Tag: Featured

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 9 ● Houston

I met with Drayton, Bob McLaren, Gerry, and Tal today. We talked about next year’s budget, which will be roughly the same as last year’s.

It is likely that we will not be able to retain D.K.  We may have to let Derek, Shane, or Sean go too.  The plight of the middle-market team is what Gerry calls the “no-man’s-land budget.” If allows you enough money to have a few stars, but not enough to guarantee a winning season.

Bob feels that we can generate $70 million next year: $8 million more than we made this year. If we achieve this goal, and we keep the reins on the payroll, we will only lose $3-4 million instead of $10-11 million.

On first blush, it seems that we will have trouble fielding a winning team next year. But Tal brought up a statistical anomaly that may give us a chance to “get better while getting worse.” Here’s the theory:

We scored 117 runs more than we allowed this year. Using the proven run-differential theory, this would predict a record of 91-71 instead of our actual finish of 84-78. This theory is applicable over time, but there are exceptions each year. In 1997, only eight of the 28 teams finished with five wins more or less than their run-differential would predict.

Theoretically, we would win 90 games with the same team next year. If we stray as far on the plus side in 1998 as we did on the minus side this year, we will win 100 games.

I don’t subscribe to this theory, because I know that a single player cannot repeat a performance from one year to the next — and it is less likely that a whole team will do it.

I would gladly take a differential of plus-117 runs next year, but I don’t think we can achieve it with the same players.

Still, there is some comfort in these statistics; they clearly suggest that we were a better team than anyone realized. Only the Braves, the Yankees, and the Orioles had greater run differentials, and those three teams won 295 games among them.

Can we sustain the loss of Darryl Kile to the free-agent raiders? Possibly. But it will take a lot of work this winter to adjust for losing his 255 innings of airtight pitching.

We can do it with more hitting, better fielding, or by further developing the pitching staff. But it is not going to be easy.

If I am going to last until we move into the new stadium in the year 2000, I am going to have to pull a few rabbits out of my hat. 

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 3 ● Houston ● Playoffs, Game 3 vs Braves

I told the writers that I was optimistic about facing Smoltz.

“He throws riding fastballs, and he challenges hitters more than Glavine. Obviously, you don’t win the Cy Young Award by giving up three-run homers all the time, but the long ball is more likely with him than with the two guys we faced in Atlanta. Maybe we’ll get lucky and break loose with the bats.”

I said this, but I didn’t really believe it. Smoltz throws a riding fastball, all right — but he seldom throws it in the hitting zone. When he is sharp, he is tougher than Maddux and Glavine. And he has generally been sharp in the postseason.

One thing about Smoltz: if you do get to him, he gets upset. He doesn’t have quite as much poise as the other two — or their fourth starter, 20-game winner Denny Neagle.

Shane has been pitching well for us lately, but he’s still not quite right. I had my private doubts about our ability to win this game.

I watched the pregame introductions from the front of the dugout. The trainers were the first to be called, and they ran out to the first-base line, way beyond the bag. Then the nonstarters were announced, and they lined up from the trainers, past the bag and about halfway to home plate. 

I knew I would be next, and that I was supposed to stand near home plate. The guys in the lineup would fill the gap between where I was standing and the rest of the team.

I noticed that Bobby Cox went to the end of the line and slapped hands with everyone, starting with his trainers. I did not do this in Atlanta, but I felt I should do it today.

Ordinarily I don’t show a lot of emotion; I prefer the businesslike approach. But this was special. Fifty-three-thousand fans were present: the largest baseball crowd in Astrodome history. 

I vacillated: should I, or shouldn’t I?

I finally decided to do it — but to do it fast, with a lot of energy and enthusiasm. It turned out to be the right choice. The players seemed to appreciate it, and the fans went nuts. When I got to home plate and shook hands with Bobby Cox, he said, “they love you here, man. They really love you.”

I have a lot of respect for Bobby Cox, and his words meant a lot to me. I hope we have won some fans over with our hustling style of play, and by the way we carry ourselves.

I hope we can match the standard of excellence the Braves have set during the last six years. But without a superstation to subsidize our payroll, it will be difficult. What they have done is so extraordinary that it would be tough to match with unlimited funds.

Still, the way I felt at that moment made me realize the importance of our mission, because I knew most of the fans were sharing the feeling.

Houston has enjoyed the pride of a world championship twice with the Rockets, but we haven’t done it once in our 35 years in the National League. We still have a chance to win the ring this year, but it’s a long shot. I just hope the fans will stay with us to some extent if we don’t win this series. 

Smoltz final out

Unfortunately, I was right about Smoltz: he turned out to be the toughest pitcher of all.

In the first inning, he set the stage, retiring Biggio, Bell, and Bagwell in order — throwing nothing but fastballs. The only run we got was on a solo homer by Chuckie Carr in the seventh inning. We were down 3-0 at the time, and the Braves got the run back in the top of the eighth.

The final score was 4-1, but it really wasn’t that close. We only got three hits and a walk, while Smoltz struck out 11 batters.

I was really discouraged. Seven months’ effort to get into the postseason, and then three-games-and-out.

The first game in Atlanta was dramatic; we easily could have won it. After that, we never came close. We were so thoroughly beaten, it was embarrassing. Losing to the Braves is no disgrace, but the way we did it was shameful.

For the past few weeks, I have been telling everybody that we have nothing to lose.

“If we win, we make more money and have a chance to advance to the World Series. If we lose, we go on vacation. It’s a win/win situation.”

We are on vacation now. Whoopee. I suppose I will enjoy the time off, after I get over the heartache; I know I will. I’m pretty good at vacation. It’s going to take a few days, though.

This bitter pill is enough to make you gag.

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 2 ● Off-day In Houston

If it weren’t for the media, I would not have the team workout today. Tomorrow is our first home playoff game in eleven years, and it could be our last for a while.

Rob Matwick feels that we need to get all the coverage we can, and I agree. But I also realize that one more session of BP-and-infield is not going to make a hill of beans against John Smoltz and the Braves.

We will win or lose tomorrow; what we do today will have no bearing on the outcome.

The mood in the clubhouse was light and lively. I opened two big boxes that had been delivered to my office. They were both from the television channel Comedy Central. Seems this channel has taken our division — and especially, our team — to heart. Perhaps it is something akin to the love the Mets generated in the early years: lovable losers. So bad they were funny.

We aren’t that bad, but the concept is the same. We’re the best of the worst — and for that distinction, I have been sent 50 Comedy Central caps and a case of champagne.

I put the caps our in the lunchroom, and the players started wearing them. I gave away the champagne, bottle by bottle.

Mike Hampton posted a lineup for tomorrow’s game. He had himself leading off and playing center field. The rest of the positions were also filled by pitchers. And why not? Kile and Hampton had one-fourth of our hits in the series, and half of the RBI. They were batting .667.  

I held a meeting to thank the players for efforts.

“I’m not conceding anything,” I said. “There will be 50,000 people here tomorrow, screaming their heads off. If we get some momentum going, we could sweep these guys. How many times have we won three in a row this year? Lots of times, right? Well, we can do it again.

“But just in case we don’t, there are some things I want all of you to know — and I know I won’t feel like making a speech if we lose. So here it is:

I didn’t know if I could do this job when I accepted it. I thought I could, but I wasn’t sure. I knew it would be difficult, and it has been. But you guys have made it a whole lot easier by giving us your best effort throughout the year.

I’m not blowing smoke. I’ve been on a lot of teams and covered a lot of teams in the last 30 years, and I have never seen a team play harder, day after day. This is the biggest compliment you could pay me, and I want you to know how much it means to me and to thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I know the coaches feel the same way about you guys, and I feel the same way about the coaches.

Something special happened here this year. And it didn’t just come out of thin air. It came out of hard work and dedication.

I know some of you guys have been unhappy about playing time. I know some of you feel like I could have used you more, or given you a better chance to succeed. But except for a few isolated incidents, you have not complained. Instead, you have kept your feelings to yourself, for the good of the team.

Again, this is not a concession speech. When we win the World Series, I’ll make another speech. But I just wanted to make sure these things didn’t go unsaid. And now I’ve said them. Thank you.

Gerry jumped in and said a lot of the same things. I think our words were taken as they were intended, and not just dismissed as a bunch of BS. We had to chase the media out of the clubhouse, so we could have the meeting. Naturally, they wanted to know what was said — and I told them.

Batting practice was mostly fun. Some of the lefthanded hitters hit righthanded, and vice versa. Biggio, Bagwell, Bell, and Berry put on an impressive power display. I’m hoping one or two of them do the same tomorrow.

Privately, I am concerned about tomorrow’s game. Smoltz could overpower us. I would really hate to get swept after spending seven months to get this opportunity.

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 1 ● Atlanta ● Playoffs, Game 2 vs Braves

I woke up from a distressing dream at 8 a.m. Everyone else was sleeping. I had time to walk down the street to Starbucks to get two Café Grandés and bring one back for Judy.

There is nothing I can do in life to ingratiate myself with her that has quite the impact of a fresh cup of coffee. I may return home a villain, but at least I have started today’s battle with a victory, which was a lot better than my dream.

I told Judy that in my dream I kept trying to jump off a building and land on my feet. Somehow, I never was able to do it, but I didn’t die trying. The crowd was laughing and jeering, and I tried to pull a rabbit out of a hat, and couldn’t. I knew I wasn’t a magician, and I could not comprehend why I was humiliating myself that way.

Baseball can be mysterious, but I’m glad I am a baseball manager and not an interpreter of dreams.  

There was no one from our team at the cab stand in front of the hotel at 9:00. I figured they were already at the park, and I was right.

Rob Matwick

I ended up going out with Rob Matwick, and he told me that we had a sellout for the first playoff game and that it looked like we would sell them all out if the series went to five games.

I knew a win today was critical, because the Braves’ pitchers like the Astrodome better than their own park. We have actually won more games in Atlanta than in Houston the past few years.

“If you can pull a win out of your hat today, we’ll be in good shape,” Rob said. I did a double-take and told him about my dream. We sat in silence for moment, and then he laughed. There was nothing left to say.

Tom Glavine was on the mound for the Braves, and I was hoping we would be patient enough to get to him and get into their middle relief.

Glavine is a nibbler; he won’t throw a strike unless he has to. Most of our hitters are selective. I figured we had a pretty good chance if Hampton was on his game.

Unfortunately, Hamp was wild. He wasn’t nibbling; he was just flat wild.

Mike Cather

We did manage to make Glavine work, and we got him out of there in time to face rookie Mike Cather. By that time, it was too late.

Hamp looked a little shaky in the first and second innings, but he got out with no runs. In the third, Glavine got a hit, Lofton walked, and Jeff Blauser hit a three-run homer.

Blauser has always hit Mike well; that I knew. What bothered me is that Hamp allowed two lefthanded hitters to reach base. If he had retired them, he would have started the fourth inning with Blauser, pitching from a windup. It would have been a whole new ballgame, as they say.

Well, at least we showed some spunk in the fourth inning. Richard Hidalgo and Billy Spiers walked in front of a two-out double by Brad Ausmus. I’m sure the writers and broadcasters were letting Bobby Cox have it for not walking Ausmus. I would have pitched to him too; Brad is only 2-for-23 off Glavine. And Hampton is a pretty good hitter. He proved it by lining a single down the right-field line to tie the score.

In the fifth, the Braves untied it. Four consecutive walks were all I could stand. I brought Mike Magnante in to face Ryan Klesko. Bobby pinch-hit with Greg Colbrunn. I thought we were going to escape with just one run when Colbrunn chopped the ball to the right side, but Biggio was playing way up the middle and couldn’t get to the ball. Instead of two outs, they got two runs and then added two more to put Glavine on Easy Street.

It wasn’t that easy for him, however. His control was as bad as I’ve ever seen it, and after struggling through a scoreless sixth, he came out of the game — but not before he delivered another single in a scoring rally.

In the bottom of the eighth, I brought Billy Wagner in for a tuneup. We had tomorrow off, and I wanted build Billy’s confidence. You may recall that this is where he gave up the game-winning home run to Javy Lopez that started his slump. I was convinced he would have a good inning, and be ready to save Friday’s game in Houston for Shane.

Shows how much I know.

Lopez got him again, this time with a two-run double.

We lost, or should I say, were embarrassed 13-3.

Hampton in Game 2

I knew I was going to get grilled about leaving Hampton in to walk four consecutive batters. There were two outs when he came unglued, and it seemed likely that he would eventually throw a strike and that someone would hit it and make an out. He did throw a few strikes, with no such luck.

The question came up, as I knew it would. I just said that we continually tell our pitchers that no matter how much trouble they are in, they are still just one pitch from getting out of it. I thought Mike would make that one pitch, and that if he survived the inning, he might settle down and pitch a good ballgame.

I don’t know if they bought this reasoning, or they just felt sorry for me, but they let it go at that.

I felt really tired when I got back from the press conference. I hoped I wouldn’t have to do much one-on-one stuff — especially for television. No one was in my office when I got there, so I jumped in the shower and stood there soaking my head.

This was the low point of the year for me. I knew it was extremely unlikely that we could beat them three in a row at home. The dream wasn’t over, but it would be hard for me to keep my eyes closed long enough to get the happy ending.

As it turned out, I only had to do a couple of interviews, and I was able to duck out and spend ten minutes with Judy before the buses left for the airport.

I tried to sleep on the bus, but I was too weary. One thing I did contemplate was what it would be like when it was over. I realized that if we lost the final game, and I felt as empty as I did right then, I wouldn’t feel like talking to the guys and thanking them for their effort. I made a mental note to talk to them before the workout tomorrow.

When the bus arrived at the Dome, there were a few reporters on hand. Judy and I carried all of our luggage, so we didn’t have to wait for the equipment truck. We made a beeline for the car, and we arrived home just after dark.

I felt worse than ever — really down in the dumps. Six months of continuous effort had been reduced to the desperate hope of a sweep.

We waited for Ryan to return with Rick and Susan. I talked to Rick a little about the game and then hit the sack, hoping for sweet release — and no more dreams.

The 1996 season ended with a thud in Houston, when a team-record losing streak in September dashed any playoff hopes the Astros had.

As a broadcaster, this was quite a challenge. In September, football was cranking up; sports fans were moving on from baseball.

I tried to hold their attention with stories, paying less-than-usual attention to the details of the game. This was my way of making the broadcast enjoyable. It’s the same tactic I used when we got way behind early, and never made a bid to catch up. But one game of diverting attention is easy, compared to a whole month trying to do it.

I was injured at the time; I had a cast on my right hand, and so I was keeping my scorebook left-handed. After it became obvious that we wouldn’t make it to the postseason, I lost interest in the games, and it was hard to give the broadcasts the energy they deserved.

One night in Miami, toward the end of our fall from grace, the camera panned our dugout, and every player was looking down — as if they were at a funeral. That’s when I blurted out a suggestion that the team needed more Hawaiian shirts. The idea was to loosen up, and have a good time. A few fans brought me shirts when we got back to the Astrodome. We used that shtick quite a bit in the ugly games — and there were a lot of them.

At the end of the season, I just wanted to get the cast off and float down the Guadalupe River with my hand dangling in the cool water. All I wanted to do was forget baseball.

But nooooo!

I got a call from my wife, Judy, telling me I had to get back to Houston to meet with Astros president Tal Smith the next day. When I tried to wiggle out of it, she said it was very important. I drove home, and I met with him the next morning.

Tal wanted to discuss the team, and what we could do during the offseason to get better. I didn’t have to come back from Austin for that; I could have done it a few days later.

Milo Hamilton 

It wasn’t unusual for him to seek my opinion on something. But after I told him what I thought that morning, he suggested that maybe I should manage the team. I thought he was joking, and I said, “I’d try just about anything to get away from Milo (Hamilton, one of our broadcasters), but that’s pretty extreme, don’t you think?”

We laughed about that — and then I saw Astros General Manager Gerry Hunsicker in the lobby.

Tal said he had invited Gerry for lunch. Sandwiches were brought in, and when we continued the discussion, I knew something was up. Were they actually considering me to be the next Astros manager?

I had never coached a game in my life — not even Little League.

Then I saw the owner of the team, Drayton McLane, pacing back and forth in the lobby. That’s when I knew this crazy idea might become my reality. As Drayton joined us, I started thinking about what I would do or say. I decided to buy some time by telling them I would have to talk to Judy  about it — though I knew what she would say.

Terry Collins

Drayton asked me some questions that confirmed my suspicion about the manager’s job; they were going to let current manager Terry Collins go. Now I understood why I had to come back from Austin. Even so, surely it wasn’t so urgent — right? It was only two days after the end of the season.

When they finally asked me if I would manage the club, I was really excited; after I told them I would have to talk to Judy, Gerry told me he would call with the details after dinner, because if we were going to do it, they would have the press conference the next morning.

Now I really understood the urgency.

We went to my son Ryan’s baseball game that night, and we sat in the bleachers with our friends, as usual. The next morning, the press conference was the talk of the town. Gerry announced that Terry Collins had been let go — and the next Astros manager was in the room.

There were twenty or thirty reporters, and they looked everywhere, but there was no manager in sight. When it was revealed that I would be coming down from the broadcast booth to take over, smiles brightened the room. It was a great story, no matter what happened in 1997.

Someone asked me if I was worried or scared, and I said, “not exactly.” But I said it was like if the President called to see if I would be willing to take a ride on the Space Shuttle; what would I say? How could I say no?

Yes, it was a little scary, but it was also uplifting. I knew we would have a good team. In fact, I was probably more familiar with our talent than any experienced manager they could have hired.

Later that afternoon, two TV stations went on location with Astros manager Larry Dierker in his own front yard. Neighbors emerged from their houses. It was big news — even beyond Houston.

That night, we went to another game of Ryan’s, and we sat in the same bleachers with the same parents. A few of them wanted to take pictures with me. Then a few asked for autographs. Then people from the bleachers across the field, and even different fields, came over to share the good news and get a little piece of it on a scrap of paper or on their phones.

I was cool with it; I knew where my many blessings came from. It was the fans.

One afternoon, early in my broadcast career, the team bus pulled up to Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia, where a line of autograph seekers hoped to get a few guys to stop and sign. When I got off the bus, one of them pointed at me and said, “didn’t you used to be somebody?”

I was somebody again, even though I was just another guy in the bleachers the day before.

The next day, I started taking calls. The New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, and on and on. I already knew a lot of the columnists from my playing days, and from the pressboxes around the league as a broadcaster. Sports Illustrated called to arrange an interview. I drove to a recording studio in Houston to tape an interview with ESPN.

It was a big deal when I pitched my first major-league game on my 18th birthday. And this was the same: almost unprecedented.

During my last ten years as a broadcaster, I wrote a weekly baseball column, starting in spring training and running through the World Series. I had also written and narrated 500+ Larry Dierker’s Baseball Library podcasts (listen to them here) that we played in the pregame shows on Astros radio.

I had spent 18 years learning how to share the world of baseball with the fans. If this is such a big story, I thought, why not get personal with it?

I decided to keep a journal of the 1997 season — twenty-five years ago. Each day, I recorded my feelings. Some of those feelings strayed from the ballpark — like when my daughter got married and I missed three days at the beginning of spring training. I missed three more days when my father died near the end of May.

In some situations, I showed how naïve I was; in others, it shows how I learned to be a decent manager. We won our division that year, and we were beaten by the Braves in the League Championship Series. 

Many years ago, someone came up with a T-shirt: Baseball is Life. What follows is the inside of a baseball life, twenty-five years ago.

Enjoy!

Larry Dierker

February 2022