RMJ 33 March 19

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 19 ● at Lakeland, vs Detroit

Tomorrow the isotopes take to the highways-and-byways of my body. That means today is the day to clear the roads. I am allowed a small, fat-free breakfast, so I eat two heaping bowls of Raisin Bran. So maybe I fudged a little. I rationalized by telling myself, you can’t cut guys from a big-league team with an empty stomach.

Russ Johnson was one of the cuts. Last fall, at our organizational meetings, AA manager Dave Engle said that Richard Hidalgo and Russ Johnson were the best two players and the two hardest workers, with the two best attitudes on his team.

Johnson has been a sensation with the glove and bat this spring, and the attitude shone through this morning.

“What can I say,” Gerry said. “You’ve done everything we hoped, and more. You have a bright future in the major leagues, but we’re going to send you down.”

Russ didn’t bat an eye.

“You know why we brought you down here?” Gerry continued. “If Sean Berry had a setback and you played well, you had a chance. Otherwise, you were destined for AAA from the start. I know this is disappointing, and I know you believe you can play in the big leagues, and we believe it too. It could still happen, by the way, if someone gets hurt. Otherwise, it’s best for you and for us that you play every day.”

“I understand.” Russ said,

“It’s not that you aren’t ready,” I said. “And I’d really like to have you on the ballclub. But as I project my lineups into the season, I just don’t see how I can get you much playing time. Sure, I could play you once a week at short or third. But how are you going to stay sharp and improve your skills for the day when you become an everyday player?”

“I understand,” he said again. “I’m no good at sitting, anyway. I’m not a sitter. Really, I don’t know if you would want me around if I had to sit. I’d probably drive everyone crazy.”

At that point we went into the routine about taking a day off and reporting to Jim Duquette.

“I don’t want a day off,” he said.

We asked if he would help us by going on the trip, because we needed an extra infielder.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.

This might be the first time in the history of baseball that a guy who played like an all-star in the spring seemed eager to stay up, go down, do anything — as long as it meant playing the game.

As Russ walked out, we just shook our heads and smiled.

 

Eric Christopherson was next. This was tough in a different way.

At 27 years old, Eric is at a crossroads. He has been in AAA for several years. Four years ago, he had a brief stint with the Giants. Last year, he was our backup AAA catcher. Toward the end of the year, he moved up to Number 1. During the winter, we traded for Brad Ausmus. That makes it unlikely that Randy Knorr will make the club, and likely that Eric will be the backup in New Orleans. Gerry is a little more direct than me, and he told him this straight out.

After all the drudgery of catching at spring training, this news had to be deflating. I tried to soften it, and luckily Gerry supported me.

“Look,” I said. “Randy is a veteran. He doesn’t need to catch every day to stay sharp. It’s not like you won’t be playing much at all. It’ll be more like our situation here. Brad is Number One, but Tony is better than a backup. I don’t plan to wear Brad out. Instead, I am going to play both of them a lot. I think Swish will do the same thing with you two guys.”

“In fact,” Gerry said, “there is still an outside chance we will keep three catchers, which would make you Number 1. I was very impressed with your work this spring, and you played well the end of last year. In my mind, you have revived yourself as a big-league prospect. I won’t hold you here if you want to move on, but I hope you will stay and improve.”

Eric is a soft-spoken, sensitive guy. It was hard to read what was going through his head. “I don’t want to leave,” he said softly. “I like it here. I like it better than with the Giants.”

“That really makes me feel good that you said that,” Gerry said. You keep plugging away, and your time will come.”

“At this stage of my career, I just want to play somewhere,” he said, perhaps underestimating his value or perhaps worried that he couldn’t catch on elsewhere if he decided to leave.

I felt it was time to pump him up.

“Look, man,” I said, “you got some clutch hits for us this spring. Your defense was excellent. I talked to some of the pitchers, and they like to throw to you.”

I was leafing through the media guide.

“Look, you’re only 27 years old. That’s about the age where a catcher should start to hit. Catchers and middle-infielders have such important defensive roles that they often are late-bloomers with the bat. We’ve got expansion next year. You’re a good ballplayer, and you will play in the majors. Don’t give up.”

“No, I won’t,” he said. “I’ll keep going. But I wondered if I could ask one favor.”

“Sure.”

“Well, some of the guys say that you can take the next day off if you get cut. And, well, my wife is here, and it’s her last day. It’ll be a long time before I see her again. I wondered if I could have today off.”

Once again, I’m almost in tears. “Of course, you can. You go spend the day with your wife.”

Because Eric was scheduled to make the trip, and we were going to ask him to stay with us one more day, I had to make an adjustment. I found Randy Knorr by his locker, and I explained the situation.

“Hell yes, I’ll make the trip,” he said. “No problem.”

I was beginning to feel pretty good about the character of our team — major and minor. Attitude is something you cannot coach. And in this important, intangible area, were have been blessed with some natural players.

           

As I drove to Lakeland with Cubby, I warned him that he might want to consider getting a ride back with someone else.

“I’m not allowed to eat anything today. And I have to take something they call a bowel evacuator later on. I don’t know what the ride back is going to be like, but it might not be pleasant.”

“They still got bathrooms in service stations, don’t they?” he said. “I’m with you all the way.”

Our trainer, Rex Jones, had my medical instructions. When to drink eight ounces of clear liquid. When to drink a cup of clear broth and eat Jell-o. And, of course, when to suck down the evacuant.

The players were beginning to pick up on my situation, so I decided to have some fun with it when everyone came in for lunch after batting practice.

“Yessir, there’s nothing like a steaming cup of broth on a hot day,” I said loudly, so everyone could hear. “It’ll really stick to your ribs.”

“Hey, Dierk,” Gonzo said, “don’t drink too much all at once. You might get bloated.”

           

I figured that our five-game winning streak would come to an end this day. We had a skeleton squad in Lakeland, and the Tigers were playing their opening lineup.

Honestly, I didn’t much care; I was mostly thinking about what I would eat for lunch the next day. Just to give myself the feeling of eating, I chewed some tobacco. Being a perfectly good patient is difficult for me.

Once again, our bats rung out in the first inning. But Darryl “The Enigma” Kile had a rough time holding a four-run lead. His control was off, and his temperament was worse. After one pitch he yelled “fuck!” which is as good as telling the other team, beat me, I can’t pitch. He finally left in the fifth inning, with a 6-5 lead. In the spring that qualifies him for the win if we hold on, and we did.

I would be happy with any kind of win during the season. Fact is, I would feel like a thief with the crown jewels in my pocket with a win like this.

Sadly, Darryl expects more of himself than is reasonable, and he almost always finds a reason to beat himself up over his performance. In this case, he had more than one reason:

 

• He got behind most hitters.
• He threw a lot of pitches into the hitting zone.
• He couldn’t finish hitters off when he got ahead in the count.
• He did not control his emotions.

 

I need to talk with Vern about this. Darryl has been regarded as a fragile child over the years. He spouts some unusual pitching theories, but most of the time, pitching coaches have left him alone — afraid that they would mess him up more if they criticized him. Maybe they’re right, but I had a tough time watching him as an announcer, and now I’m responsible for him.

I’m not going to watch this much longer without saying something.

 

After the game, I grabbed some apple juice and headed out with the intrepid Cubby.

I made it back, and I found Judy and Ryan waiting for me. It was great to see them.

We decided to go to the mall, so they could shop and I could get a haircut — and not think about fasting.

In the middle of my haircut, I felt some rumbling in my gut. The vile brown evacuant was making its presence felt. I hoped I could make it through without embarrassing myself.

At first, I thought I was in luck; the hairdresser finished in about ten minutes.

“Is this all right?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It’s all wet,” I said.

“A blow dry is $15,” she said.

I wanted to leave, but I suspected my hair was still too long.

“Go ahead, dry it,” I said, crossing my fingers.

My fears grew as the internal gases shifted the load around. When my hair was dry and I realized it was still too long, I had to make a decision.

Playing the body lottery, I said, “I think it needs to be a little shorter.”

While Yolanda recut my hair, I felt some more shifting and painful cramping. This is going down to the wire, I thought. It did, and I barely made the finish line. I was actually jogging as I reached the restroom.

How about that? Playing Russian Roulette with my bowels in public!

If I have that kind of nerve in the dugout, I’ll be a riverboat manager.

We had to stop again on the way home, and I continued apace through the night. It was an effective weight-loss program, but I wouldn’t recommend it.