The Futility Infielder

The same archaeological dig into my old bedroom desk which netted me autographs from the 1986 Cactus League, brought me remembrances of another spring past. I found a long-lost envelope of photos from the 1989 Grapefruit League, when I saw four straight Dodger games at Vero Beach with my family. The world was a sunny place that spring -- I was a freshman at Brown University, and the Dodgers were fresh off their improbable World Championship. Aside from the fact that I was nearly failing Engineering 4, anything seemed possible. I even managed to live down oversleeping my flight to Florida (caught out of position, thanks to my girlfriend at the time), though I got endless shit for that.

Too cool for school, I didn't buy a scorecard or keep any notes about the games I saw, in which the Dodgers played the Expos, the Mets, the Yankees and one other team I can't recall. But seeing these photos brings back some memories, so I thought I'd put together a little exhibit. Click on each link for a photo in a new window:

• Kirk Gibson was the reigning NL MVP who brought his dirt-eating style over to the Dodgers from the Detroit Tigers. Felled by a hamstring injury during the playoffs, he came off the bench to pinch-hit that famous homer in Game One of the Series. Alas, Gibson was headed for an injury-marred campaign, .213 with 9 homers in 71 games.

• Eddie Murray was the new man on the scene, signed as a free agent after twelve years in Baltimore. He had a disappointing year as well, .247 with 20 homers -- the first time in his major league career that he fell below .277.

• Fernando Valenzuela was on the comeback trail. Suffering through a shoulder injury in 1988, Valenzuela had gone 5-8 with a 4.24 ERA. He pitched only two games after July, none in the postseason. He made it through the entire season in 1989, tossing nearly 200 innings, but he went 10-13 with a 3.43 ERA.

• Rick Dempsey was a gritty catcher who I always liked as an Oriole, and even moreso when he joined the Dodgers as Mike Scioscia's backup. After a fine 1988 (.251/.338/.455 with 7 homers in 167 AB), Dempsey slumped in 1989 to a .179 average. I always expected he'd become a big-league manager, and I'm surprised he hasn't done so yet.

• Dodger coach Manny Mota, the team's former pinch-hitting specialist, was popular with the Vero Beach fans for grand enterance every day -- on a bicycle. Fourteen years later, he's still at it.

• Manager Tommy Lasorda, with a second World Championship under his belt, was even more full of himself that spring. Even managers need to practice their craft in spring training.

• The Mets' Darryl Strawberry was still quite the superstar, and coming off of a 39-homer, 101-RBI season. His 1989 would be a disappointment (was something in the Vero Beach water?) hitting only .225 with 29 homers and 77 RBI. But Strawberry enjoyed two more highly productive years after that, one with the Mets and one with the Dodgers, before his career went into a tailspin.

The 1989 Dodgers turned out to be a lackluster team, finishing fourth in the NL West at 77-83. It was the age-old story for the Dodgers: good pitching (a 2.95 ERA, tops in the league), lousy hitting (only 554 runs, 3.46 per game, last in the league). Orel Hershiser, who keyed the Dodger championship run with 59 consecutive scoreless innings and postseason heroics, had another fine season with a 2.31 ERA, but poor run support held his record to 15-15. Gibson was terrible, Murray was atypically lackluster, and the rest of the lineup that had been so ridiculed the October before played down to its potential. Can somebody please find Mike Marshall and beat the snot out of him for being so lousy?

Photos aside, I have two vivid memories from that spring training that, alas, have no mementos attached. Before one of the ballgames, I happened to cross paths with Vin Scully, the great Dodger announcer. Thinking quickly, I borrowed a pen from a bystander and got his autograph -- but I've never been able to turn up that piece of paper. And at the final game against the Yankees, a non-roster outfielder named Mike Griffin got four hits and received a warm ovation from the crowd. Griffin never made the majors, and I always wondered what happened to him.

I unearthed a few more items in my big dig, the best of them being a baseball autographed by Tom Seaver, an 1983 All-Star Game program and a scorebook -- a C.S. Peterson Scoremaster, bought for $0.50 at the same time my current one was purchased -- in which I'd scored games from 1982-1983, including an '82 Series game and the '82 All-Star Game. Back in those days I kept score only for the team I was rooting for, leaving behind a rather imperfect account. The scorebook still has plenty of room for new games, so I dragged it back to New York City.

The other great item I found was a scrap of paper containing my Little League stats for 1982, the one year I played (I wasted most of my Little League career playing goalie on a soccer field). I was a member of the Phillies of the Wasatch Heights League in Salt Lake City, coached by the father of one of my classmates, and populated by two of his seven siblings (they were Mormons, and they all had the initials J.J.; no wonder I made the team).

We won the league championship, and I played a key part, stroking a bases-loaded, game-tying RBI single in the fourth inning of the championship game. Alas, I was removed shortly afterwards to make sure everbody got to play -- we had about 15 players, including one girl, and the coach made sure everybody got PT. This explains this overall stat line:

G  AB  R  H  2B  3B  HR  RBI BB  SO  SB   AVG   OBP   SLG  

9  10  2  3   1   0   0   2   2   4   2  .300  .417  .400  



PO  A   E   PCT

 0  4   0  1.000  LF-4, 2B-2, SS-1, 3B-1, CF-1, P-1

Twelve plate appearances in nine games? Thanks for showing up. Alas, I was a true futilityman, seeing time at six different positions. The appearance at pitcher was for fielding purposes only -- during the first half of the season we hit against machines or an adult pitcher who threw against both sides, with a player for the fielding team responsible for covering the consequences. No joke: one of the adults who pitched was a coach named John Candelaria, just like the Pirates star at the time. Strange, some of the stuff your mind digs up to go along with the mementos.

Anyway, I suppose I owe my mom a bit of thanks for not throwing all of this stuff out, and for egging me on until I finally got around to cleaning out that desk.