RMJ 32 March 18

TUESDAY, MARCH 18 ● Kissimmee, vs Montreal

Today was my lucky day. It started with some typical ballpark humor. I announced my infirmity to the coaching staff, asking Bill to handle the managing chores if I failed to return from my Roto-Rooting in time — or in the event I returned in a daze.

I was filling out the lineup when I heard Ash, in the adjoining coaches’ room, explain to Cheo in a too-loud voice, “Dierk was supposed to have his dick reamed out yesterday, but they didn’t have an instrument long enough.”

“Yeah, they had to overnight one from San Pedro, where you grew up,” I yelled back.

“Not me,” Ash said. “They could do me with a toothpick.”

Everyone had the giggles, which helped me immensely.

“You can’t play this game with a tight asshole,” Cheo added. “Not with a tight dick, either. You better tell that doctor to fix it right, so we can win.”

“The hell with you guys,” I said. “I’m going to tell him to fix it right, because Judy is coming in tomorrow.”

“Oh boy, you think you’re hurting now,” Ash said. “You’re going to be dead meat on Thursday.”

The chatter continued in this vein until I left with Dave at 9:30. After filling out a medical biography and waiting for a while, I finally got to see the urologist, Dr. Fisher. Interesting name for a man who goes spelunking in the dark, malodorous caves of the human anatomy.

I was hoping he wouldn’t catch anything but a foul whiff from me.

 

As it turned out, he did not feel compelled to root me out from the bottom. He guessed that it was merely an insidious infection, possibly hiding from the medicine behind the wall of some sort of obstruction — perhaps scar tissue, possibly a stone or two. 

“We can check that out from above,” he said. “Are you allergic to shellfish or iodine?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. I’ll set you up for a test where you drink some dye and we X-ray it as it travels through your system.”

This did not seem like a whole lot of fun, but it sure beat the alternative.

“We’ll keep you on the antibiotics for a couple of weeks, and that should take care of it.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh, and by the way: no alcohol — especially beer.”

Damn! I knew there had to be a catch.

 

Back at the ballpark, I talked to Gerry. Yesterday, while Vern and I were playing golf, he consummated a deal with the Padres that would bring us Luis Lopez for a minor-league pitcher. Lopez was already in our camp, and Gerry wanted to cut the squad a little closer to the meat and bone.

“With Lopez in camp, there’s no need for Russ Johnson to stay on this side,” he said. “If we need him, we can still call him up on a moment’s notice. But if not, he needs to play every day.”

I know everyone will be disappointed in that decision, but it is clearly in the best interest of the team. If someone gets hurt and it looks like Russ is the everyday replacement, fine. If not, he needs to play.

One problem we may have is with Luis Rivera. Luis has played well this spring. He’s a good fielder and is hitting .280. Though he and Lopez are countrymen, there is likely only one spot on our team for a utility infielder from Puerto Rico.

“I’ve already talked with Rivera,” Gerry said. “I told him that he was still in the running to make the team. “You know what his reaction was?”

“I don’t imagine he was too pleased,” I said.     

“He told me that his best position is short, and that we only played him at second and third.”

“Interesting,” I said. “He’s probably right, but we know he can play short.”

“He also told me it was because of Cubby.”

“Boy, he sure hit that one on the head.” I said. In our last evaluation meeting, everyone thought Rivera was an acceptable short-term substitute for Ricky Gutierrez. Everyone but Cubby.

“I know what you guys are seeing now, but believe me,” Cubby said, “this guy will cough it up during the season. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

Mac, who was also with the Mets at the time, nodded his head.

Baseball can be cruel. Rivera had a bad run with the Mets, and Cubby and Mac just happened to be there then, and here now.

Matt said Rivera was fine in the Puerto Rican Winter League.

Ash said, “he’s the best shortstop in camp.”

If Cubby’s and Rivera’s paths had not crossed at this point in time, we may not have made the trade. But Cubby’s strong opinion, as an ex-infielder and infield coach, carries a lot of weight.

In the world of fringe players, each day is another step along the tightrope. Sooner or later, all of them fall.

 

Today, I substituted Lopez at second base and Rivera at short, hoping to ease the pain. I doubt it did much good. The two infielders were talking to one another all morning. They are friends, but this is survival. It’s a tough situation.

Bill Spiers made it a little easier. Bill came into the game midway through. I brought Luis Gonzalez for Bagwell at the same time. Spiers happened to notice that he was playing infield with three guys named Luis.

“Hey, Looie!” he yelled. All three looked at him, and he laughed. Later in the inning, he did it again. He pulled it three times and went three-for-three. They were all laughing when they got back to the dugout.

 

We won the game 4-2. Mike Hampton was especially sharp, striking out nine in five innings.

When the game was over, we met with Gerry and his staff to discuss the cuts. Everyone signed off on two camp favorites: Russ Johnson and Richard Hidalgo. There was some discussion about Tommy Gregg, and I was the only one to stick up for him.

“He hit the ball hard early, but had horseshit luck,” I said. “Then he started pressing, and now he’s in a slump.”

We all saw it happen. Everyone knows he can hit better than he has lately. But his old bones don’t look so good rumbling around the bases, and he is anything but nimble at first base.

Because Bobby Abreu is making the grade, we will already have two lefthanded bats on the bench; if Lopez looks good, we’ll have three. So Gregg gets the axe, maybe for the last time in his career.

This won’t be easy.

One thing I have learned this spring is that there is compassion behind the axe.

“I think the Mets might have some interest in Tommy,” Jim Duquette said. Jim came over from New York with Gerry, to run the minor-league operation. 

“Let’s hold off on Gregg until we make a phone call,” Gerry said.  “Maybe we can get him something.”

One of the reasons we are doing this now is to concentrate on the nucleus of our team for the rest of the spring; the other is to give guys like Gregg and Tommy Greene a chance to hook on with another ballclub.

After a thorough discussion of Greene, the verdict was that he could not help us in the bullpen right away. He does seem to get a little better each time out, but it takes him a long time to warm up. Invariably, he gets into trouble and then starts throwing better.

I have seen this many times with pitchers who have had arm problems. Even the knowledge that their career is on the line cannot overcome their hesitation to really let the ball fly. Only under the duress of a game situation, with adrenaline flowing fiercely, do they find that little extra zip that they need.

We would like to keep Tommy, and use him as a starting pitcher at New Orleans. But we cannot make him go, and really don’t want him to go if his heart isn’t in it. At the start of the spring, he was told that we had no interest in him if he couldn’t help us this year. After watching him work, we are not ready to write him off. But we don’t want to string him along, either.

I hope he will go to AAA, but if his agent can find a better deal for him, Gerry will let him go. Doing it now gives him some time. 

 

We were able to talk to Hidalgo after the meeting. He was still at the park. So was Greene. They are both among the early arrivers and late leavers, which speaks to their dedication and love for the sport.

Richard was sad when we told him he was going back. He had a great spring. Everyone is excited about him. But, like Johnson, he needs to play every day. I could see the tears welling in his big, brown eyes, but they never spilled over. In his heart, he had to be asking What more do I have to do? We tried to tell him that it just wasn’t his time yet; he’s only 21 years old.

I was so proud of the way he handled himself. He didn’t get mad; didn’t even say much, though he speaks English well.

“Your ability is in the top three of all the outfielders we have,” I told him. “But right now, I couldn’t play you every day. Your time will come, and it may come soon. If you keep playing the way you have been, we will make room for you.”         

I probably shouldn’t have said that. It’s not my place. But I didn’t see Gerry objecting. He only nodded his head.

“You can take the day off tomorrow,” Gerry said, “and then report to Jim Duquette.”        

Richard nodded.

“Do you have him listed for the trip to Lakeland tomorrow?” Gerry asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you want to make the trip?” Gerry asked.

“Yes,” Richard nodded.

“You know I can’t play you the whole game, like I did earlier,” I told him. “We have to get more innings for James Mouton and Thomas Howard now. I can probably play you two or three innings.”

“Is there a AAA game?” he asked.

“A AAA game here in camp?” I said, “I don’t know.”

“Yes, there is a game here,” Gerry said. “What are you getting at?”

I thought I knew.

“Do you want to play nine innings in the AAA game, instead of going to Lakeland or taking a day off?” I asked.

“Yes,” he nodded.

Now I was almost crying.