1993 Diary Excerpts
After having scored one run for 10 innings Tuesday (and not counting the three in the eleventh), we scored zero runs yesterday, and it's possible we may have failed to win. Final score: Mets 10, Giants 0. Jeff Brantley just didn't really have it. He was going along okay, giving up a run through the first three before letting Todd Hundley, one of the worst hitters in either league, tag him for a three-run homer. It was pretty much over at that point, and I didn't watch much of the game once I got home. I did, however, see a replay right after Barry Bonds nonchalanted a two-out fly ball. I'd like to say he watched it bounce off his glove, but I doubt that's true, because he obviously took his eye off it.
Somewhere people are shouting, "That's what we pay this guy $44 million for?" I think that argument's bullshit. Everybody makes errors, and lots of people nonchalant balls and screw them up. Bonds knows he screwed up. Just because he makes a zillion times more than everyone else on Planet Earth combined is no reason to expect him never to make a mistake, never to strike out. It's amazing what's expected of him. Chronicle columnist Herb Caen, for whom I have no affection, but whom I sometimes read just to see how he'll piss me off with some new comment about the Giants, seems to expect Bonds to hit over .400. Right. Yeah. .400. Last guy: Ted Williams, 1941. Last guy before that: Bill Terry, 374 A.D. This guy was paid to do exactly what he's done so far: bomb a homer in his first at-bat at Candlestick this year, crush another one off last year's Cy Young, win Player of the Week honors. If he keeps playing like he's playing now, assuming an adjustment for the length of the season, etc., he'll finish over .300, with more than 30 homers, more than 100 RBIs, more than 40 stolen bases, more than 100 runs, more than 100 walks, maybe a Gold Glove -- what more do people want? The guy's awesome.
And this is coming from me, a guy who does not like Barry Bonds. I've always said that I love the player, can't stand the guy. That still applies. Even given that I don't know him at all, his public image is as follows: cocksure, arrogant, horribly conceited, big-mouthed, even somewhat racist. (He called Andy Van Slyke "The Great White Hope" after Van Slyke signed a multiyear deal; Bonds said something like, "Do you see them signing me or Bobby Bonilla to a deal like that?" He called it a black-white thing. Hell, if Bonds is that uncomfortable about white star players, why'd he want to come here and play with Will Clark, whose public image is one of a racist redneck?) But my point is, racist jerk or no, the guy's great. Let him play. The hell with what he earns -- it doesn't matter to anyone but Bonds and the people paying him. There's probably no one in this country who's as good at his or her job as Bonds is at his.
Also, I can't wait to see if Herb Caen jumps on the fly ball Bonds dropped.
By the way, can I call 'em or can I call 'em? Quote from Herb Caen today: "Barry Bonds 'nonchalanted' a ball in New York Wed. night and dropped it, just like a busher. 'Nonchalanted' is a verb used by sportscasters. Anyway, it made me feel better. A $43 million beauty dropping a routine fly ball." First, and totally predictably, the guy shows himself to be an English language snob by pointing out the use of "nonchalanted" by those illiterate, grammar-impaired, inferior sportscasters. Second, he points out that a guy making what Bonds makes isn't entitled to make errors, especially on routine plays. Now, I'm not making excuses for Bonds -- a four-year-old could have caught that ball -- but Caen's I-told-you-so attitude and general smugness makes me want to puke. Since I didn't read Caen during whatever his heyday was -- which I can only assume is not 1993 -- I do not understand his appeal. I do not like his smarmy, pseudorelaxed style, his pseudocute deliberate misspellings and abbreviations, or, for the most part, his humor. I also do not like the way he seems to have appointed himself an expert on virtually everything, especially baseball. He may be a very nice man, but I just don't like his writing.
(By the way, I don't mind his snottiness about "nonchalanted" just because I used it. As it happened, I couldn't think of a better word -- by which I mean that if there is a better word to describe the way Bonds played that ball, I sure couldn't think of it. I think "nonchalanted" describes it perfectly. I hate when people disparage making verbs out of adjectives or nouns, such as "projectize." As words go, I'm not crazy about "projectized" either, but it's still a word. Among my least favorite sentences begins, "There's no such word as...." Communication, kids. That's the key.)
Some numbers: Will Clark, on the strength of his 2-for-4 night, is all the way up to .214, with a lone tater and six doubles (for a slugging percentage of .301, which is about 30 points lower than his batting average should be). Yeee! Matt Williams is at .321 with a league-leading 9 homers, but I think he's already started tailing off. I have the feeling that since the press has overanalyzed his success, he's beginning to do so too, and his numbers will be more Williams-like soon enough (to my chagrin). Royce Clayton's all the way up to .291, with three triples and only two doubles (and no steals -- and 10 errors: Move over, Jose Offerman). Kirt Manwaring's at .288, but he's been hurt for over a week and may play against the Dodgers. In his stead, however, Craig Colbert and Jeff Reed (who has two homers) have done well. Robby Thompson's only at .231 (and lost a homer to the Candlestick wind Tuesday night, as did Williams), but they say he's "swinging the bat well." Willie McGee's at .271, but is all the way up to six runs scored, and he's second on the team in at-bats. Darren Lewis is at .222, but somehow has scored twice as many runs as McGee.
By the way, Will Clark, in a classic case of denial, has refused to call his low batting average the result of a slump. He won't even let you say "slump" around him and insists that this April was his best ever. Please. Others (such as newspaper and radio types) seem to have taken up the call, saying that Clark's always a slow starter. I don't believe that for a minute, so I'm going to get some numbers out of the Baseball Analysts, so hold on.
Okay, here's what I've found:
We can argue that Clark's 1989 season was the best of his career, even call it a phenomenal year. Therefore, since his career April totals are virtually identical to his '89 season, should't we call Clark a phenomenal April hitter? Sure -- till this year. I wouldn't be surprised if this stuff showed up in next year's Analyst.
Clark feels that he's been hitting the ball well but has nothing to show for it. This is true, but to call this April his best ever is bullshit, even insulting to the fan (such as me) who notices things like this. My feeling was that Clark had always been a good April hitter, far from a slow starter. I half expected the numbers to fail to back me up, and once I'd gotten through the 1988 season, I began to wonder if Clark and the easily-sucked-in media types were right. But they weren't. I was. Look at Will in '89 and '90: 8 homers, 39 RBIs, 29 walks, a .351 average, a .606 slugging percentage, an estimated .448 on-base percentage. Not a good April hitter. A great April hitter. If I'm Will Clark, I'd just about kill for these kind of numbers -- and I mean the totals, not just the percentages -- by the end of June.
Beat Cincinnati 5-1 yesterday. Trevor Wilson started, went five-plus, and came out with some stiffness, which I assume was in the area of his arm. He still wasn't sharp: walked four. Righetti, Burba, Jackson, and Rogers relieved. Burba struck out Kevin Mitchell, and I think Jackson got him out also. Mitchell drove in the Reds' only run on a ground ball in the first that went off Matt Williams' glove. They called it a hit, but I saw a replay last night, and it looked like a play Williams should have made.
Near as I can tell, it was an intensely emotional occasion for Mitchell and his friends on the Giants. He was quoted in Lowell Cohn's column as saying, "Even if I had to play off the bench, I wish I could be back here. I don't think I could have a year like in 1989, but I could be a fourth outfielder, if I'm not here too long (on the Reds). This feels like home. I don't know why I feel so confident in this ballpark."
I find this an amazing statement, one that raises a lot of questions: What color smoke is he blowing? Or does he mean it? He'd be a fourth outfielder? (Hell, if the Giants were nuts enough to trade Will Clark, I'd want Mitch to be my everyday first baseman.) Why is he saying he wants to be back with the Giants on his first road trip to the 'Stick? Isn't that somewhat of a protocol breach? I mean, it sounds as though he's already asking to be traded again.
He and Dusty Baker are evidently very close, and I'm sure it tugged at him a little to hear that Baker was named manager of the Giants. Baker feels that Mitch gets into trouble because he's "so kind-hearted."
I myself miss Mitchell, even with Barry Bonds around. There's no National League slugger who's feared more than Mitch. I'm convinced of that. I even include Bonds there, because Bonds isn't nearly as home-run-intensive as Mitchell. Of course, Mitch is fat. I'd bet he weighs 300 pounds, and for some reason, I don't think that would happen if he were still here. I don't think he liked being traded to Seattle one little bit, and based on some of the weird elements of his behavior that are made public, I'd say he gets depressed pretty easily. Plus, who wouldn't get depressed going the the Mariners? Lousy team, lousy stadium, lousy attendance, lousy fans, lousy front office. At least with the Reds, he's on a contender -- probably the second- or third-place finisher -- and is hitting behind Barry Larkin in a home-run-hitter's park.
Had I been there yesterday, there's no way I'd have even thought of booing Kevin Mitchell (even keeping in mind that I don't boo people, even the Dodgers). He was a great asset to this club from July 4, 1987, up through the 1991 season. He'd have been even greater, I'm convinced, if Roger Craig had gotten the clue about Jeffrey Leonard earlier and started batting Mitchell fourth in 1987. (But of course, that's easy for me to say.) If I remember correctly, Mitch even batted fifth and sixth -- behind Mike Aldrete -- more than once. Now, sure, he had knee problems, in 1988, but it was obvious from the day he joined the Giants that he had tremendous power and could hit nearly .300 without batting an eye. I think he's a great natural hitter, and I've rarely seen him look bad at the plate. I also don't ever remember a reason to boo him as a Giant.
Odd baseball item tonight. After Juan Gonzalez of the Rangers was beaned by whichever Chicago pitcher was pitching, Nolan Ryan plunked Robin Ventura, who charged the mound and valiantly led Ryan into a false sense of security by manipulating him into applying a hammerlock and then belting Ryan with his head and face several times, right in the fist. I mean Ryan was beating the shit out of Ventura. This naturally emptied both benches, and some serious punching was going on. Pudge Rodriguez, who just came back from breaking his cheekbone, was in the middle, as was Rangers' coach Mickey Hatcher, who looked somewhat the worse for wear, if blood streaming down the side of his face is any indication.
"So Gregg, how do you feel about brawls?" I hear you ask. Well, I'm glad you asked. This was one of Dave's and my discussion topics over the weekend. I firmly believe that the NBA rule should be invoked. That is, anyone leaving the bench, dugout, bullpen, clubhouse, etc., is penalized. Same for batters who charge the mound. Guys who are already on the field -- such as the pitcher and batter -- and get involved in a fight are ejected (subject to the umpire-in-chief's discretion -- I mean, if one player absolutely refuses to throw a punch and merely defends himself, he's not ejected) and similarly penalized. However, a fine won't deter anyone. These guys should be ejected and then suspended for a day -- two days if they land a punch, three or more days if they maul someone. If enough players on a team are suspended on a given day so as to keep that team from putting nine players on the field, the manager should have to petition the umpire-in-chief to allow the necessary players to play, providing they serve their suspension within, say, a week. Here's a scenario:
Mike Jackson hits Jody Reed on the foot with a pitch. Reed, interpreting this as a purpose pitch (as only a Dodger bozo would), charges the mound. He throws a punch -- and misses, of course, because he's a Dodger bozo. The entire Dodger dugout empties, as does the bullpen. In comes the cavalry, in the form of uniformed policemen, who restore order and keep Jackson and everyone else from being suspended. (What a shame it's come to this: policemen being needed to restore order on the field in an ordinary ballgame.) Knowing the new rules, no Giants rush onto the field, though the existing defensive players try to keep the rapacious Dodger shmuckos from pummeling their pitcher -- though they don't throw any punches.
The smoke clears. The following Dodgers are ejected: Reed, and everybody else. Twenty-five bad, bad Dodgers. In keeping with the rules regarding substitution after the bench has been cleared, the umpire-in-chief allows necessary substitute players to play, even those who may have attempted to throw punches -- because the incumbent nine have to be ejected, because they're already in the game. After the inning, nine new guys take the field, including, no doubt, at least one guy who's otherwise a pitcher. So it looks like this:
(Now it's 7-4, as Brummett gives up a three-run homer to Archi Cianfrocco on a hanging breaking ball. Williams' error beforehand would have been the second out. Now the Giants are out of the inning on a 6-3-5 double play. Ausmus made a moronic baserunning gaffe for the second straight night.)
Now, I don't know whether a manager's allowed to manipulate his lineup after players get tossed, because I think ejected players must be replaced immediately. In any event, these nine guys finish the game, barring injury, in which case the umpire-in-chief allows necessary substitution.
The Dodgers spend the rest of the game moving Hershiser to wherever they think the ball won't be hit. The Giants spend the rest of the day clocking Omar Daal until he and Hershiser switch, and then we clock Hershiser and end up winning 38-0.
The next day, the suspensions are assessed, and as all Dodgers are now unavailable, Tommy Lasorda -- who himself is suspended and must manage by proxy, i.e., one of the nine guys who's allowed to sit in the dugout -- gives his regular lineup along with pitcher Tom Candiotti. The Dodgers now cannot make any substitutions unless someone gets hurt -- and there'll be none of this shit where Piazza -- Lasorda's out of the game, remember? -- rushes to the mound, sticks a pin into Candiott's pinky, and says, "Look! He's hurt!" So Candiotti, who himself will have to miss a start due to the suspension, gets lit up for 17 runs in the first three innings. Piazza, despite earlier warnings, rushes to the mound, sticks a pin into Candiott's pinky, and says, "Look! He's hurt!" The plate umpire says, "Nice try." So Candiotti is forced to pitch until he's very, very tired, finally throwing underhand, in the sixth inning, by which time the score is, by an amazing coincidence, 38-0 again. When it's his turn to bat, Candiotti hits a ground ball to short and falls to the ground, dazed, on the way out of the batter's box, and is thrown out easily. Then the umpire allows substitution, namely Roger McDowell. Of course, without adequate preparation, McDowell gives up an amazing 15 runs over the last three innings, and the Giants' 53-0 victory all but overshadows Burkett's perfect game. And the Giants go on to win not only the pennant, not only the World Series, but every World series for the next ninety million years.
The next day, everyone who's not still suspended can play, but those bad guys have learned their lesson, you betcha.
A couple of notes. First, Greg Brummett is the player to be named later in the Jim Deshaies trade, which is beyond my ability to fathom. It makes the Giants look like morons in that Brummett was so highly thought of just a couple of months ago, and now the Giants are willing to ship him off in return for a pitcher whom they probably don't plan to employ -- and why should they? -- after season's end.
Also, they said on radio today that Dusty Baker's "not sure" that Will Clark will regain his starting spot when he returns from the DL (on about September 10). Riddle me that one. I mean, yes, Todd Benzinger batted over .370 in August, but Will Clark, shitty season and all, is still Will Clark. We played .667 ball with him in the lineup, and have played roughly .333 ball without. Think, Dusty. Remember that Will Clark is Will Clark... and Todd Benzinger isn't.
Last night's game was a microcosm of the 1993 San Francisco Giants' baseball season. We took a lead -- a decent lead, not a healthy lead, certainly not a big enough lead, though against other teams it would have been -- of 3-0 into the fifth. Royce Clayton had hit a sacrifice fly in the first. Barry Bonds homered in the fourth -- solo shot, of course; I mean, who gets on base ahead of him anymore? -- and with two outs, John Burkett later singled in the third run. We took Steve Avery out of the game at that point, but Rikkert Faneyte ended the inning with a screamer to left off Steve Bedrosian, leaving two runners on.
We never scored again, or even came particularly close. Atlanta came up with two off Burkett in the fifth, after he had pitched a shaky fourth. He pitched a strong sixth, but some evil force (Tommy Lasorda?) inspired Dusty Baker to go with Jeff Brantley in the seventh.
Now, I recognize the potential for the reader to say, "Oh, it's easy to second-guess the manager after the fact," but please give me a little credit. I'd been on the phone with Pat at the time, and when I saw Brantley on the TV I gave out with a loud "Shit!" (as opposed to just a loud shit), and Pat threw in his two cents with a "Goddammit!"
A one-out double to Tony Tarasco, the pinch-hitter. A run-scoring single to Otis Nixon. A walk to Jeff Blauser. Brantley's through, and in comes Dave Burba. A steal of third by Nixon. A line shot by Ron Gant off Burba's ass -- the ball ricochets toward the plate, just far enough away for Nixon to score ahead of the grab, dive, and tag by Kirt Manwaring.
In comes Kevin Rogers. He's facing Fred McGriff, so you know something bad is going to happen at this point -- not just because it's McGriff, but because Rogers has whiffed McGriff four times in four lifetime tries. Not only that, but Hank Greenwald chose that moment to talk about how once you make McGriff look bad, he has a way of coming back to hurt you. So instead of Rogers striking out McGriff yet again, he gives up a run-scoring single up the middle to make it 5-3.
That was it.
In the ninth, Dave Martinez walked on four pitches with two out, but Mark Carreon evidently misinterpreted the "Tie it up with a homer" sign for an "End the game with a meek ground ball to second" sign, so he did as he thought he was told.
Microcosm: Looking good, fair-sized lead. Good pitching, good offense, good defense. Braves take over in a hurry, chase us closely, then overtake us. McGriff a main spark. Winning run scores on a fluke play. Their bullpen, despite inferior pitchers, shuts us down, largely because our offense is missing key elements. I'm hurt and upset, but not at all surprised.
I don't know whether to be pissed or relieved that I didn't receive a paper this morning. I'm pissed because I have nothing to do at lunchtime but write this, but I'm relieved, because I temporarily don't have to relive that loss. I'm also annoyed because I'm eating these really weird-looking, unappetizing carrots, which are not my favorite vegetable.
We go into St. Louis tonight, but Jim Deshaies gets the start, so kiss that one goodbye. Like Scott Sanderson before him, Deshaies had lost a bunch of games in a row before joining the Giants. The Braves, I think, go to San Diego for a quick series sweep. The Braves will probably clinch the division on my birthday.
One more time: It's just not fair.
It's officially over. Know how I know it's over? Because last night I was thinking, "I hope the Orioles win the East. Maybe they can beat the Braves. No, wait. The White Sox can almost definitely beat the Braves, maybe. Or maybe, with any luck, it'd be a rematch of the 1983 Series if Philly could somehow...." Where are the Giants?
Two games ahead, that's where. They've gone 30-19 since the break, while the Braves have gone 38-13.
I now officially hate, loathe, and despise the Dodgers again. Now, make no mistake, I always have, but I hated, loathed, and despised them just a little less these past few days, hoping they'd prove me wrong and help the Giants out. Wrong. Braves won 8-2 last night. We've got the Cardinals coming in for four, and the Braves are heading to San Diego for four. Well, there's another sweep. We'll be lucky to be tied come Monday.
In high school I was once given a monologue to perform by my drama teacher. It was from an Arthur Miller play, the name of which escapes me. It was semiautobiographical, and to the best of my recollection, the monologue involved the Arthur Miller character berating the unfaithful Marilyn Monroe character. It began, "Good God, could there be more? Can it be worse?" I just never got into the monologue; in fact, I gave up on it and found something else I liked better. I guess this is because at the age of 17, I hadn't yet found a specific misery that kept coming at me and coming at me. This is because I hadn't yet begun obsessing on the Giants.
In those days, of course I was interested in every move the team made. I couldn't listen to every game, or even most games, because I had school. But I never expected much from my team, and they always delivered what I expected -- not much.
I said to Dave last night, "Remember how we used to be years ago? Even in 1984 and '85, when the Giants were horrible, you used to get almost suicidal over a bad loss, and you'd devour the sports pages and news, and I'd say, 'Dave, you've just got to put it into perspective. It's not that important.' And remember how, starting in about 1987, I started doing the same thing? And now it's gone full circle. You've tried hard to forswear, well, not so much the Giants but professional sports in general, tried not to obsess and let it get to you. And I've reached a point where I'm thinking about the Giants right when I wake up, while I'm shaving and showering in the morning, as I go to sleep at night, when I wake up in the middle of the night, when I'm at work, when I'm watching other things on TV -- I mean, all the time. Most of the time, anyway. And my firm belief is this: If we hadn't become a winner, a real winner, in 1987, this wouldn't have happened."
(Here's an example. Just as I began typing the next paragraph -- I'm inserting this one, see -- my boss called me into her office to chat briefly about something she's legitimately pissed off about (not that she was mad at me; she was just venting over some injustice). I couldn't have cared less, even though it directly concerns my job as well. All I wanted to do was get back in here and finish writing today's entry. In fact, I left under the pretext of having to go call the Chronicle, which once again didn't deliver my paper. The truth is, I had called them as soon as I got into work. So, I mean, I just blew off my boss and lied to her because of how I feel about the Giants.)
In 1988 I couldn't have missed more than a couple dozen innings all season. I can remember going down to San Diego to visit Kim's cousins during the summer, and the announcement came down that they had four tickets to sit outside in the San Diego State Amphitheater and listen to the Manhattan Transfer. Now, without trying to be demeaning, let me just say that while I appreciated the tickets, and the evening, and all that, their music isn't my type of music. I don't actively dislike them; I just don't care about what they have to offer. They're just not my taste. And here I was, on the only cold night in the history of San Diego summers, sitting there listening to something about which I gave not shit one. And all I could think about was, "Well, Rick Reuschel should be making his first pitch to Alfredo Griffin about now." Or, "Well, I guess the Dodgers have probably knocked Reuschel out about now."
Dave and I were talking about the concept of earnestly trying to listen to someone else talk about something that was obviously important to them, but being unable to really tune them in -- just not being receptive at that time. He mentioned Stephanie, his fiancée, going to all this trouble, to the point of drawing it out on a napkin in a restaurant, to explain to him how she perceives weeks and months. Now, of course, I have no idea what she was talking about, not having been there, but Dave said, "I was really trying to listen. I was interested in what she had to say. But at that time, I was just not at all receptive. I felt bad about it, because here she was trying to relate something to me that she obviously found very interesting. And it's not that I wasn't interested; I just wasn't prepared to deal with it or understand it at that point."
I suggested finding a time to say, "You know, I really am interested in what you were saying about your perception of weeks and months. I'd love to really have a handle on your point of view. But the day you were telling me about it, I just wasn't into it, for reasons that have nothing to do with you. Just that there will be times, in every relationship, where one person will talk about something that the other person isn't prepared to listen to."
He said, "I did say something like that, and I used as another example The Game." -- Our baseball game. -- "I'd really wanted to show it to her for a long time, and she just sort of wasn't into hearing about it at the time I wanted to show it to her." This was at our place two weekends ago. I felt awkward about it, because she obviously wasn't prepared to understand what we were talking about, and Kim had shut off completely (not that I blame her). Kim views it as something that relates only to Dave and me, and nobody else. (In Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Zaphod Beeblebrox, a humanoid who happens to have two heads, describes an area that each brain has, saying that these two parts relate only to each other and not anything else. That's what Kim's perception of The Game reminds me of, and she has a point.) I mean, Dave and I virtually have our own special language -- full of terminology, basically -- that is incomprehensible to the onlooker.
But the first thing Stephanie said was, "Where's the game board?" "We don't use a game board. We don't need it. We know where the baserunners are, and that's all you'd need a game board for." She didn't really understand anything we tried to explain, and the only thing that registered in her mind was, "Where's the game board." Dave said, "I wanted to say, 'Fuck the game board!'" But it was the same thing as the weeks-and-months scenario: She just wasn't prepared to be receptive. As I expressed it to Dave, she was playing in G and he was playing in F-sharp.
I mean, even while Dave was talking to me -- he had called to commiserate -- about the Giants, and even though this is certainly a subject of great interest to me, I was tuning him out and listening to Hank Greenwald in my ear. And later, as we were talking about the phenomenon itself, that of not being in tune with what the other person's talking about, I once again was miles away, trying to listen to the end of the game to see if maybe the Giants had come back or something. Here I was, tuning out a conversation about tuning out conversations. All I could think about was THE GIANTS THE GIANTS THE GIANTS THE GIANTS.
It's like the George Wendt sketches on Saturday Night Live, where he plays Bears-fan-supreme Bob ("Bab") Swerski. At one point, they do a close-up of Wendt, and you hear his thoughts: "Bearsss... Bearsss... Bearsss... Bearsss...." Then they do a close-up of Chris Farley: "Bearsss... Bearsss... Dit-ka... Bearsss... Dit-ka... Poalish Sassage... Bearsss... Dit-ka...."
This whole mindset has a way of reaching ridiculous proportions.
And here's why Dave and I were commiserating: First, the Braves and Padres had been scoreless in San Diego -- an expression Hank likened to "Sleepless in Seattle" -- and Braves' starter Kent Mercker -- I mean, why's he a starter? -- held them hitless through six. Mark Wohlers came in in the seventh and gave up a hit in the eighth. He wild-pitched the runner to second, then struck out Phil Plantier to end the threat. The game remained scoreless through nine, but in the tenth, Ron Gant took a 2-1 pitch down the cock -- I mean, right down the cock -- but which was called a ball. He then hit Trevor Hoffman's 3-1 pitch -- which would no doubt have been a different pitch if the previous pitch had been called correctly -- over the left-field wall. There was no further scoring in the game.
Meanwhile, Jim Deshaies was busy helping trash our season. He gave up "only" three runs in an inning and two thirds, but he obviously didn't have it.
Our early offensive effort went like this: First inning: Darren Lewis singles, Willie McGee walks, Matt Williams hits into an inning-ending double play. Third inning, down 3-0: We score two runs on errors, one by Ozzie Smith. We load the bases with one out for Barry Bonds -- who hits into an inning-ending double play. Fourth inning: With two on and one out, Jeff Reed, hitting for Dave Burba, who had pitched well for two and a third, hits into an inning-ending double play.
In the fifth, in came Jeff Brantley, whose throwing error -- to third, on a bunt -- let in the Cardinals' fourth run. The fifth scored on a hit. Then Dave called, so I didn't listen as closely to the game. I vaguely noticed "a break in the action," obviously for yet another pitching change. I didn't listen to who it was, but at one point I heard Hank say "Terry Bross." Then immediately I heard him say, "The 2-1 pitch to Zeile... Swung on! Hit high and deep to left field and gone!" Grand slam. (We ended up losing 9-4. I don't know any more details -- no newspaper.)
So I turned off the radio and said to Dave, "You know, Kim could say, 'I've just been to the doctor, and he says I have a lethal dose of Venusian Dog Vomit Rot,' and I have the feeling I'd be thinking, 'Terry Bross!'"
I've given serious thought to not listening to or watching either the Giants or Braves tonight. I feel that our being overtaken is inevitable -- I mean, there's only a one-game margin now. I don't want to hear the Braves tie us in the standings, and I don't want to hear them overtake us tomorrow. I just don't know whether I can take not listening.
Today I was considering not making an entry, because really, what's the point?
Robby Thompson hit a solo shot to dead center field. The Cubs tied it up on a home run by Jose Vizcaino -- his third of the year. Later he drove in a run with a sacrifice fly, and still later the Cubs took a 3-1 lead on a home run by Rick Wilkins. Then Thompson hit another home run, also with no one on, also to dead center field, and it was a ballgame again. Only the Cubs pushed across three runs against Scott Sanderson and Kevin Rogers (by which time I'd turned off the radio and was commiserating with Dave). Two of these scored on a double by Vizcaino. I turned it on briefly to find this out, then turned it off again, hoping to go to sleep and find out today that maybe we won it in the ninth on a home run or something.
Not only did we not win it in the ninth on a home run or something, we went to the trouble of coming within one run before finally caving in. We got 14 hits, and I should mention that we hit into four rally-killing double plays. On one of them, Ted Robinson was almost laughing as he made the call. With Royce Clayton on the move, Kirt Manwaring hit one up the middle that Vizcaino grabbed, stepped on second, and completed the double play. Of course, with Clayton not on the move, that ball would probably have been into center field, because Vizcaino wouldn't have been running over to cover the bag. Oh, well.
Dave said, "Do you realize that we lost our 10-game lead in 50 days? It's amazing, because on any given day, there are four possibilities: we win-they lose; both win; both lose; and we lose-they win. It's as if for the first four games out of five, both teams either win or lose, and on the fifth game, we lose and they win -- every single time."
I said, "It's even scarier than that, considering that we only had an actual 10-game lead for a day, but we held onto a 9-1/2-game lead for far longer, meaning that we lost a 9-1/2-game lead in maybe 35 or 40 days." And now we've lost 11 games in the standings in roughly 44 days.
It's funny -- ish -- but Dave last night was saying that this is affecting his sleep and is what he thinks about all the time. I mean, same here, but I was surprised to hear it from Dave, especially in view of his concerted effort not to let this happen anymore -- and he'd been successful for about two years. It had reached the point where I was almost afraid to discuss baseball with him because I thought he'd blow it off and say he just didn't want to bother with it, that he's changing his life, or whatever.
I experienced, obviously, sympathy for his feelings, and a certain amount of sadness -- looks like the bastards have got him -- but also a certain vague satisfaction on the order of misery loving company. I mean, it's really not fair for me to go through this alone.
I can't even talk with Pat about it most of the time, because he's so upset that he deflects all possible conversation. I don't blame him, largely because I figure he doesn't need to deal with my bad feelings when he's got tons of his own.
Permit me to be infantile for just a moment: It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not fair! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
That should do it.
I'm probably going to write bits and pieces over the next few days as I start to sort out how I feel. Yes, the answer still is "horrible." But you know something? I was talking with Dave about this last night, and I said, "When I woke up this morning I thought, 'This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me.' Then I did something I don't think I'd've done a few years ago. I stopped and said, 'Wait. This didn't happen to me. Also, I've lost loved ones, jobs, friends, opportunities. I almost lost my team. I had a horrific separation from Kim for six months before we finally got back together and decided to get married. I had problems in my marriage which stemmed from how I deal with baseball and the Giants. The Giants not winning the division is pretty awful, but this other stuff? That's worse. A lot worse."
And today, yes, I'm still very angry, bitter, disillusioned, railing against the unfairness of it all, but at the same time, I'm experiencing almost a calm. I mean, three weeks ago I was thinking in terms of what changes the Giants should make for next year -- I'd already accepted that we weren't going to win it. I mean, acceptance isn't a problem. I just don't happen to like the fact that we lost. The divisional title slipped through our fingers like mercury, and nothing anyone can say will dislodge from me the position -- the certain knowledge -- that it's deeply, deeply, deeply unfair.
The reactions of various principals were interesting. Tommy Lasorda gloated, of course, saying that he wanted to get Will Clark back for daring to say how much he wanted to beat the Dodgers and knock them out. I mean, what's wrong with that? Does Lasorda expect that we'd try to roll over for him, that we wouldn't take the opportunity to act as spoilers if possible? Hell, I'm sure the Rockies would love to have beaten the Braves Sunday, but they didn't because they're, well, an awful team, and it was just never gonna happen. If Tommy Lasorda has ever shown any class, it must never have been reported in any San Francisco newspaper. He strikes me as petulant, foolish, immature, and so full of bullshit that you could cover the LA Basin in lettuce. Of course, that's just my entirely correct opinion.
In a brief speech to the assembled fans at San Francisco International Airport the other night, Matt Williams said that Orel Hershiser had been "ragging on" him throughout the game. If he pitches against us next year, Matty said, it's gonna be line drives up the middle. Believe me, the Giants-Dodgers rivalry is alive and well. We're gonna wanna smoke Hershiser, and not just on general principles.
With the Dodgers up by about six runs, Brett Butler evidently asked Will Clark how the team would feel if he, Butler, went after stolen base number 40. Clark said that it wouldn't be a problem, except that we might stick it in his ear next year.
Dave Burba was inconsolable, crying openly in front of teammates and reporters alike. He's the one who came in with a 3-1 deficit and made it 6-1 in the space of three batters, thanks to a solo shot by Mike Piazza (who later homered again) and a two-run shot by Cory Snyder.
You know what's awful? If we'd won Sunday, I feel certain we'd have beaten Atlanta last night. Billy Swift would have kicked John Smoltz's ass. The Braves didn't want to fly here, arrive in the Windy City of the West, play in Candlestick, then fly back across the country to Philly, so they'd have been at a low ebb. Also, Swifty had something to prove, especially as far as Fred McGriff and Dave Justice are concerned. (They're the guys who twice homered back-to-back off Swift.) We'd've won, damn it, and it should be us playing in Philadelphia tomorrow, not the Braves.
The American League playoff start tonight, the National League tomorrow. Too bad I won't be watching. Also, I'm hoping that if Atlanta and Toronto make it again, no one watches. I mean, how can people stand three straight years of the Tomahawk Chop? And that fucking chant? And Ted and Jane pretending to be socially conscious and considerate of the feelings of American Indians by holding their hands flat, rather than sideways, while chopping? And Jimmy and Roslyn Carter in the owner's box? And Jimmy sleeping? Not interested, thank you very much.
Believe me, I'll be rooting, in absentia, for the Phillies, even though I know they won't win. I hope that it's either Phils-White Sox or Blue Jays-Braves -- the latter only because I want to laugh as America tunes the Series out.
I'm feeling more or less okay about things today. I'm still very annoyed that the Giants are nowhere near the postseason -- in fact, today's sports page said word zero about the Giants, filled as it is with articles about the somewhat shocking retirement of Michael Jordan. (Doesn't it figure? Just a few years after I begin to develop my interest in basketball, its greatest-ever player retires. Bummer. Could be worse -- could be Barry Bonds.)
Yesterday a guy at work asked me if I was ready to talk about the Giants' failure to win the division. Well, I'm ready, sure, but not with him. I'll talk with Dave, my sister Deb, my dad, Bill, even my friend Matt, a Pirates fan, who was my best friend as a kid and who's still important to me.
Matt said he was kind of disappointed that the Giants didn't make it. Once it became obvious that Bonds was going to have a monster year, instead of the .220-8-45 year that Matt hoped for, Matt was rooting for the Giants to stay ahead of the Braves, who beat his beloved Pirates in two straight playoffs -- last year's being the most difficult to swallow.
I haven't talked with Pat since the weekend. He probably figures I've been crying my eyes out or something, and that's why I haven't called, but the fact is that I decided to (a) let him mourn alone, unless he actively wants to talk with me about it, and (b) give him at least momentary relief from the Gloomy Gus that he now considers me to be.
I still have my team. We had a great season. That's what I'll keep telling myself. I mean, yeah, my disappointment over the Giants' 1993 finish will probably always stay with me, and for the rest of my life, my response to any Braves fan who taunts me about the Braves having finished on top in 1993 will be on the order of "Bite me," but hey, maybe we will go all the way next year. I mean, 103 wins or no, I still think the Giants have tons of room for improvement.
I haven't written a lot this week for a variety of reasons, but I think the main one is that I've run across something very difficult about writing, which is this: How many ways can I restate the very obvious (i.e., that the Giants didn't win the National League Western Division) and how it makes me feel (i.e., terrible)? Sometimes the disappointment is beyond words. I try to rationalize it by saying, "We'll get 'em next year," but next year I'll have a baby in my arms, perhaps on opening day. I don't see myself having the opportunity to get nearly this involved in future Giants' seasons -- not that it would be a good thing if I did.
There's something about this obsession that I enjoy. I mean, there are the obvious things: the Giants themselves, baseball itself, Giants' victories, going to the 'Stick, talking about baseball and the Giants with whoever would listen. But I get a real charge from a victory snatched from the jaws of defeat, or just a hard-fought win. I love it when we kick the crap out of the opposition, whether it's the Dodgers or the Marlins. This "thing" lets me vent my rage, to a certain extent.
I've said a million times that life is like baseball, not the other way around, but I guess the truth is that baseball is a microcosm. I've also said a million times that all emotions are laid bare on the ballfield. I mean there's love, hate, pain, pleasure, frustration, exultation, relief, anger, and a bunch more. The Giants are Good. The Giants' opposition (especially the Dodgers) is Evil. I guess I need that fundamental belief that Good will triumph over Evil, and that when it doesn't happen -- like, say, last Sunday -- it's because Good is simply biding its time.
On a tape to Dave I once said something like, "The Giants are you. The Giants are me. The Giants are the common man who strives for more than just being common. They're like your child, in that they offer an infinite capacity for heartache as well as an infinite capacity for being forgiven. Those who do not believe are not of the body."
I simply am unable to understand how anyone can root for a team at the Giants' expense. How can anyone be a Dodgers fan? Or love the Braves? Or even the A's across the bay? I mean, I just don't get it, and I used to love the A's. As sure as Dave is about his spiritual beliefs, as dogmatic as he has been at times over the years about the rightness of what he absolutely feels, to the very core of his being, to be true, that's how sure I am about the rightitude of being a Giants' fan. I'll never tell you you'll go to hell for not believing in God the same way as I do, but I'm the first one to believe that you've got a screw loose if you're not a Giants fan.
You Cardinals fans, you Cubs fans, you Twins fans -- I just don't get it. I mean, sure, there's regionalism involved. There's the tradition of rooting for whoever your parents root for, or your friends, or whoever. I understand all the rational elements of fandom, here, including the degree of media exposure. But my feelings tell me this: You're all genuinely misled, especially you Dodgers fans, because you've been sucked in by an image. You don't understand that the Dodgers really do represent all that's caca about people: the hypocrisy, the overall phoniness, the shallowness and superficiality, the front-runner bullshit and fadism, the altogether-too-rampant Hollywood influence. That red, white, and blue uniform is a smokescreen, nothing more. They're trying to tell you, "We're Americana. God has shed His grace on thee, and we're the manifestation of that grace. We're you, from sea to shining sea." That's what they want you to think. It'd be a little closer to the truth if they said, "We're the politicians who run this country. We're the Miss America swimsuit competition. We're blond and bright-eyed, a living 8-by-10 glossy. We're Up With People. We're a powerful emetic." But they're more subtle than that.
Now, again, rationally, I realize how silly this all sounds. I'd very likely consider that for the good of society, the person who said all this to me might be in serious need of just enough electricity passing through their brain to knock out virtually all functions except the ability to drool. I mean, I know this stuff. I just feel that what I said above is true, at least to some degree. Dave, whom I actually consider a fairly lucid and rational human being who should have no forced electro-shock therapy, has, in so many words, and with absolute conviction, referred to the Dodgers as Satan's team. (This was about five years ago, I should point out.) He has espoused the belief -- I can't speak to what he believes about this now, in 1993 -- that Satan is responsible for the Dodgers' success and the Giants' lack thereof over the years.
But I think I take everything more personally than that. Something in me tells me that the Giants' failure to win is an attack on me. I mean, yes, I know the Giants have had nothing to do with me, no matter how hard I've tried to change that situation. I do realize that not one person employed by the San Francisco Giants is aware of my existence, and even if they were, they'd give not shit one about my reaction to the team's wins and losses.
In a recent episode of the new sitcom Frasier, Frasier Crane's father, tired of his sons' making fun of the restaurant to which he'd taken them, finally leaves, disgusted, saying, "You insult the restaurant, you're insulting me." It's almost the same with the Giants and me. An attack on them is an attack on me -- even though I have no more to do with the Giants than Frasier's dad has to do with the restaurant.
It's frustrating that it's all objectively silly. All I can hope for is that having a child will help put things into perspective and help me realize, in the front of my mind, what's really important. I mean, I don't just know, I actively feel, that my loved ones, especially my wife and as-yet-unborn child, are miles up the love ladder from the San Francisco Giants. The loss of even a single loved one -- even a pet -- is enough to depress me hugely. I'm plagued by dreams about loved ones who have gone. I won't be plagued by dreams of the last day of the 1993 baseball season. In my heart, I do know what's important, and I know that it ain't the Giants. I just can't help how I feel.
I'm not going to be weeping at any time over the Giants having come up a game short. As I said before, I almost lost the team, for God's sake. That's something to be horribly upset about (maybe). Not losing a title.
I'm disappointed, angry, and bitter. I feel as though something that is rightfully mine was taken away, never to be returned. Despite the words I've spent today, it really is hard to describe. But I also know that no matter where the Giants finish, no matter how they do in years to come, I will manage to cope and overcome the loss of something that isn't even really mine to lose. I'm going to have a family soon. That's what's real.
I'll always love the Giants -- no matter how hard, no matter how many times they try to kill me, no matter how obviously they don't love me, I'll always love them. But not as much as I love my wife and the small bundle of gunk that will one day be my son or daughter (or both -- who knows?).
I envision the little Pearlman child one day saying, "You love baseball more than me." I've heard my wife say it -- and not always in a teasing sort of way. It hurts like hell. No, I don't love baseball more than my loved ones. Baseball just happens to matter way, way too much. And all I can do is try like hell to change that.
Some kind of interesting developments. First, the Chronicle reported the other day that the Giants' brass isn't busting ass to get a stadium built, even though this was practically a condition of sale. Second, Matt Williams apologized to Orel Hershiser and the Dodgers as a whole for daring to say that the Giants planned to kick their butts all next year. I guess the Dodgers were quite bent out of shape because Williams -- angry, frustrated, and devastated by the club's overall inability to make the playoffs -- took it out on Hershiser and his buddies. (Hershiser, by the way, denies having "ragged" on Williams. Matty took Orel at his word, and now it's all smoothed over. Yeah, right.)
In yesterday's letters to the editor, two guys wrote to say, "It's been a great season. Let's get 'em next year." One guy wrote to say that Dusty Baker did a great job, except for starting Salomon Torres last Sunday. And three assholes, including one from San Dimas (where Dave lives), decided to rub the Giants' and their fans' faces in it. A guy from Brentwood said, "The Giants and their obnoxious fans had been riding the Dodgers for so long that a big fall was inevitable. Now that it has happened, the Giants have proved they are as obnoxious in defeat as they were in triumph. Matt Williams' empty threats that the Dodgers will never win another game against the Giants are fatuous: You should have won last Sunday's game, Matt, when it really counted. You choked in the clutch, pal, and you aren't man enough to cope with it." Said some Foster City goofball, "Aren't these the same Giants fans who wallowed jubilantly in the Dodgers (sic -- you left out the apostrophe, moron) season-ending losses to the Giants in 1982 and '91? Don't blame the Dodgers for 10 walks the Giants pitching staff gave up. And don't blame the Dodgers for those fat pitches to Mike Piazza, Cory Snyder, Piazza again and Raul Mondesi. It was finally payback Sunday for the Dodgers and how sweet it was." The San Dimas bozo said, "Oh, my heart bleeds for the Giants and their fans. First they whine that the Dodgers' fans just don't care, then they cry about the taunts they were forced to endure last Sunday. Horrors."
What are these losers talking about? How were the Giants obnoxious in triumph? Why restrict what the Giants should have done to last Sunday? Telling Williams, via a letter to the editor, that he isn't "man enough to cope with it" doesn't speak well for the "manhood" -- all right, let's use "maturity" and "fairness" instead -- of the letter writer. Not only that, but a team that wins 103 games, by definition, cannot choke. As to the second guy, no one holds the Dodgers responsible for drawing walks and hitting home runs. That's their job, and the job of the Giants is to prevent that. This "payback" stuff, while perhaps real in the minds of the Dodgers (or at least Tommy Lasorda) -- and there's nothing really wrong with that -- is still kind of misguided. People go on about how we knocked them out on the last day of 1982 -- but they knocked us out two days earlier on Rick Monday's grand slam off Fred Breining. (And the logic of this second guy evidently states that we blame Monday for this.) Except inasmuch as Dodgers fans should have no basic human rights, I have no problem with them believing that they've enjoyed revenge. Hell, that's baseball, no matter how wrong it is to be a Dodgers fan. I don't like to hear fans of our enemy going "Nyaah, nyaah, nyaah," but in a way, they've earned it. On the other hand, as Dave pointed out, what about all the times over the years that the Dodgers knocked us out in May?
The third letter doesn't make sense at all. We whine that LA fans "don't care"? Huh? About what? First, every Giants fan with a modicum of brains knows that if it weren't for the Dodgers' front office, there would be no San Francisco Giants. We're able to be grateful on that off-the-field level while still managing to hate the on-field product. Second, why should players on any team be forced to endure taunts from the opposition? It's one thing getting grief from the fans, but you could put yourself in a lot of jeopardy by taunting an opposing player. Now, yes, the Dodgers should have done everything they had to do to win, even if it meant publicly exposing some player's homosexual lifestyle or something, but -- and this is the key -- the tauntees don't have to like it.
Now, look, just because they're wrong doesn't mean it isn't okay for Dodgers fans to go, "Yes! We've knocked those assholes out!" That's fine. That's fair. The traditional rivalry should elicit such a reaction. But many Dodgers fans go to Candlestick looking for fights, and that's inexcusable. They taunt Giants fans from a falsely superior position that comes from the simple and indisputable fact that since the two teams moved West in 1958, the Dodgers have been far more successful. But that position also seems to intimate that smug "We're rooting for the right team" kind of thing that makes me want to puke. While I do indeed feel that the Giants are the right team, smugness is out. But I guess their smugness comes in part from the fact that since the move West, probably four out of every five times anything pro-baseball-oriented is portrayed on TV or in the movies, it has to do with the Dodgers. If TV and the movies say that the Dodgers are The team, then, why, they must be. Right?
The only Dodgers fans I can remotely respect are those who've followed the team since before the move West. They're not media-influenced as to their rooting interests. But these nouveau Dodgerites -- screw 'em. (And don't forget the history of the Dodgers' and their fans' sour-grapes and blame-the-other-guy reactions to being knocked out, or even just to losing certain games. Even our beloved Dusty Baker, after weenie Giants pitcher Alan Ripley shut his Dodgers out on two hits in 1980 or '81, said, "He didn't challenge us!" -- the meaning of which being, "We didn't win because they're weenies.")
Today's Examiner reported Williams' public apology and said that he intends to call both Cory Snyder and Brett Butler, two former teammates and current buddies. Matty was quoted as saying, "I have some good friends on that team, and I wouldn't want to embarrass them or degrade them in any way. He also doesn't plan to watch the playoffs, saying that it's too painful. "For my mental well-being," he was quoted as saying, "it's better just to watch 'Barney' with the kids." Wow. I mean, anybody to whom "Barney" would be less psychologically damaging than the playoffs has got some serious pain.
Another item (both of these reported in Larry Stone's column) says that Twins GM Andy MacPhail said that in his heart he wanted the Giants to win the division, but in his wallet he wanted the Braves to do it "to prove the huge advantage held by the large-revenue clubs and to help force a change in baseball's economic structure." (The quote comes from Stone, not MacPhail.) MacPhail says, "This might have been San Francisco's last shot for a time, because the Giants have terrible payroll problems. Will Clark is a free agent, and they have to pay John Burkett and Billy Swift... and Barry Bonds has that contract." But he wants the Braves and Jays to keep winning to "prove my argument: The industry has finally reached a point where the high-revenue clubs are going to be able to buy success and become dominant, and then the attendance and interest will suffer for all of us. I hope Toronto and Atlanta are right back in the World Series. It will only help the bully pulpit of the lower-revenue teams." He cites the Braves' acquisitions of guys like Greg Maddux and Fred McGriff, as well as Toronto's stretch-drive trades for Tom Candiotti, David Cone, and Rickey Henderson as moves that most teams can't afford to make.
It's all pretty scary, actually, and I have no idea how any purported salary cap or other "economic restructuring" could help.
Wanna hear something nice and galling? The Sporting News, by a vote of 161 to 159, selected Frank Thomas over Barry Bonds as its Player of the Year. Now, I realize this award is meaningless compared to the BBWAA's MVP, but still. I mean, Thomas' numbers (.317-41-128) don't stack up to Bonds' (.336-46-123), and he's brutal on defense. Not only that, but I figured on Ken Griffey Jr. being ahead of Thomas in the MVP vote anyway, so why not in the Player of the Year vote? I find this just amazing.
Equally amazing is that Bobby Cox won TSN's Manager of the Year. I have no idea who finished second, but the idea of any such award not going to Dusty Baker is appalling. I mean, given the team the Braves had even without Fred McGriff, there's no way they shouldn't have won the NL West. Not only that, but consider: We won 103 games. A large part of this was due to making Bill Swift a starter and Rod Beck the closer. (Roger Craig, God love him, might easily have made Swifty the closer and Beck a setup man.) We did this despite the following 14 people spending time on the DL: Robby Thompson, Matt Williams, Will Clark, Willie McGee, Darren Lewis, Kirt Manwaring, Mike Jackson, Trevor Wilson, Bud Black, Dave Martinez, John Patterson, Mike Benjamin, Craig Colbert, and Jeff Reed. (Did I leave anyone out?) Also, Baker made decisions about the lineup that kicked in and made the Giants much stronger (e.g., making Lewis (despite what I've said about his abilities in this regard) the leadoff hitter, then flip-flopping Robby Thompson and Willie McGee to the second and sixth spots, respectively -- these things worked). The Braves had no major injuries, unless you count Greg Olson. Bobby Cox didn't have to make major lineup decisions except for the agonizing one about putting Sid Bream on the bench after the McGriff acquisition. So Dusty's not the Manager of the Year? Puh-leeeze.
The other winners:
I guess these people's peers do the voting. If so, I'm amazed. It seems to show that players, managers, coaches, and off-field personnel have no business being involved in this kind of vote.
The Blue Jays and Phillies are going to the Series. In a way I'm disappointed that the Braves and Jays aren't going to play their second straight, boring World Series, one that might garner horrid ratings. (As Dave put it, he was rooting for that matchup so as to "punish the major leagues.") On the other hand, it was nice to see the Braves go down big-time, especially in a mere six games.
I said earlier that I'd be rooting for the Phils in absentia, but the fact is that I hoped more for this "punishment" series than I did for a good one (such as Phils-Sox). I really have nothing against the Braves' team on the field. I really don't. I mean, they're one hell of an exciting team. Who wouldn't kill for a lineup that starts with Nixon, Blauser, Gant, McGriff, Justice, and Pendleton? I mean, you've got the 1991 MVP batting sixth -- that's how good this lineup is. And let's not even talk about their astoundingly talented starting rotation. Give them a closer like Rod Beck or Randy Myers, or even the slightly eccentric Rob Dibble, and they will not lose a game, ever. This is a great team. But Ted, Jane, the chop, the chant, Skip Caray and the gang -- Ker-barrrfffff. They're the reasons to hate the Braves. So even though the sour-grapes matchup that I wanted didn't come to fruition, I'm nonetheless pleased that there's no tomorrow for Ted et al. The hell with 'em.
Last week's Baseball Weekly named Dusty Baker as the "best" manager in the National League. I don't know that I'd go that far. I mean, he has one year plus 53 Arizona Fall League games under his managerial belt. But clearly he did the best managing job in the National League this year.
I guess all of this means that it should be no surprise that Jim Fregosi was named Manager of the Year by the Associated Press. Granted, he took his team from last place to first. That's awesome. He got great years out of several of his players and good years from most of his others. The Phillies had the best record in baseball for several weeks. But is he really that good?
That's what Phillies fans are asking, now that the Jays have won their second straight World Series. The Phils took a 6-5 lead to the bottom of the ninth. Mitch Williams, who'd been largely responsible for the 15-14 loss in Game 4, came out to nail it down. Instead, he walked Rickey Henderson on four pitches, got Devon White to fly out deep to left, gave up a sharp single to Paul Molitor, and suddenly found himself facing Joe Carter with the Series-winning run on first.
The count went to 2-2, and I said to my brother-in-law Bill, who was watching the game with me (while my sister Karen and Kim -- especially Kim -- wished it would go away), "He'll foul off a couple of pitches and then go deep." After a couple of foul balls, I said, "Here it comes." Carter swung. "And there it goes," said Bill. World Series over, go bye-bye.
Fregosi, when asked why he used Williams, who'd been so brutal, said basically that Williams is the guy he'd gone to all year, and he wasn't going to stop now. He should have stopped.
Now, this in itself doesn't make Fregosi a bad manager. Fregosi isn't a bad manager. Also, I realize that -- in theory -- the various experts who vote on postseason awards have already sent in their ballots before the postseason begins. But Mitch Williams decision or no Mitch Williams decision, there's no way on Planet Earth that Fregosi or Bobby Cox or anybody else should have been named Manager of the Year over Dusty Baker, who simply did an awesome job, especially under the adverse circumstances under which he had to work. (Fregosi's team had a 27-win increase. Baker's had a 31-win increase.)
Also, I was concerned that Lenny Dykstra's three-home-run performance in the Series would influence the NL MVP voting. Again, I realize that the votes are all supposed to have been in. However, I see the pick of Willie Stargell as co-MVP in 1979 as evidence to the contrary. Ditto Kirk Gibson in 1988. If Stargell hadn't starred in the '79 postseason, I'm convinced he'd never have come close to the MVP award. Not that I minded -- Stargell was a great player, and I kind of feel he deserved the honor just for being Willie Stargell -- but it was the first time I wondered if maybe the media had been lying about when the votes were cast. I'm also convinced that without Gibson's dramatic, game-winning, limping, obnoxious home run off Dennis Eckersley in Game 1 of the '88 Series, he wouldn't have been the MVP for the season. There were probably at least half a dozen more deserving candidates. In short, I don't believe that the final votes are really cast before the end of the Series. About the only thing that will make me almost believe that they are would be Barry Bonds getting the award, not Lenny Dykstra.
It would be amazing to me that in a 103-game-winning season, the Giants could be shut out of the postseason awards. I mean, just about everybody has given the Cy Young to Greg Maddux or maybe Tom Glavine, even though Billy Swift is at least as viable a candidate -- clearly more so than Glavine, but maybe not as much as Maddux; it's a tough call.
We're not gonna get Rookie of the Year or anything, largely because Mike Piazza had it sown up in April. (Two straight Rookie awards for the Dodgers is kind of scary.) Fireman of the Year isn't gonna go to Rod Beck, even though he was virtually unhittable for most of the year. (It's gonna go to Bryan Harvey or Randy Myers or somebody -- and not Mitch Williams.)
The paper said we'll probably have four Gold Glovers: Barry Bonds, Matt Williams, Kirt Manwaring, and Robby Thompson. The one I'd be most thrilled for is Thompson, who's deserved the award for years and never, it seems, came close to winning it because of Ryne Sandberg, who kept winning the award based on offense and reputation. Bonds, Williams, and Manwaring definitely deserve recognition. But where's Billy Swift, perhaps the best-fielding pitcher in the league? And where oh where is Darren Lewis? The errorless guy? The amazing catch guy? Who in this league is better? I mean, the guy's better than Brett Butler, who should have won the award at least twice as a member of the Giants, and Andy Van Slyke was hurt much of the year. Who's the competition? Chuck Carr, maybe? Please.
More MVP stuff (and thus more repetition): With a few weeks to go in the season, Barry Bonds, according to the print and broadcast media, had dropped out of the running with his "horrendous" September (during which he kept his batting average consistently around .335 or .340), and that only an awesome final week or two could possibly have helped Bonds merit further consideration. The media had seemed to pick Dykstra, though they cited Fred McGriff, Ron Gant, and Dave Justice as well. (Must I pull out the numbers?)
Again, McGriff was clearly extremely valuable -- but I feel that the Braves, once McGriff was in the lineup, should have coasted to about a 108-victory season, and minimally should have won 100 games without him. Well, I guess that means he was responsible for eight victories. But no one picked the Giants to be anywhere near a pennant race this year, even with Bonds. I figured on about 73 wins, not 103. If Bonds had had "only" as good a season as he did last year, I'm convinced we'd have won about, say, 90 -- maybe 95. I feel that makes Bonds responsible for eight extra victories just by being that much better this year than last year. That doesn't even count the victories he's responsible for just by being on the team, just by helping Matt Williams have a Mike Schmidt year, just by helping pick up the slack left by Will Clark for most of the year. I do realize that Bonds couldn't have been responsible for 103 wins by himself, or anything of the kind, but I feel that his presence genuinely added about 30 games to our win total.
We should have won 73. We won 103. Barry Bonds is the Most Valuable Player of the National League for 1993. Period.
Now the Baseball Writers' Association of America is handing out relevant awards. For some reason, Dusty Baker is looked upon as a favorite, which I think is funny considering how two different bodies have given awards to the two division-winning managers. Lowell Cohn was going on in today's Chronicle about how it would be criminal for Baker not to get the BBWAA award, which evidently is the one that matters. Since I almost never enjoy reading what Cohn writes, and since I fundamentally disagree with so much of his stuff that I read (or, at least, try to avoid reading), I find it disturbing that his position is almost exactly the same as mine on this matter. That's how I know Dusty won't get it. (Gene Lamont won it in the AL.)
Also, Will Clark has filed for free agency. Publicly he's made it clear that he wants to stay here. I'm beginning to feel, however, that he'll go where the money is. I've heard that Baltimore and Texas are interested, and let me tell you, if Will goes, I hope it's to the other league. But I don't want the guy to go at all, no matter how bad he was for much of this season.
He's said, in a roundabout way, that he doesn't need a ridiculously high salary, just "fair market value." Print and electronic media seem to believe that Will's going to go after a Barry Bonds-like contract, but I think that's partly because he's perceived as such a jerk. People think Clark's dumb, arrogant, unapproachable, and foul-tempered -- I cite specifically the Tony Kubek interview from several years ago that ended with, "Gee, Will, you're not such a bad guy after all" (and a Clarkian facial expression that expressed the following: "Bite me"). -- so naturally they expect him to go for the brass ring. However, I don't think he's dumb at all. I don't believe that either he or his agent could possibly be foolish enough to think that Clark rates a huge contract, especially in view of the fact that a almost-certain Hall-of-Fame career has been somewhat derailed by two bad seasons in a row, not to mention that Bonds keeps going around winning MVPs -- little things like that. (As for arrogance, I don't care. I view Clark as supremely confident in his abilities. He does appear somewhat unapproachable and nasty sometimes, but usually such behavior seems to take place after a bad loss, or in Lowell Cohn's columns. It's not that I idealize Clark into being a nice guy or something; I just think that there's probably a fair amount of discrepancy between the face he shows the public -- and the reporters -- and his actual personality -- which may be worse, who knows?)
There are other first basemen out there, such as Andres Galarraga and Rafael Palmeiro. Don't want 'em. Want Will.
Oh, and Jim Deshaies filed for free agency. Oh, noooooooooooooo! Okay, well, while Deshaies is no great loss, the prospects we gave up for him certainly are, and the trade looks even more deeply retarded now than it did at the time.
Dave was very upset with Jim Deshaies going free agent. "We gave up the farm for this geek, and we got nothing in return," he said. "The Braves gave up dick for Fred McGriff. Is this fair?"
Other Giants news concerned Robby Thompson, who also filed for free agency. It's at least as important to keep him as it is to keep Will Clark. Now, sure, neither I nor anyone else expects Robby to hit over .300 again, but I consider him tremendously valuable even if he hits .240. We need to keep him -- and Will -- if we're gonna have a legitimate shot at a divisional title next year. One thing that scares me is that Jody Reed of the Dodgers filed also -- meaning that the Dodgers now need a second baseman, and believe me, if Thompson goes there, I won't even be able to look at him in that uniform.
It's funny, but I'd be far more upset about these two guys leaving than I was about all the "heroes of my youth" leaving, namely Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry, and Bobby Bonds. And losing these guys hurt. I mean, what's a kid to think when he can't even depend on these stout-hearted men to stay put? But Clark and Thompson, neither of whom has reached the Pantheon of Giants' Greats just yet, have really been the heart of this team since they came up in 1986, which is right about when I began to obsess to the extreme degree that we've all come to know and love.
The newspeople keep saying, "Well, it'll be expensive to keep both these guys," but why? Do they expect to sign Tim Belcher or somebody, too? Hell, they signed Barry Bonds to an astronomical contract (unless you compare it to what top draft picks get in the NBA now), and evidently they can afford that. You'd think they could scrape up enough change for Clark and Thompson, without whom the Giants would have been perennial tail-enders since 1984 -- and I firmly believe that.
Oh, well, enough about that. The thought of losing these guys is too depressing.
The final piece of Giants news had to do with the Baseball Writers' Manager of the Year vote. Dusty got it. He's thrilled, I'm thrilled. It does tend to point toward how screwed up things are in baseball when three different National League managers get Manager of the Year awards in the same season, including one, Bobby Cox, who got no first-place votes from the BBWAA. Get your act together, guys.
But before you go around thinking, "Geez, isn't it good enough that his favorite team's manager won Manager of the Year? Does he have to bitch about his guy not winning every possible managerial award?" let me repeat that I'm thrilled. The reason I'm thrilled has to do with the irrational sense of vindication I feel simply by being a Giants fan.
There is a certain wistfulness I feel, however, relating to the fact that from 1986 through 1990, Roger Craig reasonably could have, maybe should have, won the BBWAA award in any or all of those years, but never did. The most obvious are '87 and '89, largely because we won our division both times, but in '86, Craig turned a last-place club into a contender, going from 62-100 to 90-72 -- an even bigger turnaround than Fregosi's Phillies this year. In both '88 and '90, Craig kept Our Boys in the race despite crippling injuries, mostly to the pitching staff. I don't know whether or not to call Craig a great manager, though he's clearly the best we've ever had since the team moved West. (Baker's only managed one year. Whether or not he'll be a better manager than Craig remains to be seen. I mean, if you want to look like a stud manager, make damn sure your boys win 103 games.)
My point is that though Dusty Baker clearly deserves every possible postseason award for managers, much of his team was built by Roger Craig, who is remembered, certainly, but unfairly maligned.
Pretty funny thing: The Associated Press has announced its Player of the Year. It's Barry Bonds. Now, that's not funny in and of itself. It's just that The Sporting News named Frank Thomas as its winner by two points. Look at the vote breakdown for the AP award:
Not mentioned are Fred McGriff, Andres Galarraga, or Juan Gonzalez, who only led the AL in home runs. Also not mentioned are any pitchers, although frankly I have no idea whether the AP has a separate award for pitchers or not.
Greg Maddux won the NL Cy Young, which doesn't surprise me, but I am disappointed. Most likely he won it because he was going great when Billy Swift went bad. They had a difference of about a third of a run in ERA (advantage Maddux) and two wins (advantage Swift). That third of a run works out to seven or eight runs over the course of the season. However, the vote wasn't even close, and since I don't have the numbers in front of me, I don't know whether it should have been close. Maddux drew 22 of the 28 first-place votes, and 119 points overall. Swift had 61 points, Tom Glavine 49, and John Burkett 9. It is somewhat buoying, though, that two San Francisco Giants' pitchers were in the top four. Rod Beck should have been up there as well.
Next Tuesday I expect Frank Thomas to be named the AL MVP -- I know I'm not exactly going out on a limb here -- and Wednesday I hope it'll be Barry Bonds. I mean, it should be. Obviously.
Meanwhile, Bob Quinn and the gang are working hard with Will Clark's and Robby Thompson's people, trying to get them signed. Jeff Moorad, Clark's agent, says that while he's confident Clark will stay put, it'll still have to be at a "competitive" price. (Chicago, Baltimore, and Texas want him as well.) At least we've signed Todd Benzinger. Yay.
Thompson? I don't know. The paper says that Quinn is talking trade with the Yankees, perhaps Mike Jackson (!) for a middle infielder (or more, I hope) such as Mike Gallego, Randy Velarde (ecch), or Andy Stankiewicz (whose acquisition would make the Giants the ugliest team in the league overnight). This tells me he's not really confident about keeping Robby, which'll hurt like hell.
One scary thing about that is that Jody Reed has filed for free agency, meaning that the Dodgers have no second baseman. Robby going there would make me sick to my stomach, even more than Brett Butler going there.
They name the National League MVP today, and most everybody expects it to be Barry Bonds. I figure it probably will be, but you can't bank on it.
I said in the last entry that Bob Quinn was "working hard with Will Clark's and Robby Thompson's people," but the fact is, apparently, that there has been no contact with the Thompson camp. As a result, Robby's "miffed," according to the radio report, and coincidentally, "the Dodgers are looking for a second baseman."
Evidently Thompson looks to become the second-highest-paid second baseman in the league. Frankly, that's how it should have been for years. He's been the second-best second baseman for a long time, and last year he was the best, period. But we're gonna lose him.
We're also gonna lose Will, who's talking with the Rangers tomorrow, with the Orioles apparently next in line.
I don't understand the Giants' habit of blowing Thompson off, which is what they always seem to do. It's like they think, "Aw, hell, he's a nice guy. He won't make waves." Gimme a break. The boy seems soft-spoken, but he has a hell of an ego. He knows how good he is, and thinks he's even a little bit better. He wants to be stroked just as much as Clark, and he, like all Giants fans, know that he's the key cog on this team, Bonds notwithstanding. Lose Robby, lose the division.
Barry Bonds is indeed the NL MVP, receiving 24 of 28 first-place votes. He is followed, in order, by Lenny Dykstra, Dave Justice, Fred McGriff, Ron Gant, and Matt Williams. Other Giants receiving votes are Rod Beck, Robby Thompson, and John Burkett.
In an attempt to sustain my pattern of finding negative things to say when something good happens, I can't believe Williams finished sixth. Third, maybe, but not sixth. Not only that, but Billy Swift, who finished second in the Cy, received no MVP votes at all. Amazing.
This stuff doesn't really ruffle my feathers much, however. What does is that the Dodgers are indeed courting Thompson, who's justifiably feeling ignored by the Giants. I'm absolutely convinced he'll sign with LA, which is a travesty and shows how awful major league baseball has become in terms of labor relations and the mercenary mentality. I believe Thompson would sign with the Dodgers as a direct slap in the face to the Giants, but the people he'd hurt are Giants fans. The players and executives really don't understand the depth of Giants fans' hatred for everything Dodger-oriented. Even if they understand that this hatred exists, they certainly don't understand why, and they definitely don't understand the level of feelings of betrayal such a move by Thompson would engender.
Bob Quinn, who clearly is trying to rebuild the 1990 Reds, has talked with -- or hopes to talk with -- free agents Bip Roberts and Tim Belcher. When I first heard this, I thought, "Yeah, good, I've been hoping he'd talk with Roberts, make him our leadoff hitter and look into putting him into right field." Then I said to myself, "No, he'd make him our leadoff hitter and second baseman." Wrong.
Also, the paper said the other day that the Giants might look to dump Trevor Wilson's salary -- how high can it be? -- which shows that, among other things, Quinn absolutely wants to dismantle the team Al Rosen built and had five straight winning records with.
Another strange set of circumstances: The Giants released Dave Righetti, apparently at his request. This doesn't bother me in itself. But they've replaced him by signing Rich Monteleone, a free-agent pitcher, late of the Yankees. I'm sure he's one of Quinn's boys.
It just amazes me. I mean, with the Yankees, Quinn didn't build much of a team. He had World Champions in 1990, but little success otherwise with the Reds. Why does he think his boys are that much better than Rosen's boys? It's like he's decidedly placing his mark on the team in indelible ink: Jeff Reed (Reds), Todd Benzinger (Reds), Tim Layana (Yanks and Reds), Gino Minutelli (Reds), Dave Martinez (Reds), Scott Sanderson (Yankees)... I'm sure I've left out someone. And now we hear things about Chris Sabo, Roberts, and Belcher (Reds), as well as Randy Velarde, Andy Stankiewicz, and Mike Gallego (Yankees), and let's not even talk about Monteleone. Without question, I don't like the direction this team is taking.
Not only that, but you'd think they'd listen to Barry Bonds, who was a two-time MVP when this team signed him. He said early on that he hopes the new management keeps this team intact, that he came here to play with guys like Clark, Thompson, and Williams. Yesterday, after winning the award yet again (and becoming the eighth three-timer in history), he reiterated his feelings. You're paying the man forty-some million dollars, guys. Why not listen to him? He practically owns the team.
Turns out that while the Rangers and Orioles are offering Will Clark something like $27.5 million over five years, the Giants' offer has been three years, less than $15 million -- in other words, very little more than he's getting now. Plus, the other two teams are courting Clark big-time, no doubt providing copious "entertainment" in the process.
Not only that, but the Giants are offering Robby Thompson a three-year deal for between $11 million and $12 million, but Robby wants a four-year deal. Bob Quinn says, "No way we'll make that mistake. Gee, I love Robby and all, but we got screwed on Dave Righetti and Bud Black, and these guys are gonna cost us $4.5 million next year." So Robby and the Giants fans are reamed? Please! And, of course, the Dodgers are getting Robby "entertained" constantly.
I mean, what the hell is it with Quinn? I used to think this guy was sharp, but now I really wonder. How sharp is it to rebuild a team that won 103 games? How sharp is it to bring in your boys from other teams when the ones on your current team have been not only successful but have given the fans a great deal of satisfaction? The simple fact is that -- inasmuch as anyone really should earn zillions of dollars -- for what they've given the Giants and their fans for eight years, Robby and Will deserve what they're asking for, which is not unreasonable. I mean, Clark, once called the best hitter in the game, is neither through nor necessarily past his prime. Neither is Robby. These guys still have plenty of time. But Quinn will always think he knows best. Personally, I think he doesn't like Clark or Thompson, though only God knows why. Bip Roberts isn't the answer, at least not at second base, and J.R. Phillips isn't the answer, period.
Get your act together, Bob!
Four relatively small bits of Giants news. First, Mark Carreon signed to a two-year contract. I almost wish it had been a one-year deal, because despite a .327 season, Carreon is still pretty marginal, and I always feel that if a marginal player has a good year, you may as well try to trade up. Second, we waived Craig Colbert, which doesn't really bother me that much except that I kind of like Colbert. I don't know why. Maybe it's because he's one of those blue-collar guys who plays hard and occasionally comes through despite a lack of talent. (Extreme examples of this include Bob Brenly and Mike Aldrete.) Third, we purchased the contract of John Patterson from Phoenix, after having outrighted him there, meaning that he had to clear waivers in the first place.
My dad called yesterday around 11, saying that the Giants had scheduled a press conference for sometime in the afternoon. "I bet they're gonna announce that they've signed Will Clark," he said. "I hope you're right," I said.
So I called KNBR to find out the time of the conference, which turned out to be 2 o'clock. The guy didn't know what it would be about, but he said he didn't think it would have anything to do with Will Clark.
So I waited on tenterhooks (whatever those are) until 1:55, when ESPN announced on the radio that the Giants had signed Mark Portugal. Unlike probably 99.9 percent of Giants fans around the country, my heart sank. I hoped maybe it wouldn't be true, but KNBR confirmed it shortly after 2 o'clock. It's a three-year deal, with an option on a fourth, for a rumored $11-$12 million.
Goodbye, Will.
KNBR's Bruce Macgowan, grasping at the straw that broke the camel's back as it tried to pass through the eye of the needle found in the haystack where the straw came from in the first place, said that maybe this would give Clark further incentive to stay in that it shows that the Giants are seriously committed to winning if they sign a pitcher like Portugal. Dunno, Bruce.
First, yes, Portugal went 18-4 this year with a 2.77 ERA. Great year. Career year. Best year he's ever gonna have. He's 31 -- Pete Franklin yesterday said he was 35, moments after the announcement, in which Portugal was distinctly described as being 31 -- and has built an entire career around success against the Giants (11-3, 2.21 lifetime).
I called Dave last night and said, "One word: Markportugal." Immediately he went, "Oh, no. Don't tell me we signed this leak."
He likens this signing to the Deshaies trade in that we'll have to give up a major draft choice (or two) to the Astros, just the way we had to cough up the farm to get a mediocre month of Deshaies' services. And Dave's got a point.
Bob Quinn insists that the latest offer for Clark is a good one. The paper reports that the first offer was roughly $14 million for three years, and that the next offer, once Quinn saw that Texas and Baltimore were offering $25 million to $27.5 million for five years, was upgraded to an amazing $14 for three years. I mean, the guy evidently never budged. Peter MacGowan wants Clark to stay (even though some other owners don't). I want Clark to stay. Clark, no doubt, wants Clark to stay. But Quinn, who no doubt wants to grab Hal Morris or somebody -- another one of Quinn's boys, whom he went to the effort to develop in New York and trade for in Cincinnati -- doesn't seem to want Clark to stay.
I can only hope that in a month or so I'll be waxing rhapsodic about what a great GM Quinn is after he's managed to sign Clark and keep his team together, but right now, ol' Bobbo's not high on my list.
I can also only hope that if Quinn does screw up and blow off Clark that he manages to swing a trade for a kick-ass player to bat third and play either right field or first base (say, Larry Walker), but it's Clark I want to keep (though I wouldn't mind picking up Walker too.)
The Franchise has left the franchise. Texas Rangers, five years, $30 million. (Actually, $26.5 million, but some of it's going to be deferred so that it works out to $30 mil.)
The Chronicle, of course, resorted to the by-now trite headline, "The Thrill Is Gone." How do I feel? Shocked. Hurt. Angry. Appalled. Not Surprised. Not at all.
Slept badly because my head was filled, largely with anger at both Will Clark and Bob Quinn, who said last night, on Ralph Barbieri's show (which was hosted by Ted Robinson), that sure, it would "behoove" the Giants to look at the available free agent first basemen (Andres Galarraga, Rafael Palmeiro (there's a chuckle; I mean, he asked for $32 mil from Texas), and Eddie Murray), but he feels he's got some fine first basemen already under contract. Yecch. Quinn really, really believes -- or seems to, anyway -- that Will's shoes can be filled by a combination of:
I suppose he also believes that one of these guys can be our number-three hitter as well.
Talked with Dave both last night and the night before (when he had called requesting a "postmortem" on the Clark deal). He's at least as upset and disillusioned as I am. "As much as I try not to let it get to me," he said, "It does." I think I can apply the same thing to my dad, who, when he said he believed that Clark would stay with the Giants, might have been whistling in the dark. He's given the impression for a long time that he doesn't let this stuff bother him, but he was right there with me at Rinconada Park on Father's Day, when the Giants came back, with a flurry of multiple-run homers (including one by Will), and beat the Astros in Houston. Like me, he was listening very closely to Hank et al. describe the action, and we traded a few statements, predictions, and swear words. It mattered to him whether or not we won. This is the kind of thing that makes me think he cares a great deal about the Giants in general, and that Clark's leaving would bother him too.
In fact, tomorrow (since it's Thanksgiving) I expect him to talk with me about it and say something like, "Well, son, Clark went to the highest bidder, pure and simple." I expect him to rationalize the whole thing -- "Clark's gone downhill the last couple of years -- and try to tell me not to be too disappointed about it. I expect him to say, "Well, I keep telling you that these guys know what they're doing. They're in the business, we're not. You've got to expect that either Quinn has something up his sleeve, or he really does have legitimate reason to figure on guys like Benzinger, Carreon, Phillips, and Martinez." That kind of thing.
Hell, I know he'd just be trying to make me feel better. But you know what would really restore my faith a little? If he'd just say, "Geez, that really bothers me. It really leaves a huge hole in the lineup. I wish he'd been offered a five-year deal by the Giants." That kind of thing. Dave is mostly pissed at Clark for not taking the huge sum of money offered by the team that nurtured him through their system and employed him for eight seasons at the top level. I mean, yes, he (Dave, definitely not Will) and I both think, "What the hell's the difference between $15 million and $30 million?" My boss says there's plenty of difference to people who already have that kind of money. Well, isn't that a rather tiny percentage of the population? If you have $15 million, you're inconceivably rich. If you have $30 million, you're inconceivably rich. No difference between being inconceivably rich and being inconceivably rich.
I hate free agency. I understand that players should theoretically have the right to go wherever they please whenever their contract is up, and I realize that they should be able to sell their services to the highest bidder. Good for them -- heck, regular people have these rights, too. But baseball players are in a very special position. They're in the public eye, and it's far different from being in a movie or something. Nobody's gonna kick and scream if (say this were the 1940s or something, when actors were under contract to studios) Bob Hope decides he's leaving Paramount to get more money from Fox or something.
I realize that people identify with actors. This is awfully obvious. But I think people identify with athletes more. Lots of hearts have been broken by Will Clark (and this kind of thing happens every year, of course).
Dave said something about the same kinds of bitter, anguished things being said about Barry Bonds last year, when he signed with the Giants, but my feeling is that Bonds had made it clear for far too long that he wanted out anyway, so the fans, feeling dumped on, were probably happy to see him go (and less happy to see him outperform his previous MVP seasons this year).
I don't really know what more to say about this now.
Will Clark appeared on Ralph Barbieri's show earlier this month for a kind of farewell interview. As near as I can tell, Clark said, essentially, that the difference between signing with the Giants and not signing with the Giants was a four-year contract offer rather than a three-year offer. Personally, I think that's hooey. I think he had no particular loyalty for the current front office (which last week lost investor and senior general partner Walter Shorenstein, one of the most instrumental people in keeping the Giants in San Francisco) because there was no Bob Lurie and no Al Rosen anymore.
The best part of the interview was when, as Clark started to make a point, Barbieri, as he always does, started to interrupt. Clark said, "Ralph, let me finish." Ralph retreated, tail between legs. A nice moment.
Meanwhile, we still have a hole in the third spot of the lineup, a hole you could drive a truck through. Barry Bonds doesn't want to hit third, so it seems to be left up to someone like Todd Benzinger. Puh-leeze.
One happy guy is Matt Williams, who -- and there's a certain irony here -- just signed a five-year deal worth about $31 million -- just slightly better than Clark's deal. I never thought I'd see the day when Matt Williams would make more than Will Clark.
The Giants are getting new uniforms in 1994. I don't see anything wrong with what they're wearing now, but the decision has been made to go to the 1960s look, with "San Francisco" on their road uniforms and "Giants" on the home uniforms, in what Dave calls "that alien script." This all means, of course, that I'll have to stock up on new Giants shirts, which I can ill afford. I can only hope the hats will stay black.
Announcer news: Barry Tompkins is out. Darn. I really wanted to hear "running track" instead of "warning track" 980 more times, and I really longed to hear him describe a hard-running outfielder as being "on his bike" seventy million more times. The down side of his leaving is that his replacement is Duane Kuiper, whose delivery is boring enough to make you weep. Also, the one time I heard Kipe do play-by-play, he wasn't merely boring; he was horrific. Rick Leach hit one of his two home runs. (This is 1990.) Kuiper described it by saying that that ball was "outta heeeeeeeeeeeeere" -- which doesn't look so bad in print, I know, but you had to hear it. The "heeeeeeeeeeeeere" was delivered in a sort of high-throated growl, similar to the way a six-year-old makes those annoying rumbling sounds meant to represent either a tank crushing everything in its path or an "action figure" threatening a bad guy. Ludicrous.
Hank Greenwald, evidently, will work only radio again, but not with musical partners, as he had to all last season. ("Guest" announcers ranged from Bob Costas (terrific) to Enos Cabell (bad enough to sap your will to live. Guys like Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, and Vida Blue dropped by occasionally -- Vida once said "Damn!" in disappointment over a play that didn't go the Giants' way, but at least he's entertaining. On the other hand, why Gary Matthews?) This time it'll be either Ted Robinson (But didn't I hear that Hank doesn't much like Ted?) or Mike Krukow. I love Krukow's personality, and his knowledge for the game on the field really comes through, but he's so undisciplined as a broadcaster that he's sometimes difficult to listen to. However, I like him a hell of a lot better than Tompkins.
On the TV side, it'll be primarily Robinson and, when he deigns to be there, Joe Morgan (who could please me to no end by leaving). When Morgan is mercifully absent, it'll be Krukow. No word about how Ron Fairly's doing.
I really don't have much more to say about the Giants in 1993, partly because there's only 12 more hours left in the year. I'm disappointed in the final standings; I'd have been fine with a division championship and a playoff loss -- or at least it'd have felt better than what actually happened. I'm kind of bugged that the Players' Association is balking at the playoff money distribution, which may prevent the proposed realignment (meaning yet another NL West championship for the Braves). On the other hand, it'll hardly mean anything to win your division anymore, now that a second-place team can go all the way.
I'm not optimistic about the signing of Mark Portugal, but I'm livid over Will Clark. Still. (In fact, his leaving was one of the reasons Shorenstein took a hike. He said that if he were running the show, Clark would still be a Giant. Of course, while most fans are probably saying, "Gee, I wish Shorenstein were the boss," Peter Macgowan is probably saying, "Well, Walt, that's precisely why you're not the boss.")
I'm concerned about the hole in our lineup. (And we don't really have a leadoff hitter, either, but that's another concern.) I'm concerned about our starting pitching. (I mean, how good is Salomon Torres really? Can we expect anything like what Bill Swift and John Burkett gave us for much of the season? Will Trevor Wilson get his shit together?) I'm concerned about rising ticket prices in a ballpark that most people hate, and I'm convinced we'll never see a new, nicer ballpark.
I'm also concerned about missing Opening Day, but that's less of a bothersome thing because that's roughly when our son's supposed to be born. Our default name is Adam Joseph (named for my grandfather, Joe, and for, oh, I don't know, Adam West, I guess), but we're open to decent suggestions. We just found out it's a boy. I'd have been happy either way, but Kim definitely wanted a girl, so she was in a bit of a funk. I just have this vision, though, that in about 10 years, little Adam (or whoever) will say, "Mom, why did Dad watch the Giants on his miniature TV at my piano recital? What the hell's his problem?"
Copyright ©1993 by Gregg Pearlman
Last updated 7/24/96