We left the Dodgers in something of a state of flux in my previous story. They ended the first half of their season two games behind the Giants, tied for third place out of five teams, which was something of a miracle and somewhat predetermined. Our loss record was greater than our wins. As I mentioned in my previous scenario about “Dem Bums,” we were becoming more competitive with each game, and actually began to resemble something akin to a baseball team. I had developed a batting lineup that entailed putting those kids likely to make contact between those players likely to get walked. It helped, but we still made too many mistakes.
The kids could be down by 10 runs in the late innings and would start a chant, “It ain’t over till it’s over,” straight out of Yogi Berra (or was that Yogi Bear). I thought about mentioning, “It ain’t over till that fat lady sings,” but decided that would be politically incorrect. Besides, I think that has more to do with Opera than baseball! Although, come to think of it, some of the Moms were rather Wagnerian and resembled the Valkyries. If you have no idea as to what I’m talking about, you’ll have to look it up on the web, because it’s too much to try to explain here. I digress!
When “Doc” would go to the batter’s box, he began to squat down so low that there was no real strike zone. The ball was either in the dirt or over his head, so he had a high probability of getting on base. When he got on base, the fun would really begin. If somebody hit the ball he would run until he was either out or would score. Please don’t get the impression that I coached “Doc” into this batting, base-running technique. I wouldn’t stoop to such a low and unsavory, unsportsmanlike practice. (Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.) I asked him why he started doing that, and his response was he “was reducing the strike zone by an order of magnitude.”
Now – that scared the hell out me! He said that he had watched a TV program about a manager in the majors who had actually hired a midget, and would put him in when he needed somebody on base. This is true! The guy’s name was Bill Veeck, and he did it in the early 50s. Eventually the league banned the use of “little people” in the major leagues. “Doc” was a real thinker! He would still get some hacks in, but that was a hopeless cause.
Our fielding acumen however, left a lot to be desired. To offset this inconsistency, we really did not have an outfield because they were brought to within 20 feet of the infield grass. I modified that only when I got information from the scouting reports that so-and-so could hit. We still needed to work with the outfielders, because anything hit in the air to them was usually an unmitigated disaster. But not all of the time. One of our limited-talent outfielders actually caught a fly ball. He was so happy, he ran all the way in to the pitcher’s mound and handed him the ball. He got a standing ovation.
You have to remember that these were young kids, and to them a hardball was a dangerous thing, and in fact, could cause bodily harm. Getting hit by a batted ball or a pitch is not pleasant, especially if it’s in the mouth or face. A majority of the kids were really afraid of the pitcher and would bail out of the batter’s box, even if the ball wasn’t close. I really couldn’t blame them because the majority of pitchers, including our own, had little or no control. They did get to go to first base if they took one for the team, however, I doubt that they thought it was worth the pain.
So, next on the agenda was to teach them how to get out of the way, and in such a fashion that they did not increase the probability that they were going to get nailed by the pitch. For whatever reason, most of them would turn into the ball, rather than turning away from the ball. In some instances, they would just freeze. This was bad, because many of the kids began showing a degree of fear, specifically those kids that were playing organized hardball for the first time. It was pretty easy to detect, because they were bailing out early, or were literally reluctant to bat. As Martha Stewart would say, “Not a good thing,” but I don’t think she played much baseball, even while she did her time in the low-risk, boutique clink.
So I asked JJ Junior, who is pretty good pitcher, to throw the ball at me so I could demonstrate how to get out of the way. After he plunked me three times, smiling after each of my painful grunts, I really began thinking that this was a bad idea. JJ Junior was getting even because I made him a catcher. I was able to coach each would-be “major league” prospect on how to bailout or duck, or just plain fall on the ground to avoid being nailed. I put each batter at the plate with the catchers vest on, and went to the pitching mound and told them I was going throw at them. I did – but not hard, and they got out of the way. Sweet smell of success!
When “Doc” climbed into the catchers vest, he literally disappeared, waddled to the plate, and I suddenly realized that there was not much of his body visible to throw at. All I could see was this little black mound, a bat, and a helmet that was five sizes too large. He actually dove out of the way a couple times, and had a big grin on his face. I think the kid was a masochist. The other rule I had was no swearing in the dugout. These kids knew some really choice words. It was a good thing none of the Moms were around to watch this mean man throwing baseballs at their little darlings.
There was this kid that his teammates call “Scooter,” because he could run like a deer. He was even faster on two legs. That’s a joke! I don’t know why people say “run like deer,” because when they do I envision this person on all fours hopping and weaving all over the place. Anyway, the problem with Scooter was getting him to stop on those little white things called bags. One time, he scored all the way from first base on a grounder hit back to the pitcher. But frankly, that’s how we got most of our runs. There were others of these speed demons that did the same thing, until we made it clear what little white bags were for.
“Scooter” had a rabbit’s foot attached to the back of his hat, and one day I asked him what it was for. He answered, “Good luck!” Feeling somewhat whimsical, I looked at him and said something to the effect that I wasn’t sure that it was working, because look what happened to the rabbit, and he had four of them. He just looked back at me and said, “Well, I guess there’s a three-legged rabbit out there somewhere.” He and “Doc” were good friends and now I understood why. “Doc” was a realist and “Scooter” was an optimist. “Scooter” did become a good ballplayer.
As the second half of the season rolled on, we were actually winning more games than we were losing. The deviant and nontraditional batting order was actually working quite well. Our infield started to tighten up and our pitching surprisingly was walking fewer batters. We had beaten the Giants once, and had one more game to play against them. This was crucial, because the Giants once again were leading in the second half with only five games to go. The way the league worked is if you won both halves, you were the champs. So, to have a shot at being champs, the pressure was on us to beat the Giants again.
The league had another rule that I didn’t know about, as I hadn’t bothered to read the rulebook. Our diminutive league was considered the minors, junior to the players in the age bracket of 10 to 12, which were considered the majors, and was something of an oxymoron. My little Dodgers were good enough at this point to beat some of the teams in the majors. This rule – simply put – said that if a team in the majors lost players (leaving fewer than 12 players on their roster), they could draft a 10 year old from one of the teams in the minors. Guess what! The day before the Giants game, I got a call and was told that I had lost one of my best players. I was really bummed, but that’s showbiz.
The team didn’t really understand how that could happen, and thought it was unfair. I had to remind them, for the umpteenth time, of my rule about swearing in the dugout. I was concerned that this event would cause a letdown. Just the reverse happened. We played the Giants and beat them hands down. All we had to do now was win our four remaining games, assuming that the Giants would win their remaining games, and we would be champs of the second half by virtue of the fact that we had beaten the Giants twice. We won three of the final four, but so did the Giants.
The last crucial game was to be played on a Saturday, following the Giants final game. All of the team showed up to root for the Giants’ opposition, but to no avail. The Giants won easily. Now it was my “Bums” turn for final glory and the victory parade that would follow. The adrenaline level was out of sight and their confidence was vibrant. Although we were missing one of our better hitters and a real solid infielder, we held together quite well, and we approached the seventh inning leading by two runs.
We were the visiting team, so all we had to do was get three outs in the seventh. I had saved one of my better pitchers for the last three innings. We got two quick outs, but then gave up a walk and a base hit. The next kid coming to the plate was identified by my scouts is not being a real good hitter. We got two strikes on him in a hurry. The next pitch he hit was a bomb, way out to center field, and two runs scored – tying the game as he rounded third to come in with an inside-the-park home run. There was no trophy for second place.
“Ah! There is no joy in Mudville tonight,” or as they say “Game, Set and Match.” Sorry, wrong sport. Some guy that was clearly a Giants parent kept yelling, “Giants win the pennant. The Giants win the pennant.” He had to be from the Bronx. The kids took it pretty well, certainly better than some of the parents and unequivocally better than their coach. “Doc” and “Scooter” were standing in the front of the dugout, tears streaming down their eyes and yelling “Wait’ll next year.” You gotta love those two. If I had seen the movie “Bad News Bears,” I would’ve opened up the beer and passed it out. But I hadn’t seen the movie.
The Minors, like Majors, had the managers select the All-Star team at the end of the season, and they would go on to play other teams in other franchises. A total of 15 players were chosen, and the Dodgers, “Dem Bums,” had five All-Star players. The Giants had two.
That was my only year with the Dodgers. My job responsibilities had changed, and I was traveling a great deal more and really could not take the management of the “Daunting Dodgers.” I was able to get to a few of their games the next year, but it wasn’t the same. JJ Junior and Tom stayed with the team. “Doc” and “Scooter” had been prophetic. The Dodgers won it all, but “Scooter” had broken his arm and “Doc” had moved. JJ Junior developed some lifelong friendships during his tenure with the Dodgers. I stayed in touch with many of the players. They would come to the house to go swimming or whatever. I eventually managed a team in the Majors, and some of old Dodgers fell under my fantastic baseball tutelage once again. Right!! But that’s another story.
Moral of the story – If you see a three legged rabbit, then you’ll know “Scooter” had it right.
J.J. Addingnuttin 