t supposed to be in the paper,” he said. “It’s really no big deal. We’re going to call it the same as always.”

From what I can gather, this is just further fallout from the Roberto Alomar spitting episode last year. I guess umpires are like elephants: they have long memories.

 

By the time I got back to my office, it was time to take the field for introductions. Still no nerves. I looked up at the luxury boxes behind first base as I jogged out to the third-base line. I spotted Judy, with her bushy silver mane, right away. There was Susan, Rick and Ryan, Chris and Sharon, Ashley and Craig, and Howard.

I waved, and they waved back. We turned to face the field. The whole team along the third-base line, facing the flag.

Then came the Braves. Bobby Cox was on one side of home plate. I was on the other. He came over to shake hands. I was still smiling; no nerves. This was clearly one of the happiest moments of my life. The playoffs were great when I was announcing, but this was special: on the field, in uniform.

Maddux was up with his pitches in the first inning, but he got us 1-2-3. Bagwell smashed one to left, but it had too much topspin and Ryan Klesko, playing deep, made the catch easily. Vern stepped in next to me when we took the field.

“D.K. warmed up good,” he said. “He was really sharp.”

Our strategy was to jam Kenny Lofton and throw him breaking balls. Darryl jammed the piss out of him, but he looped the ball over third base for a lucky double. Keith Lockhart pulled the ball to get Lofton to third, and Chipper Jones fouled off three or four tough pitches, finally lifting a fly ball to left to get the run home.

Maddux threw a lot of high pitches in the second, but we didn’t make him pay. Ryan Klesko hit a home run to make it 2-0. Maddux was up in the third, and in again in the fourth; so much for my great advice. Maddux kept making mistakes, and we stood there, looking for nasty stuff on the corners.

I remember hitters doing the same stupid thing when I was pitching — at least, when I was pitching well. They think you are going to make them look bad, so they swing at pitches on the corners, hoping to hit the ball before they strike out. When you throw a ball down the middle, they just watch it go by in disbelief. They swing at the pitches you want them to swing at, and they hit the ball weakly. Then they take the pitches they could hit hard, and curse themselves.

The trick is to make enough good pitches and win enough games to get the reputation. After that, everyone helps you — even the umpires.

Hitters will tell you that the umpires call strikes for Maddux, Glavine, Smoltz, and Neagle that they don’t call for other pitchers. I’m sure this is true. When a pitcher can consistently hit a spot just off the corner, and the catcher sits out there and crimps his mitt in toward the plate, the umpire eventually starts calling strikes.

Why don’t they do it for other pitchers? They do, for the good ones. It just so happens that the Braves have four of the good ones, so it seems like the umpires favor them. If all of our starters could hit those spots, inning after inning, game after game, year after year, they would get the calls too.

 

We did manage to break through in the fifth inning, in an unusual way. Tony Eusebio hit a chopper up the middle for a base hit. I gave Ricky Gutierrez the hit-and-run on the first pitch. It was high, and he swung under it, but the Braves’ catcher, Eddie Pérez, was so surprised to see Tony running that he threw the ball high and wide.

Ricky moved Tony to third with a grounder. Brad walked. I had D.K. bunting and the Braves charged hard on the first pitch. On the second pitch, Darryl exercised his option to slash and he hit the ball up the middle, driving Tony home.

That was our last sniff. Maddux started keeping the ball down, and we got a few scattered singles. The final score was 2-1.

 

I went to the interview room after the game, and the scribes were pretty easy on me. Back in my office, I met the TV cameras head-on.

I was getting kudos for my surprise steal of second with Tony. I guess I should have taken credit, but instead I explained that it was only a botched hit-and-run play.

 

I barely had time to shower before the bus left for the hotel. Just as I took my seat on the bus, Drayton stepped aboard.

“Does this bus have assigned seating?” he asked.

“More or less,” I said. “More by habit than by design.”

“Where should I sit? In the back?”

“No, you should sit right here — next to me,” I said, sliding over.

I expected the third degree, and I got it — sort of. Drayton was drained, but still full of questions: kind of like a car that won’t stop running, even after you’ve taken out the ignition key.

He is known for his energy and enthusiasm, and he is legendary for his ability to sustain it on almost no sleep. I think I discovered his secret on the way back to the hotel.

The ballgame crowd mixed with the 5 o’clock rush, so it took us 25 minutes to cover the three or four miles from Turner Field to our downtown hotel.

“Do you think the guys will have their confidence tomorrow?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “They’re quiet now, but they’ll be fired up in the morning. That’s the great thing about baseball. You always have another game coming right up after you lose. We’ll take a little … ”

I looked up, and he was nodding off, so I stopped talking. The bus came to a stop, and he popped out of it with another question.

“Has Hampton pitched well against the Braves?”

“Off and on,” I said. “He’s had some real good games. Shut them out last year. But they’ve … ”

I looked over, and he was dozing again. The bus stopped.

“What are you going to tell them tomorrow?”

“I’m going to tell them to enjoy this experience, to play hard and have fun, to be aggressive … ”

Off he went. The bus stopped.

“How do you like Turner Field?”

“I like it. Not as much as Coors Field or The Ballpark at Arlington, but I … ”

This was clearly the most-unusual conversation I have ever had.

I remember Art Howe telling me that Drayton would sometimes ask him a question and then ignore his answer. Now I understood.

I would hate to think that I had the same effect on viewers when I was broadcasting the games.

But I did not think for a minute that Drayton was snubbing me; I just felt that he was exhausted by his busy schedule, and by the game. He was operating on autopilot, and his SOP is to interrogate. I don’t think he cares how you answer his questions; he just wants to force you to think about things that he considers important.

I have always wondered why so many guys fall asleep on the bus after day games. I do it myself. Nobody falls asleep after a night game. I still don’t know the reason for this phenomenon, but I now know that it is not limited to uniformed personnel.

 

I got the hero’s welcome when I got back to the room. We had a couple of beers and opened a bottle of wine. Ryan was watching the game between the Giants and Marlins, giving us updates. We all went to the Chop House in Buckhead for dinner.

We were in pretty good spirits to begin with, dressed for a luau. Rick started calling Buckhead “Bucktown.”

“This is one of the most-exclusive neighborhoods in Atlanta,” I said, “and you’re making it sound like a deer lease.”

“Maybe Davy Crockett came through, killing all the deer, and they changed it to Buckhead,” he said. But I still like Bucktown. What do you think, Ry?”

“I don’t care,” Ryan said. “I just want know why we are going to the Chop House. It sounds like a Braves place.”

“That’s why we’re going.” Rick said. “We’re going to take over the Chop and Bucktown too. Then we’re going to scalp the Braves tomorrow.”

Most of the patrons of the Chop House were wearing coats and ties. The ladies were elegant. We looked like Chevy Chase and John Candy with a host of party-crashers.

We seemed to be getting the cold shoulder until someone recognized me. After that, we were seated and got the royal treatment: good food, good wine, good service.

Once sated, we lost our rebellious resolve and returned to the Westin hotel. We went to the rotating lounge on the 70th floor for a nightcap. Rick, Craig, and Chris talked business; I visited with some of our players and broadcasters. Judy, Susan, and Sharon shared secrets. Ryan comingled. 

 

Back at the suite, Rick and Ryan resumed their card game, which devolved into a random throw for distance. Judy read Body and Soul. Susan worked on a necklace. I let The House of Mirth drag me down again.