RMJ 16 March 2

SUNDAY, MARCH 2 ● Kissimmee, vs Kansas City

We opened at home today. Everyone was pumped to wear the white uniforms and trot it out there. I was a bit disconsolate, however. My lefthanded-hitting utility infielder, Bill Spiers, dove for a ball at Winter Haven and hurt his shoulder.

This is exactly how Sean Berry hurt himself last year. Berry sustained a slight tear of the rotator cuff, and he played in pain all season. At first, Spiers’ injury was thought to be less severe. But when he couldn’t lift his arm yesterday, he was injected with cortisone.

I am quite familiar with the cortisone shot. By the end of my pitching days, my shoulder had been punctured more times than a pin cushion.

Usually there is soreness from the shot the next day, but some relief from the injury. Billy had no relief, only pain. He is one of only a few left-handed hitters on our roster, and his bat and versatile glove are precious.

But ever since his second year as the Brewers’ regular shortstop, he has been hurt. A chronic back problem has dogged him for the last five years. Now this. I’m holding out hope that he will still get better. If it’s not a tear, he should be improved tomorrow.

           

During the off-season, we picked up Sid Fernandez. El Sid’s had had enough elbow and knee injuries to keep an orthopedic surgeon in business. Now he has another ailment, which turned up when the team took physicals last weekend.

It started with an irregularity on his cardiogram. That, combined with a blood pressure reading of 180/100, had our trainer in a Red Alert mode. He instructed Sid not to work out until further tests could be arranged.

Next thing you know, there’s El Sid, working out. Seems everyone is disturbed about this except the patient. If he really does have a heart problem, we need another starter. I believe Chris Holt is ready, but he might be able to help us in the bullpen if Sid can make the call.

That was not exactly the way I wanted to start my day.

           

When Bob Boone and I met with the umpires before the game, Bob asked to play the bottom of the ninth, even if we were leading. National League umpire Jeff Kellogg approved the request, and he offered to stay the extra half-inning. That was refreshing, after the treatment we had been getting from the junior-circuit arbiters.

While I was at home plate with the lineup cards, Boone asked me about a mutual friend, Bob Gallagher. Gallagher and Boone were teammates at Stanford, and I roomed with Bob for two years with the Astros.

It was kind of nice to know that you can relax and visit with the other manager and the umps. The first two days, I was too nervous to say much. But this time I was downright loquacious. I asked Boone about Mike Magnante, a lefty who pitched for the Royals last year.

“Mike was a decent pitcher for us last year,” Boone said. “But his problem is that he can’t get lefthanders out. They hit about .340 off him last year, and if they weren’t hitting him, he walked them. His best pitch is a screwball, and that gives righthanders a lot of trouble. But we needed someone to come in and get a lefthander out.”

Unfortunately, so do we. But I’ll try to keep an open mind. Maybe we can sneak up on a few teams before they find out.

I can see it now: the other team has three lefty hitters in a row. I bring in Magnante from the bullpen, and they pinch-hit with three righties.

Naw, I could never get that lucky.

 

We played bombs-away again today. Richard Hidalgo has only been retired once this spring; he’s on fire. And Derek Bell hit a long home run to give us an 8-5 lead in the seventh. But the Royals came back with two in the eighth, and we failed to score.

I brought in Tom Martin, a young lefthander, to protect the one-run lead. This is what you look for in spring training: a chance to test a young man, who is a candidate for the team, in a pressure situation. Martin came through like a champ: 1-2-3. He had a smile as broad as a longhorn steer as he came off the field in a swell of teammates.

“Well, now, I’m a .667 manager,” I told our beat writer Carlton Thompson, as we walked toward the clubhouse together. “That ought to shut you up.”

 

We shared a laugh. Winning is so wonderful. I guess that was the internal message I was hearing as I interviewed for this job. I think it was Joe Torre who said something like, “winning makes the beer taste better, your wife look prettier, and your jokes seem funnier.” There’s nothing like it.

The only thing that took the edge off was that I felt inept again. I know I can do this job, but I wonder how long it’s going to take.

 

Deron Snyder was here again today. He wants to meet me at my watering hole, The Big Bamboo Lounge. I guess he wants a little background atmosphere. Not a bad idea. And if it’s atmosphere he’s seeking, he’ll find it there. The only way I can explain it is to say that you feel like you are entering a time warp.

The place is right on Highway 192 — the most crassly commercial strip I have ever seen. This road leads into Disney World but is not on the Disney property. It offers a cacophony of neon lights, featuring motels, T-shirt shops, one-hour-photo stands, and factory outlets. There are more factory outlets on this ten-mile strip than there are factories in the state of Florida. The one I like the best is the Shell Factory Outlet. I wonder where the shells are made?

But the Bamboo, well, let’s just say it’s an outlet of a different kind — a little hole-in-the-wall. A dirt parking lot, with large declivities that fill with water every time it rains. A cinderblock house converted in a lounge so serene that I have never heard anyone so much as raise their voice in all the years I’ve been a customer.

When you walk in through the screen door, the strains of big-band music greet you. Thousands of artifacts grab your eyeballs in a dizzying trip back through time and across many tropical lands. You feel like you have stepped into a bar in the South Pacific during World War II.

Several years ago, when the proprietor, Bruce Muir, turned 70, I wrote a song about it:

           

            There’s a crazy little bar down in Kissimmee

            Hunkered down in the shadow of Walt Disney

            Well, I’ve been all around and I’m telling you

            There ain’t no place like The Big Bamboo

           

            Oh Big Bamboo, I’m so bamboozled

            By your Island charm

            And your big-band music

            By your artifacts

            Odd and amusing

            C’mon let’s go

            Let’s go Bamboozing

 

            Yes, I’ve been all around and I’m telling you

            There ain’t no place like The Big Bamboo

 

            Oh Big Bamboo, ever so humble

            You’re my hideaway

            In the neon jungle

            And your clientele

            Odd and amusing

            C’mon let’s go

            Let’s go Bamboozing

 

            There’s a crazy little bar down in Kissimmee

            Hunkered down in the shadow of Walt Disney

            Well, I’ve been all around and I’m telling you

            There ain’t no place like The Big Bamboo

            No, there ain’t no place like The Big Bamboo

            My Magic Kingdom is The Big Bamboo

 

            I met Deron there, and he liked it plenty, I could tell. Most everyone does, unless their shirts are starched and stuffed. But who wants those stiffs in there anyway?