La Russa, still looking sour, paces forward and back and sideways in the parameters of his foxhole. His habits have become superstitions and his superstitions have become habits. He glances every now and then at the lineup sheet. He takes the little cheat sheets out of his back pocket and puts them back, takes them out and puts them back. He's searching for a spark now, however tiny, to get a fire going, Paul Richards's advice resting on his shoulder: Make something happen.
So he tries to sneak a steal, an unlikely moment to try it with the cleanup hitter at bat and Pujols, no speedster, on first. But the unlikelihood of the situation makes him try it. Zambrano can be quick to the plate when he's in the mood, but he gets slow—about 1.5 seconds—when he's not concerned about the runner on first. He doesn't seem particularly worried about Pujols's going anywhere; he's loosing a high, mighty leg kick that speeds up his throw but slows down his overall delivery. He's focused on the batter, so La Russa makes his move. With a dozen pairs of eyes always on him, deconstructing his every gesture, the sign to steal does not come directly from him. Instead, he communicates it to someone else in the dugout, who in turn communicates it to Pujols. Edmonds himself does not know that the steal is on, because the batter can sometimes inadvertently tip something. He swings away as Pujols goes. He fouls the pitch off, and La Russa takes the steal off after that because the element of surprise, the best thing going for his ploy, has evaporated. After Edmonds hits an easy tapper back to the pitcher to end the third inning, La Russa's conviction only strengthens that a run will be a rarity tonight. Zambrano is pitching well with nice rhythm. He's thrown fifty pitches, hardly a taxing amount, and he's gotten first-pitch strikes on nine of the thirteen batters he's faced. The Cardinals have responded with three singles, and nobody has made it past second.
Morris moves easily through the fourth. Five pitches dispense with Alou, Simon, and Ramirez.
Zambrano handles his half of the fourth in thirteen pitches.
Morris takes ten pitches to put away Gonzalez and Bako and Zambrano in the top of the fifth. He's retired nine in a row. With the game now more than half complete, he's thrown a remarkably economical forty-eight pitches. But he's still behind 2–0, and La Russa thinks about pinch-hitting for him here in the bottom of the fifth because there's no way of knowing how much he has left or when that ankle might give way. But how he retired the side in order in the top of the fifth tells La Russa something, so Morris leads off the bottom of the inning. He fouls the first pitch toward the third-base side. He steps out of the box, takes a breath, steps back in. Zambrano comes with a nasty sinker low and away.
Morris reaches for it and clips it down the right-field line into the corner. Again he'll have to run like hell on his bad ankle, and it's agonizing to watch. He makes it around first with a noticeable limp, and his pace slackens as he nears second, catching a slight break when the ball caroms into the corner and Sosa has to root around for it. That saves him from having to slide, which might just wreck his ankle altogether.
Robinson, up next, has a simple task. With no outs, he needs to advance the runner to third. La Russa has his players work on this maneuver religiously during batting practice. Robinson's options have been clearly delineated. He can either try to pull the ball into right, as that placement, far from third base, gives Morris the best chance to advance. Or he can bunt down the first-base line for the same reason.
A smart pitcher like Zambrano might know what Robinson's up to and sink the ball away, making it more difficult for him to pull it to right field. But this simplifies the hitter's task, as now he need only choose between:
Taking the pitch.
Bunting toward first base.
But Robinson settles on a third choice when Zambrano wisely throws a sinker away. Robinson tries to pull it to right, even though doing so flouts the laws of physics.
He hits it to left field, short left field, the very worst place to put the ball if you want to advance the runner from second. Alou comes in from left to make the easy catch. Morris remains at second. La Russa seethes in the dugout. Robinson has failed to apply the lessons of Baseball 101, and his relationship with his manager, which really couldn't go lower, has now gone lower. Few things infuriate La Russa more than the modern player's steadfast refusal to play the game right. It irks him all the more as a reflection on his own managerial abilities; he can imagine a baseball man in the stands turning his head in disgust as he watches a play like that and saying to himself, This is simply bad baseball, a basic move-the-runner-over play that doesn't come out close to right.
Hart is up with one out and goes down swinging on four straight sinkers from Zambrano. Where once there was a runner on second with no outs, there is now a runner on second with two outs.
Pujols is up and, with first base open, Zambrano pitches around him for the walk. Edmonds walks as well and the bases are loaded for Rolen. It's the best scoring opportunity the team has had all day, and the fans' chorus rises to its feet in a pleading swell, making it clear that this is it. The game's karma will be determined right here.
In the dugout, the knotted cliques draw tighter, except for the hermit J.D. Drew, who sits alone on the stairs at one end of the dugout, staring blankly from the familiar detachment of the disabled list. The dugout is quiet, perhaps because the players feel the same queasy expectation that the fans do.
Zambrano grips the ball behind his back, then shifts it to his glove for one final readjustment of fingers on seams. Rolen comes to the plate and performs the same ritual he performs before every pitch, gently touching his bat to the border of dirt just outside of the plate and then the center of the plate itself and then the inside border, an expectant magician warming up his wand. In an obvious RBI situation like this, La Russa preaches aggressiveness—take a swing at the first good pitch—and Rolon embraces the dogma zealously.
Zambrano throws a sinker inside and low. Rolen swings. He launches a foul toward the seats past the dugout on the first-base side. He watches as it hangs. Players pop out of the Cards' dugout like a collective jack-in-the-box—Perez and Palmeiro and Williams and Tomko and Haren—all saying the same thing with their outstretched necks: How far will it carry?
Simon runs from first to make a play. The ball is definitely headed into the seats past first base, a row back, maybe a row and a half. He's already earned his keep today when he fell to earth to get Morris by a step. Now he has to bend and gyrate and stick his glove into a morass of goopy hands and see whether he can pull something out. He dips his clam-digger-sized glove into the goop. For a moment, it's buried, submerged. Then he scoops it out of the muck to see what it contains.
He has the ball. The inning's over, and the karma has declared itself:
1 2 3 4 5 R H E
CUBS 1 0 1 0 0 2 3 0
CARDS 0 0 0 0 0 0 5 0
Eight men left on base through five. Robinson so deep in the doghouse for not advancing the runner that La Russa turns to the third-base coach Oquendo and snaps without charity: "If that son of a bitch starts another game this year, I'll kiss your ass. "
15. Three Nights in August
I
MORRIS RETIRES the side in order in the sixth, the final pitch a sweet 12-to-6 curve that Sosa misses by so much, even the Arch smiles. He has now retired twelve in a row, no Cubs batter reaching base since Zambrano got that cookie in the third. He has thrown only sixty-one pitches.
But the game continues to play wicked mischief, the primary motivation to make Morris run on that gimpy ankle as much as possible. He comes to the plate in the bottom half of the sixth, with Edgar Renteria on first and two outs. This seems like the place for La Russa to bring in the lefty Palmeiro to pinch-hit, as Morris has done more on the mound than anybody had a right to expect. La Russa further forecasts that possibility by having Cal Eldred already warming up to take the seventh.
But La Russa is juggling the variables here and looking ahead to the ninth. Palmeiro is the only left-handed bat on the bench, and La Russa needs to save him
for the ninth, on the assumption that Dusty Baker will inevitably give the ball to his right-handed closer, Borowski. So Palmeiro stays put for now. The other option would be pinch-hitting for Morris with a righty to go against the righty Zambrano. But the bottom line in La Russa's mind is that Morris has the best chance of anyone on the staff of getting three outs in the seventh because of the way he is pitching.
So he lets Morris hit with the two outs, even though there is a man on. Given what he has already been through on the basepaths tonight, simple human compassion begs that Morris quietly pop up on the first pitch or simply strike out. Please, don't run any more.
Zambrano throws a sinker on the inside corner for 0 and 1 as Morris doesn't swing. He comes in with a sinker on the next pitch. It's a fat pitch, almost dead center on the plate. Morris pops it foul to the first base, and now he's in the 0-and-2 trough.
Baker calls for a pitchout on the next pitch. It's an effective move even if nothing is on, as it has a tendency to shut down an opponent's running game. Baker has also seen La Russa in action for more than twenty years. He even played for him briefly in Oakland. He knows that La Russa has a thieving heart behind that Mount Rushmore façade. He's already tried it once before in a less likely situation than this. Renteria at first is a good base stealer. He is capable of going at any time. If he makes it, he's in scoring position. If he doesn't, it's really no bad thing. It ends the inning, thereby preventing Morris from having to finish the at-bat and risk any more agony to his ankle. He can go out and pitch the seventh, which will definitely be his last inning. Assuming that he gets through it, La Russa can then pinch-hit for him in the bottom of the inning, with the world fresh and uncomplicated and three outs available.
Renteria stays put: 1 and 2. Zambrano throws a slider that viciously slides outside. Morris gets the tiniest sliver of it to foul it off: still 1 and 2.
Zambrano comes with a sinker to the other side of the plate. Morris taps a slow roller to the left side of the infield, slow enough that here we go again. Baseball has produced yet another seemingly impossible moment, nothing quite like it in all the vast statistical annals that could fill the Atlantic and the Pacific: a pitcher with a bad ankle, barely able to run, comes to bat three times and puts the ball in play three times with the game's potential outcome on the line three times.
Morris's ankle basically gives out on him, causing him to slip as he leaves the batter's box. He's going as fast as he can, but the ankle is killing him, and everybody in Busch can virtually feel his pain every time he lands on it as he makes his choppy run down the line. Zambrano fields the ball on one hop. He has plenty of time to make the throw. But he takes a little bit off it. As Morris chugs closer and closer to the bag, the ball bounces in front of Simon at first. Can he handle it?
He can't. Morris is safe at first.
Robinson comes up, with Renteria now on third and Morris on first and with two outs. Robinson takes the first pitch for a strike. It's a sinker that doesn't come close to sinking, so it's down the pipe. La Russa mouths obscenities from the dugout, because Haven't we been through this before, Kerry, haven't we? HAVEN'T WE!!!! IN AN RBI SITUATION, YOU MUST SWING AT THE FIRST GOOD PITCH!!
The ball is right on the plate. It's right down the middle. It's an urban garden in the wasteland of garbage that a good pitcher like Zambrano relies on. So it's a fait accompli—another wasted scoring chance, ten men now left on base with only nine chances left—because Robinson won't get a better pitch than that.
He doesn't. The next pitch is a sinker away. Its location is devilish, but Robinson swings and slaps it down the left field line for a double.
Renteria scores to close the gap to 2–1. Morris winces his way around second and heads for third. The dugout, so tongue-tied all night, finally expresses itself. The separate cliques of coaches and pitchers and position players momentarily dissolve. A line forms to greet Renteria, as if he's been away on an epic journey, with the usual assortment of fist kisses and helmet smacks and butt pats.
But the joy is short-lived; there's trouble at third. Morris managed to make it to the bag without sliding, but he arrived in a noticeable limp. La Russa runs out to see whether he's seriously injured. So does Barry Weinberg. La Russa takes his glasses off.
"You don't look too good. You're hobbling. How sore is it?"
"Pitching is the part that hurts me the least. The running hurts much more."
Morris gives La Russa enough reassurance to leave him in there. But as La Russa runs back to the dugout, he's fretting, the system of pulleys and levers pumping away. He let Morris bat because he wanted him to pitch the seventh, but now he has to face the consequences of Morris as a base runner. If there's a wild pitch, Morris will not only have to break for home on that ankle but also slide. He could put in a pinch runner, but if he doesn't give Morris the seventh, the game could slip away, because he's pitching so well. But, realistically, how much does Morris have left?
Hart grounds out to end the inning, which alleviates the wild-pitch worry. Morris trots gingerly back to the dugout, gets his glove, and heads back to the field. Now La Russa can focus on worrying about how much his starter has left. With one out in the top of the seventh, he gives up a single to Simon and walks Ramirez.
Duncan runs out to the mound to review the MapQuest against the next batter, Gonzalez: how he has a tendency to sit on breaking balls late in the game. La Russa reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his cheat sheets, and finds a little relief: Gonzalez is 0 for 11 against Morris coming into the game. With a ground out and fly out in his two previous at-bats, he's now 0 for 13. It's a perfect matchup. He works Gonzalez into a 0–2 deficit on two pitches, the second the best curve ball he has thrown all night.
Pitch no. 3: Gonzalez is sitting on a fastball. He gets a fastball and fouls it straight back, an indication that he missed pulverizing it by an inch. Still 0 and 2.
Pitch no. 4: A sinker low and away. Gonzalez lifts it foul to the right side. Still 0 and 2.
Pitch no. 5: A curve inside and high for a ball. It suggests that Morris is tired: It's nowhere near where it was supposed to go. A band of sweat has formed on his cheekbone. It's still sultry hot, the mighty river pushing out cookie tins of humid heat. His ankle has gotten a workout that no one could have cooked up, worse than any reality show. Morris simply wants to get Gonzalez out here, finish him off: The last thing he needs right now is this cat-and-mouse torment. He steps off the mound, then hauls himself back on those spindly legs.
Pitch no. 6: Another curve. Foul behind home plate. Still 1 and 2.
Pitch no. 7: A sinker inside. Another foul. Still 1 and 2.
Morris is exhausted now. He knows it. La Russa knows it. The dugout knows it. Everybody knows it.
Pitch no. 8: A sinker on the inside of the plate. Gonzalez hits it fair on the ground. It's a shot. He got to it. It's also right at Rolen, who doesn't have to move as he makes the throw to Hart at second. Who makes the throw to first. A double play to end the inning.
Morris is done for the night after this. With the score 2–1, he may still end up the losing pitcher, and he won't even have a chance to get the win, unless the Cardinals mount an immediate rally. The agate in the box score the next day will show that he gave up four hits in seven innings, an outstanding quality start. On the batting side, he will be listed as 1 for 3 with a double. No statistic will show what he did on the basepaths, the war he waged with his ankle with every step he took. If the Cardinals lose, the focus won't be on Morris's performance at all but on the Cubs' finally conquering the jinx of Busch by taking two out of three. His heroism tonight will evaporate.
Working the bottom of the seventh, Zambrano jams Pujols on a sinker to induce an easy ground out to third, then strikes out Edmonds in a fricassee of forkball and fastball and curve ball and finishing sinker. The three and four hitters in the Cardinals' lineup have just gone down without defiance, and Zambrano looks as sharp as he has all night. It brings up Rolen, who is hitless not only tonight but also in
the entire series. His back hurts. His neck hurts. His whole body hurts. He needs a day off. He's chasing high fastballs. He hasn't hit a home run in more than two weeks.
But he hits one now into the right-field seats: 2–2.
II
STEVE KLINE comes in to relieve in the top of the eighth. The fans go crazy at the sight of him, his hurdy-gurdy style on the mound with all those tics and jerks, one step away from hyperventilating into a heap or body slamming the home plate umpire because he didn't give him the corner. He's a left-handed reliever who went to the University of West Virginia, so he's profoundly crazy, but that's normal for a left-handed reliever. He is never dressed before the start of a game, not even his jock strap, on some occasions. He likes walking around the clubhouse in the buff, then stretching out on a couch behind Chad Blair, offering largely irrelevant commentary as the Secret Weapon watches the game on his little monitor and keeps the pitching chart, doing six things at once and keeping his equilibrium. Kline apparently thinks of the clubhouse as a nude beach; it's his way of staying loose, not letting nerves overcome him, something to preoccupy him for a couple of hours anyway, as his life has no real meaning until the late innings.
The fans love Kline for his lack of pretense. He loves the fans back, in that regard a throwback to a different era in which players soaked up the whole atmosphere of it all like sun worshippers, or at least pinched themselves before and after each game as a reminder that what they did for a living would never be confused with work.
Kids particularly like Kline. They edge the front row of the stands before games like starving refugees, yelling his name as if they have some special relationship, even though they've never met him—Steve! Steve! Over here! Kliner! Kliner! Over here! He returns the favor by signing the balls and the pictures and the baseball cards that pour out of their bottomless pockets like rabbits out of a hat. Then he lets them smell the peak of his hat, the smudgy stinky smelly odiferous hat filled with rosin and sweat and horsehide and leather that Kline insists on wearing the entire season. The kids crinkle up their noses when they smell it, but they also close their eyes when they smell it, because they are kids and therefore savvy enough to know that they are taking in the scent of something pure regardless of its reek.
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