Padres Sing the Praises of Their Loyal Following

“ . . . We do the best that we can do,

Cause you’re first in our hearts,

Our 10th man . . . “

The music faded and Jerry Coleman thrust his fist in the air.

“Academy Award,” he proclaimed. “Academy Award.”

“No, Jerry,” someone corrected. “A Grammy. You get a Grammy for music.”

Coleman has been known to twist words on occasion, and any occasion is as good as another.

However, neither an Academy Award nor a Grammy will likely be presented to the performers who sang Wednesday afternoon at a Kearny Mesa recording studio. Yet another Padre song was being produced, except this one was made by the Padres as a tribute to their fans.

After promising that I would leave my kazoo at home, I was allowed to visit the studio to watch the recording session.

After watching the assorted characters who pranced on stage Tuesday night at the Grammy Awards, I wondered if the Padres--three of them would ultimately be there--would make an effort to look like modern-day singing stars.

Aha, I thought, I can’t wait to see Kurt Bevacqua in black-tie with a leather jacket, Steve Garvey in a fright wig and Graig Nettles with orange hair. Which one would come dressed as a geisha girl?

After all, show biz is show biz.

Unless, of course, it isn’t.

Steve Vaus, the producer, was trying to explain that his motley choir should sing the chorus and not the verse. He got a little taste of what Dick Williams and his coaches encounter.

“What,” he was asked, “is a verse?”

I guess it wasn’t a totally outlandish question. I’m not sure half the “musicians” who won Grammys know the difference between a chorus and a verse.

As the three Padre players, broadcasters Coleman and Dave Campbell and assorted personnel from radio station KFMB began to rehearse, a rather bemused Ballard Smith tried to sneak into the back of the studio. His wife, Linda, already a veteran of one Padre recording, was up front with script in hand.

“Come on in,” Vaus urged. “Here’s the lyrics.”

“Wait a minute,” Smith said, “I didn’t say I’m going to sing. I can’t sing.”

“Listen,” Vaus said, “we’ve already got several who can’t sing.”

“I can hear that,” Smith said, and laughed.

What’s one more who can’t sing? Ballard Smith joined the choir.

Bevacqua, as might be expected, seemed to be the most comfortable of the ballplayers. He was dressed in a blue sport coat with an open-necked shirt, a gold chain with a diamond-studded baseball glove hanging from his neck.

Just in case Hollywood was there, Bevacqua obviously wanted to look the part.

“You can see the ham come out,” Garvey said. “They should pour honey on him.”

Nettles was just a bit more reticent. He looked as if he would be more comfortable hitting against Steve Carlton, or delivering a sermon at a bus stop in Horton Plaza.

Indeed, the time came when each of the Padres would have to do a solo bit. Just a bit. One line.

Please, Graig, it’s easy: “I hear you when I make a diving snag

“I know the line,” Nettles insisted. “Just tell me when I’m supposed to do it.”

Now, Graig . . .

“I hear you when you make a diving snag,” he sang, and then gasped. “I messed it up.”

“ You made the diving snag,” Vaus said.

Nettles laughed. It would take him a few attempts before he would get through that diving line without a snag.

And don’t tell me these guys don’t know music. When Vaus suggested that Nettles might go down an octave, Bevacqua sunk to his knees.

Nettles shook his head.

“This’ll turn ‘em to FM,” he said. “They’ll never listen to AM again.”

As the session began to run a bit long, Vaus asked if anybody was in a hurry.

“Steve,” he said, “are you pressed?”

Garvey? Pressed? He was pressed, shaved, combed and shined, neatly dressed in a gray suit and tie. Of course he was pressed--but not for time.

It was his turn to go solo.

“How about the line about thump, thump, thumpin’?” asked Vaus. Garvey cringed. “OK, thump, thump, thumpin’ doesn’t fit the image. Would you rather have the perfect tag?”

And so Garvey sang: “I hear you when I make the perfect tag ... “

And he got through it rather quickly, as Bevacqua chortled in the background.

“Listen to that Garv,” Bevacqua said. “He sounds like Boy George. I’ve got to follow him? “

Bevacqua, again as might be expected, seemed reluctant to stop singing. He took thump, thump, thumpin’ and feet start stompin’ and went after his chore as if he had a Grammy in mind.

“Fine,” Vaus said.

“Is it fine,” Bevacqua said, “or is it perfect?”

“Do you want to do it again?” Vaus asked.

“I just want it to be perfect,” Bevacqua said.

Too bad, Kurt. You have no future in the music business. Perfect? Are you kidding? Where would Sinatra be if he could remember all the words?

Just once let someone produce a Padre song with a little doobie, doobie doo . . .