RMJ 30 March 16

SUNDAY, MARCH 16 ● Kissimmee, vs Detroit

I felt pretty good this morning, despite the restive night. I still had the desire, but not the ability, to pee. There is nothing like shared pain to strike the collective funny bone, unless it is the relief of shared pain. In this case, our “relief pitcher” was last year’s AA shortstop, Russ Johnson.

Russ is one of those guys who everyone likes. He is not long on speed or power, but as batting coach Tom McCraw said after watching him play five games in the Puerto Rican Winter League, “that little sonuvabitch is in the middle of every rally. He’s a guy you can win with.”

Little did Mac know how true his words really were.

Russ was on a championship team in high school; a championship team at LSU; and on the Texas League championship team, the Jackson Generals, last summer. His winter-league team finished first, but then lost in the playoffs.

This spring he has played mostly third base, because it is thought that he doesn’t have the range for shortstop. As a third-baseman, he has made all the routine plays and most of the spectacular ones. I would like to play him some at second, and then keep him as a utility player; Gerry wants him to play every day at AAA.

All of the Houston writers are impressed with him, and they want to know what his chances are. Well, he improved them yesterday after the cars had gone and the lame bus waited for a replacement.

As soon as the car caravan left Plant City, Russ slid under the bus, determined what was wrong with it, and fixed it. The bus got back to our Kissimmee complex just 20 minutes behind the cars.

How’s that for a utility man?

When Bagwell got to the ballpark, I told him about the bus breaking down. “Guess who got underneath and fixed it?” I asked.

He thought for a moment. “Russ Johnson?”

“You got it,” I said.

Bagwell shook his head and laughed. The story spread through the clubhouse, and before long everyone was laughing.

 

My pecker pain and the clubhouse fun came to an end at 8:30. That’s when we listened to a presentation on the evils of spit tobacco, by Joe Garagiola and Bill Tuttle. Garagiola is on a crusade, and his message is especially effective with ballplayers, as Joe was a player himself. And he chewed, like most of us.

Bill Tuttle chewed too, perhaps a little more than the average guy. There can be no denying he paid a higher price for his habit: fully half of his face was eaten away by cancer. After five bouts with the surgeon, he has no feeling on the left side of his face.

His story was even more gruesome than his appearance, and they brought photographs along so we could see him in post-op condition.

Many players prefer tobacco to sunflower seeds and gum. Now there are some new products that mimic tobacco with herbs and mint. I saw a lot of chewing and dipping today, but little-if-any tobacco.

Perhaps the most important thing Joe said was that if you make the choice to dip, don’t advertise it. The circular swell in a player’s back uniform or jeans hip pocket says it all.

“Do it if you must,” Joe said. “But don’t send the message to the young fans of America.”

 

This morning I felt like I was about to kick the dick pain. I had an interview with CNN, and I was even a little glib. Let’s see now, where does this put me on the media chart? CNN, New York Times, Sports Illustrated, Baseball Weekly cover. ESPN, Fox Sports. I could get one of the great stubbed toes in the history of sports if we fail. Fortunately, we have a pretty good team. 

 

Our team is a little smaller now. After batting practice, Gerry and I sent a few more players back to minor-league camp.

This cut wasn’t so tough. There were no veterans like Mike Gardiner in the group.

It was a tough cut for Blas Minor, however. He has a couple of years’ experience in the major leagues, and he has pitched well this spring. He was a victim of the system as much as anything else, and Gerry was upfront with him:

“We have some guys who are out of options, and a Rule 5 pitcher,” he said. “You know what that means: if we don’t keep them, we lose them. Since you have a minor-league contract, you are the odd man out. I want you to know, though, that I believe you can pitch in the big leagues, and that we are not going to keep these guys all year if they aren’t getting the job done.

“If you go down and pitch in New Orleans, you may end up in Houston before the end of the year. But if you want out, I don’t blame you, and I’ll try to find a spot for you on another club.”

“These guys have not outpitched you,” I added. “But they haven’t exactly been big-league stars in the past. I know you don’t throw quite as hard as some of them, but I believe that getting outs is more important that throwing for the radar gun.

“I have watched you with the Pirates and Mets, and I know you are a good competitor. If you were on my staff, I would not be afraid to use you.”

Blas wasn’t exactly glad of these tidings, but he is well-enough-aware of the option rules, and Rule 5. He took the news quietly, stoically. He impresses me as a very solid young man, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he supplants one of the others who has a “clerical advantage” over him now.

           

We beat the Tigers 4-1, with Chris Holt pitching marvelous baseball for five innings, and the relievers held fast.  

Gonzo was the hitting star. When I removed him from the game in the sixth, I had to apologize for aborting his “cycle bid.” Still, a double and a triple, two RBI and two runs scored, isn’t bad for two at-bats.

I pulled a double-switch with five players in the sixth inning, and once again I confused myself. This time I figured it out while I was walking to the plate to show umpire Rich Rieker.

“I’m not sure this all adds up,” I said. “But I think it does.”

“It’s all right down here,” he said. “We don’t keep track, and it doesn’t matter. But remember, during the season you need to check with us before you go to the mound and signal for a new pitcher.”

When I got back to the dugout, I reviewed the changes, and they were correct. But I sure appreciated a word of friendly advice from the umpire. So far, these guys have been rather civil. Of course, they don’t get much flak down here.

           

As the game wore on, I felt the need to pee. When I finally submitted to the urge, it hurt but I could not go. This painful impotency was starting to disturb me. Even though I have been told that my constipation has nothing to do with my infection, I asked for something to get things moving out the backside.

After I got home, I watched Stanford beat Wake Forest in the NCAA basketball tournament. The Metamucil started to work, but the infection roared like a lion. I was paining and straining, with no results, about every 5 or 10 minutes.

It was like dry heaves of the dick. I began to wonder if it was an obstruction, not an infection.

I called Dave Labossiere, and he told me to suffer through it.

“You should be better by tomorrow.” he said.

Yesterday, they told me I should be better by today.

Oh well, after the Bill Tuttle story, I found myself running low on self-pity. It is now 10 p.m. and things are starting to move both ways. Maybe I will be able to play golf on the off-day tomorrow morning with the coaches as planned, without looking for a tree to water.

We are playing a links course. There will be no trees.