RMJ 15 March 1

SATURDAY, MARCH 1 ● Baseball City, vs Kansas City

I can’t believe the weather. Day after day since February 16, it has been sunny and warm.

This was another beautiful baseball day, at a place called Baseball City. When the Royals moved here, it was with an ambitious master plan for a combination amusement park and stadium.

The midway fell first. It just couldn’t grow in the massive shadow of the Disney empire. And I suppose a lyrical view might have it that the gods were angered at the Royals. Not only had they defied the entertainment deity, they had also blasphemed the sport. How in the world could the Royals — a sixth-generation ballclub — have the audacity to name their spring training home Baseball City?

Sure, they had been a first-rate team for a decade or so, making several trips to postseason play and winning one world championship. But Baseball City in central Florida? C’mon.

Alexander Cartwright had Hawaiians playing baseball before it ever reached the Sunshine State. The Royals couldn’t even coax their own loyal fans to visit Baseball City in great numbers.

It is an excellent facility, but it was doomed from the start. Homer would call it hubris. I would say it is typical of modern baseball folly: a monument to overarching optimism. A stadium in the middle of nowhere, with no Shoeless Joe, no Kevin Costner to deliver it. No, this is not a Field of Dreams. But it was the scene of my first victory as a manager.           

           

Before the game, Gerry came down to the field with some bad news. He had discussed the beer issue with Tal, and Tal blew a gasket. He wouldn’t even entertain the thought of beer on the plane going to another city. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t drink much; because he doesn’t want to broach the subject with Drayton; or whether it stems from his close relationship with Bill Virdon.

Bill told me that the only real trouble he ever had as a manager was when the team had beer on the plane. I understood what he was saying, because I’ve seen it myself: broken seats, crying flight attendants, fighting teammates, cursing at coaches. I’ve seen it all. I’ve also seen a team handle the beer situation sensibly when told they would all lose the privilege if one of them screwed up.

My intent was not to bring enough beer for someone to get tanked. If they did that, it would probably be on their own stash. In that case, I would not have a problem with discipline. But my feeling is that the players would handle the offender themselves.

If the players are allowed beer, I can come back and have one with them and talk a little baseball. If not, I have to hide out up front, because I know they will be drinking anyway. Like I said, I’ve seen it both ways — many times, both ways.

Gerry understands where I’m coming from, because he has been on teams himself. Tal has not. Neither has Drayton.

“Tal said that if a guy can’t take a two-hour plane trip without needing a drink, he’s got a drinking problem.” Gerry said.

“I’ve heard that one before, too,” I replied. “And you know what? They are going to bring their own anyway. And if I have to bust them, I will compromise my own position and the camaraderie of the team. It’s a lose-lose situation.”

“We just won’t have a rule.” Gerry said. “We won’t provide it; we won’t prohibit it.”

“You know the thing that gets me most about this, Gerry? It’s the fact that if a guy really does have a problem, I’ll probably find out about it if I’m back there, and maybe we can help him. Some of these guys will bring it on, no matter what. Most of them are fine with it, but some really do have a problem.

“And you know what? Some of the best players I’ve ever seen have had that problem. And you know what? There are lots of different kinds of problems. We can’t solve the drinking problems with a rule. But we can create some other problems for ourselves with that rule. That’s what bugs me.

“If we get off to a good start, the team chemistry will develop, no matter what. But if we don’t, we’re going to have to circle the wagons. And we’re going to have a tough time doing it with a cooler of Gatorade.”

“I hear you,” he said. “But this is a battle we can’t win.”

“Well then, why doesn’t Tal come down and manage the team?”

“C’mon, you know better than that.”

 “I know. I like Tal, and he probably was the one who got me this job. But now that I have it, I want it to be just right. I want it to be my vision of a team — not somebody else’s.”

 “I hear you. There’s just not much we can do.”

 I suppose the only thing that will make things better is winning.

 

I sure felt better after the game than before. Once again, the pitching was shaky. But the hitters came back to life. Biggio hit a three-run homer, we played a reasonably crisp game afield, and we won.

When the last out was made, the players from the field came in as the players from the dugout went out. There was a convergence of high-fives, and for the first time I could really feel warmth from the team. I was congratulated with some real honest smiles, some handshakes, and a few pats on the back. I know it was only a practice game, but the win sure felt good.

I thought I played my cards pretty well. I was patient, didn’t try any gimmicks; just let the players play, and they performed well.

           

When I got back to my townhome, I strapped on the jogging shoes and went for a run. There’s a dirt road nearby, just off the main highway. It weaves through some orange groves, and the fruit is in blossom. As I lumbered along, several dogs charged out to protect their homesteads. I didn’t mind stopping to let them sniff me. I never mind stopping when I’m jogging. But I didn’t mind jogging today, and that’s unusual for me.

With the win and the warm, fragrant breeze, I was at peace. I wondered how often I would be able to say that in the coming months.