Strike Hits and Scatters Padres in All Directions

The phone in Terry Kennedy’s office, room 722 of the Cincinnati Hyatt hotel, buzzed all day. If it wasn’t the maid, it was a player. “Heard anything?” they’d ask. He hadn’t. He’d call the Major League Players Assn. office in New York, but there had been no answer. They were off negotiating.

Late in the afternoon, the phone rang again. Could this be news? Kennedy, the Padre player representative, snapped up the receiver, but as he said hello, he heard the voice of a woman.

“She was upset,” he would say later. “She said she goes to games and, typically, was upset that we were going out. She said it was a crock. I said I understood why she was upset, but that I was about to lose all this money, and you’d be saving money by not going to games. I said that we, the players, do understand how you feel. But she didn’t believe me. Nobody believes me when I say that.”

Then, believe it or not, the real news came at about 4 p.m. EDT. As about 10 Padres huddled in Room 722, Kennedy called the association offices and finally got an answer. No, the owners still wanted to control salaries. Yes, the cap was still an issue. No, there’d be no games tonight. Yes, you could go home.

The strike was on.

The women at the hotel cashier desk said, “Oh no.” Soon, player after player would be checking out, clogging the lobby. Behind these women on the wall were red and white baseball bats, numbered 1 through 24, bats that commemorated Pete Rose’s chase of Ty Cobb’s all-time hit record.

“We’re behind Pete,” a sign said. Twenty-four to go. But how many days to go before he’d get another at-bat?

Dave Dravecky and Mark Thurmond were the first Padres to appear in the lobby, and they were surrounded by San Diego television cameras, flown in for the big event. Dravecky refused comment. “How come I don’t get this attention when I’m pitching?” he asked.

Thurmond, who was supposed to pitch Tuesday night, was on his way to Houston, where he’ll be an insurance salesman. “In the minors, you don’t ever know if you’ll make it,” he said. “So you have to prepare either way. The game won’t last forever. One day, you’ve got to go into the working world.”

Kennedy went downstairs to do a mini-press conference. “They were never really close,” he said. “As of now, we’re on strike and going home.”

“Can I have a kiss?” asked a strikingly attractive female fan.

“No,” Kennedy said.

Soon, down came Steve Garvey. The cameras rushed to him, and the Garv said he could give them a minute. “No need to linger (around Cincinnati) at this point,” he said. “There’s disappointment in all areas of the country, in all cities, in this hotel, in San Diego . . . “

Eventually, he was out of the hotel, the cameras running behind him. He hailed a cab. As the cameras zoomed in on him one final time, he gave the thumbs-up sign.

It was all happening so fast. The night before, in the Riverfront Stadium clubhouse, this had been expected. Players had been chipping golf balls into a trash can before Monday’s game, getting their strokes ready for their early vacation. Still, when they awoke Tuesday morning, there had been progress. The principals were meeting. As long as they spoke, there was hope.

John (Doc) Mattei, the team traveling secretary, gave all the credit to Peter Ueberroth, whom he’s nicknamed “U.B.”

“I think we ought to change the presidential suite here to the U.B. suite,” Mattei said. “Never in the history of baseball have we had this type of commissioner. King Arthur reincarnated. Or is he Sir Lancelot? Which one sounds better?”

It sounded better to Jerry Royster at about 3:30. Teams were told to be on the alert, to stay around the hotel. Then Royster had seen on ESPN that there’d been serious progress. He saw Garry Templeton in the lobby.

“I guarantee you it’ll be done in 15 minutes,” Royster said. “There’s some secret session.”

Just then, a Cincinnati television reporter walked in and said he’d heard the strike was on. Royster ran to Room 722.

It was on.

Soon, there was a parade to the checkout stand. There was a 6:30 Delta flight and 8:45 flights on American, United and TWA. Every Padre was gone.

Said Tim Flannery: “They were in meetings all day, and then there’s no progress. I don’t know if they were there because someone made them or if they were there just having a couple drinks.”

Kevin McReynolds to first base coach Jack Krol: “In a couple days, I’ll be as fat as you, Jack.”

Templeton to Carmelo Martinez: “Golf tomorrow?”

Dick Williams to Martinez: “See you, Carmelo. Take care.”

Sort of like the last day of school.

What now?

For the veterans:

Stardom sort of landed in Kurt Bevacqua’s lap recently. Here he is, a .235 lifetime hitter, and, yet, he is ranked among the Padre elite, perhaps not because of his talent, but because of his timeliness. In the only World Series in Padre history, Kurt Bevacqua batted .412, and that included a game-winning home run.

So, at age 37, he became a hero, a semi-celebrity. He has started a baseball newspaper and is involved in a limousine service. At age 37, he has found his smarts. He’s just starting to invest.

For instance, he began his paper, Baseball Gold, in 1983. His dream was to make it a national publication. Have a Padre edition and a Cub edition and . . . . When he started, and he started alone, he planned to drop off issues at each of the 7-Eleven stores in San Diego County, 197 in all.

“I started out one afternoon at 3 ‘o clock to deliver to about 35 or 40 of the stores,” Bevacqua said. “It took me until 4:30 in the morning.”

Yet, now, though the paper has become somewhat of a success, a prolonged baseball strike would hinder him financially. Also, he’s in the final year of his contract. How many 37-year-olds sign new ones?

“I remember what happened last time (in the strike of ‘81),” he said. “I was the assistant player rep (for Pittsburgh), and I attended a lot of the meetings. And a lot was written on me because Bob Boone and Dave Winfield and Mike Schmidt were there, and, all of sudden, Kurt Bevacqua shows up. I said what I thought.

“Well, the day they settled, I was sent to the minors. Anything can happen. If a player is dumped on, it’s always the extra man. And I put myself in that category.

“Anyway, I can’t go home and live for a year on the money I’ve saved. I’m trying to put businesses together, and you could say I live check to check. I mean, I try to live comfortably and put my family in surroundings I think they deserve. If this (strike) goes on, I’m out of the house I’m in.

“I’m one of the guys that can say I don’t owe baseball a damn thing. I busted my ass to stay in this game, so I’m not afraid to say it. It may sound prude and rude, but it’s true.

“I’d have to file for bankruptcy if we didn’t play the rest of the year.”

For Graig Nettles and Al Bumbry, a prolonged strike also could be dangerous. Nettles, 40, is in the final year of his contract. Will he be back? Bumbry, 38, said: “I have a one-year contract, and I haven’t been satisfied with the contribution I’ve made to the club.”

He said this before he went on a 5 for 8 tear.

“I ended up on a better note,” Bumbry said. “I wasn’t as embarrassing to the team. But . . . “

Ironically, this strike is for the younger players, the players-to-be, because arbitration is a major issue. So Bevacqua, Bumbry and Nettles are essentially striking to help the players who will eventually take their jobs.

If that makes any sense.

For the rookies:

Ed Wojna, 24, makes the minimum salary, exactly $40,000 a year. He has saved some since he was called up from the minors on June 15, but he needs his wife’s income, too. She is a fashion designer.

He, fortunately, has contacts in Puerto Rico. He can play winter ball there. Also, he used to work for a civil engineer as a draftsman. If necessary, he could return to a similar job.

If he’d never been called up, he’d still be playing. That makes him wonder if he’d rather be in the minors. But he wonders for only a second.

“I’d rather be here striking than be in the minors.”

For the guy in between:

The average argument from the average fan is that the average baseball player makes too much money.

But Jerry Royster, an average player, is concerned.

“All those people who think we’ll be OK because we make a lot of money should call my wife and see how she feels,” Royster said. “I wish they understood the losses involved. Then, they’d stop talking.

“It’s impossible to pay for the payments on a house with no paycheck coming in. Fortunately, I just sold a house. I have enough money to last a long time. But if we strike, I can’t invest it like I planned.

“And the more days it (the strike) is on, the more it costs. If I hadn’t sold my house, what would I have done? I’d have had to sell something else. And this takes money out of my wife’s pocket. She can’t be doing what she’s doing. If she’s buying $100 of food a week, she’ll have to stop.

“We did a lot of things. We did what people with money did. We won’t do that anymore.”

Certainly, the superstar will not be hurt. Steve Garvey, founder of Garvey Marketing Group, will be fine. For instance, he just found out that his annual tennis tournament will be televised on ESPN this winter. Still, Garvey always has invested his money and time, planning for his days after baseball. So he’s ready for this.

Carmelo Martinez, too, is ready. He can simply play winter baseball in Puerto Rico, something Americans can’t do so simply. Only U.S. citizens with less than 280 days of major league experience can play there. Padre players were asking Martinez about that the other day. He told them the bad news.

“Only the young guys,” he said.

For the manager:

In ‘81, the year of the last strike, Dick Williams lost his job. He’d been managing in Montreal, and less than a month after the strike was settled, he was fired. His team was contending, too.

Why? Reasons apparently were that he had made the Expos winners by intimidating the players with his gruffness. But by the end of 1981, they were no longer intimidated. Suddenly, players were sick of his act.

Is that happening here in San Diego, as the team takes this break down seven games to the Dodgers?

Apparently not, according to Bevacqua.

“I don’t know if he does it on purpose--and maybe he does--but Dick finds out who the gamers are,” Bevacqua said. “If he finds out he can get under a guy’s skin . . . Well, he looks for winners. I think everyone on this ballclub knows he’s boss. But I don’t think it’s to the point where they’re not intimidated by him. He’s intimidating no matter who you are.”

For the player representative:

Said Kennedy on Monday night, after sneezing three times: “The last week has been getting to me a lot. I can’t wait until tomorrow, one way or another. I’m tired.”

Monday, he also had called Mark Belanger of the players association, and, as they spoke, he opened the curtains of Room 722. It was raining.

“This is perfect,” he said to Belanger. “Perfect for a strike.”

Tuesday, outside Room 722, it rained again.