Day Four
The day began with the awarding of the gold and brown ropes. I received another gold rope nomination for yesterday's win, which was really gratifying. Of course I was so excited about getting to pitch and being able to deliver under pressure felt great.
Stearns announced the various brown rope nominations, including one for a guy who was almost picked off second base on an infield fly rule play. It was in our game, and truth be told, the ump missed the call and the guy was out by a full step.
The brown rope went to Pat Zachry for pulling a hamstring -- while bowling. Zachry was nowhere to be found, so Stearns awarded the rope in absentia, which he pronounced "absent-ee-a," sending the room into a giggling frenzy. "Hey," said Stearns, "when I went to Colorado" (where he was on football scholarship) "I majored in eligibility."
Then Zachry walked in, and Stearns presented him with his noose. Zachry replied in his trademark west Texas deputy dog drawl without missing a beat, "I always wanted to be hung."
We went into the day 2-2 - respectable, but not great. In game one, Larry Gross pitched his heart out against a team that was 4-0, and which was frankly stacked with great players. We all battled like hell, and the turning point happened when the ump called a ball down the line fair, when it was clearly foul. Our manager Duffy Dyer, who was a, er, silent presence for much of the week, did a very good impersonation of Earl Weaver, the Baltimore Orioles manager who famously bedeviled umpires by, how shall I put it, pointedly disagreeing with their decision making skills.
So Duffy complained colorfully to the umpire, who for some reason neglected to throw him out of the game, and we took that as a sign that he really wanted us to win, which is what we proceeded to do. I went 2 for 3 with a double to right center and an RBI single, and we won something like 16-10.
We played against the team coached by Tim Bogar, who is one of the class acts in baseball. I was playing third, and he was coaching third, and as the game progressed, I'd ask questions about the game. Where should I play? What should I be thinking in this situation? Things like that. Some coaches take the game really seriously, and a few might be less than totally forthcoming, but not Bogie. He was really helpful, and it made the game a lot of fun. He's a AA manager for Akron in the Indians organization, and the talk is that he's on track to manage in the majors before long.
So our win over Bogie’s team put us into the playoff game to determine the third place finisher. Third in a field of ten is very respectable, since there was a pretty high level of play this week. (This doesn't mean by any stretch of the imagination that players without a lot of experience can't contribute or have the time of their lives - more on that later.)
Duffy handed me the ball for the afternoon game. One of the trainers rubbed my arm out during lunch and I was feeling as well as I had in days. Those guys are miracle workers, I swear.
So I took the mound feeling confident that I could pitch effectively, even if I was running out of gas in general. After three days of solid baseball and five games, we were all completely wiped out. Nobody’s legs were working properly, most of our arms were really sore, and there were all sorts of bizarre and funky injuries – one guy had his toenail lanced, for example. Goldstein and his bad hammy had him crab running like some kind of creature out of Star Wars – funny to watch, and inspiring.
In the first inning, I threw about five pitches to get three quick outs, backed up by three terrific plays in the field. I think we scored two in our half of the inning, so I was staked to a nice little lead.
The second inning was the same. It might have taken ten pitches to work through the next three batters. We added a few more runs.
By the time I sat down in the dugout after the third, I asked my catcher John Brooks a question and he answered it, then said, “Oh I forgot, I’m not supposed to talk to you.” I had a perfect game going. Dugout etiquette dictates that if a pitcher has a no-hitter going, he is to be ignored. Perhaps it's superstition, or maybe it's to keep him focused on pitching, but I was having a ball being ignored.
The fourth was more of the same – I kept throwing sliders low and away, kept throwing strikes, and we were playing defense like crazy men. In the first four innings, shortstop Chris Berlingo came across to the second base side on a ball through the box that I couldn’t handle. Vic Bellavia stabbed a liner at second. I came off the mound to field a little dribbler off the plate and made a strong throw to first to get the runner. Ed Pecinka tracked down some well hit balls to left.
This was getting interesting.
I took the mound in the fifth and Lenny Randle, that class clown, decided he wanted to umpire, and gave the ump a rest and dug in behind the catcher. For some reason, I agreed to this insanity and proceeded throw three straight balls. When he called the forth pitch, which was close enough, a ball, I said enough and kicked him off the field.
The perfect game was gone, and I don't remember exactly how it went, but with first and second, I threw away a comebacker and the shutout was gone, but I did manage to get out of the inning without giving up any hits. The no-no was intact.
In the bottom of the fifth darkness was setting in, and when the other team's pitcher was hit with a line drive, the coaches called the game on account of darkness and I ended up with the weirdest of no-hitters - shortened by darkness and not a shoutout, but technically a no-hitter.
Heck, I'll take it.
My final numbers - 8 for 16 for a .500 batting average, 2-0 pitching record, with 12 innings pitched, 10 strikeouts, and one earned run for a .083 ERA. What an amazing week. We went 4-2, finished third, and really came together as a team.
Showing posts with label Duffy Dyer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Duffy Dyer. Show all posts
Monday, January 22, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Day Two - The Glider Gives Up His Nickname
Oh man, am I fried.
That was a very long and exhausting day, and it was a roller coaster. But I’m happy to report that all’s well that ends well – at least so far.
The first real day of camp starts with the morning meeting at 8:30.
Commissioner John Stearns goes over the rules and describes the awards that are handed out on a daily basis. For example, each day, someone is awarded the “gold rope” for outstanding performance, and someone receives the ignominious “brown rope” for boneheadedness, and people can do very dumb things in a baseball game.
John Stearns shows off the coveted "gold rope" at the morning meeting as Joe Pignatano looks on.
As Stearns put it, “Each morning, campers will be singled out for praise and ridicule, so be ready.” Baseball players are a caring and sensitive bunch.
Then the clubhouse man Jack Brenner helpfully demonstrated the “laundry loop”, which the clubhouse staff use to keep track of everyone’s laundry. In a nutshell, you’re supposed to clip all your laundry on this handy dandy loop that has your locker number on it, and every morning, like magic, your laundry is delivered fresh and clean to your locker. They also somehow manage to get these hideously muddy, clay-ey, grass stained jerseys sparkling white. I honestly don’t know how they do it, although it wouldn’t surprise me if they use chemicals that will make us all sterile.
Anyway, Jack clearly enjoys his work, because he demonstrates the laundry loop principle with extraordinary gusto. Given that I have a feeling there is at best 75% compliance, I assume Jack to be a patient and generous man.
Jack Brenner Triumphantly Displays the Proper Laundry Loop Technique as Stearns Looks on
Once we were indoctrinated in the various rules and rituals of life in baseball, we headed off to drills in four stations – infield, outfield, pitching and batting practice. The coaches wandered the fields, assessing the talent in advance of the closed door draft held at lunch.
So we’re all running around like a bunch of idiots trying to impress the coaches. After thinking about this, I realized that the best strategy would be to play really badly in practice so other good players would be drafted ahead of you. But the fact is that the same kind of competitive spirit that would possess a person to drop a pile of dough for a week of baseball also means that it’s really tough to undersell one’s own talents, such as they are, or aren’t.
At the center of the practice fields at the Mets training compound is this great big tower, and for much of the morning our fantasy camp league commissioner John Stearns would pace the battlements of the tower, kind of like the commandant of a prison camp. My guess is that he really likes it up there. (By the way, unless I’m the only person in America who has failed to figure out how to use You Tube, I shot a little video of Stearns throwing batting practice – priceless. I’ll try to post it soon.)
So Stearns is yelling stuff with his bullhorn up on the tower, and we’re busting our butts trying to get coaches to notice us, like wallflowers at the prom.
After drills and lunch, the coaches held their draft.
We all come here to have fun, but we also come to win. And everyone wants to get on a good team with good coaches and win this thing. So the draft is very important, and guys started getting really edgy toward the end of lunch. A lot of time went by, and the coaches still hadn’t emerged from their draft, and we all sat around, waiting for the puff of white smoke over the Vatican to signify that the teams had been selected.
I was really hoping I’d be back on Felix’s team. Or maybe I’d get with Steve (Hendu) Henderson, who went up to my daughter last time and said, “Are you little Brownie?” “Yes,” she beamed. “Your daddy can play.” Now that was cool.
Well, I was picked by Duffy Dyer, who caught for the Mets in the early seventies. The rest of his coaching staff includes the indecipherable but energetic Willie Montanez, whose excruciatingly slow home run trot was a thing to behold, and The Glider, Ed Charles, the third baseman of the Miracle Mets team of ’69, who sat at our dinner table the night before.
Duffy Dyer is, how shall I put it, taciturn. He will never be hired as Walmart greeter, but fortunately, he doesn't need the work. He currently manages the Detroit Tigers’ AA affiliate, so he knows his baseball, and continues to make a living at it. And it's clear that he wants to win, and that losing makes him rather cross.
The first game didn’t go well at all. As I’ve written, I’ve been really eager to pitch, but I started at third, which is a tough position to play. Lotta very hard balls hit at you, and a really long throw, and we all know I’ve got a bit of Mackey Sasser going on.
I played okay, going 2 for 3, making a few decent plays and a few lousy ones, but we got shelled – 11-2 or something like that. Duffy was displeased.
Game two started marginally better (although I still didn’t get to pitch) – we had a 2-1 lead through three innings, but I made a few bad plays at third and I was beginning to wonder if trying to recreate my perfect first fantasy camp experience was a dumb idea.
Then, late in the game, the other team had the bases loaded with two outs, and we were watching our 5-2 lead potentially slip away. Their best hitter was up, and he had just hit a long bomb to left that barely went foul. Then he hit a screamer to my left - I stabbed it, spun around, and raced to third for the force. End of rally. Ed Charles, The Glider, then said the words that I’ll take to my grave – “I’m done being The Glider, Brownie, now you’re The Glider. That kind of play is why I come here.”
I mean, Ed Charles gave me his nickname. The really nice thing about baseball is that you can wipe out a day’s worth of infamy with one play that takes all of ten seconds, and which happens entirely by instinct and reaction. We went on to win 7-2, and all of a sudden things were looking up.
Injury report – in his first at bat, one player, who brought his wife and kids down from New York, pulled up lame with a very bad hammy, and could possibly be out for the camp. Another guy, on the same team, did some kind of circus move at home plate trying to elude a tag, and smashed his elbow into the catcher’s helmet. Hard to say whether he’ll be able to play any more. I suspect the trainer’s room will look like a M*A*S*H unit tomorrow morning, given the stories I heard.
That was a very long and exhausting day, and it was a roller coaster. But I’m happy to report that all’s well that ends well – at least so far.
The first real day of camp starts with the morning meeting at 8:30.
Commissioner John Stearns goes over the rules and describes the awards that are handed out on a daily basis. For example, each day, someone is awarded the “gold rope” for outstanding performance, and someone receives the ignominious “brown rope” for boneheadedness, and people can do very dumb things in a baseball game.
John Stearns shows off the coveted "gold rope" at the morning meeting as Joe Pignatano looks on.
As Stearns put it, “Each morning, campers will be singled out for praise and ridicule, so be ready.” Baseball players are a caring and sensitive bunch.
Then the clubhouse man Jack Brenner helpfully demonstrated the “laundry loop”, which the clubhouse staff use to keep track of everyone’s laundry. In a nutshell, you’re supposed to clip all your laundry on this handy dandy loop that has your locker number on it, and every morning, like magic, your laundry is delivered fresh and clean to your locker. They also somehow manage to get these hideously muddy, clay-ey, grass stained jerseys sparkling white. I honestly don’t know how they do it, although it wouldn’t surprise me if they use chemicals that will make us all sterile.
Anyway, Jack clearly enjoys his work, because he demonstrates the laundry loop principle with extraordinary gusto. Given that I have a feeling there is at best 75% compliance, I assume Jack to be a patient and generous man.
Jack Brenner Triumphantly Displays the Proper Laundry Loop Technique as Stearns Looks on
Once we were indoctrinated in the various rules and rituals of life in baseball, we headed off to drills in four stations – infield, outfield, pitching and batting practice. The coaches wandered the fields, assessing the talent in advance of the closed door draft held at lunch.
So we’re all running around like a bunch of idiots trying to impress the coaches. After thinking about this, I realized that the best strategy would be to play really badly in practice so other good players would be drafted ahead of you. But the fact is that the same kind of competitive spirit that would possess a person to drop a pile of dough for a week of baseball also means that it’s really tough to undersell one’s own talents, such as they are, or aren’t.
At the center of the practice fields at the Mets training compound is this great big tower, and for much of the morning our fantasy camp league commissioner John Stearns would pace the battlements of the tower, kind of like the commandant of a prison camp. My guess is that he really likes it up there. (By the way, unless I’m the only person in America who has failed to figure out how to use You Tube, I shot a little video of Stearns throwing batting practice – priceless. I’ll try to post it soon.)
So Stearns is yelling stuff with his bullhorn up on the tower, and we’re busting our butts trying to get coaches to notice us, like wallflowers at the prom.
After drills and lunch, the coaches held their draft.
We all come here to have fun, but we also come to win. And everyone wants to get on a good team with good coaches and win this thing. So the draft is very important, and guys started getting really edgy toward the end of lunch. A lot of time went by, and the coaches still hadn’t emerged from their draft, and we all sat around, waiting for the puff of white smoke over the Vatican to signify that the teams had been selected.
I was really hoping I’d be back on Felix’s team. Or maybe I’d get with Steve (Hendu) Henderson, who went up to my daughter last time and said, “Are you little Brownie?” “Yes,” she beamed. “Your daddy can play.” Now that was cool.
Well, I was picked by Duffy Dyer, who caught for the Mets in the early seventies. The rest of his coaching staff includes the indecipherable but energetic Willie Montanez, whose excruciatingly slow home run trot was a thing to behold, and The Glider, Ed Charles, the third baseman of the Miracle Mets team of ’69, who sat at our dinner table the night before.
Duffy Dyer is, how shall I put it, taciturn. He will never be hired as Walmart greeter, but fortunately, he doesn't need the work. He currently manages the Detroit Tigers’ AA affiliate, so he knows his baseball, and continues to make a living at it. And it's clear that he wants to win, and that losing makes him rather cross.
The first game didn’t go well at all. As I’ve written, I’ve been really eager to pitch, but I started at third, which is a tough position to play. Lotta very hard balls hit at you, and a really long throw, and we all know I’ve got a bit of Mackey Sasser going on.
I played okay, going 2 for 3, making a few decent plays and a few lousy ones, but we got shelled – 11-2 or something like that. Duffy was displeased.
Game two started marginally better (although I still didn’t get to pitch) – we had a 2-1 lead through three innings, but I made a few bad plays at third and I was beginning to wonder if trying to recreate my perfect first fantasy camp experience was a dumb idea.
Then, late in the game, the other team had the bases loaded with two outs, and we were watching our 5-2 lead potentially slip away. Their best hitter was up, and he had just hit a long bomb to left that barely went foul. Then he hit a screamer to my left - I stabbed it, spun around, and raced to third for the force. End of rally. Ed Charles, The Glider, then said the words that I’ll take to my grave – “I’m done being The Glider, Brownie, now you’re The Glider. That kind of play is why I come here.”
I mean, Ed Charles gave me his nickname. The really nice thing about baseball is that you can wipe out a day’s worth of infamy with one play that takes all of ten seconds, and which happens entirely by instinct and reaction. We went on to win 7-2, and all of a sudden things were looking up.
Injury report – in his first at bat, one player, who brought his wife and kids down from New York, pulled up lame with a very bad hammy, and could possibly be out for the camp. Another guy, on the same team, did some kind of circus move at home plate trying to elude a tag, and smashed his elbow into the catcher’s helmet. Hard to say whether he’ll be able to play any more. I suspect the trainer’s room will look like a M*A*S*H unit tomorrow morning, given the stories I heard.
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