Sainthood Has Its Drawbacks--Ask Garvey

Twenty years from now, no one will believe Steve Garvey. But that’s nothing. Hardly anyone believes him now.

Garvey can’t be for real, is the prevailing opinion. He got caught in a time warp somewhere between George Washington and Jack Armstrong. He wasn’t born, they cut him off a cereal box.

He has a terrible credibility problem. The last person this good, they burned at the stake. Or shot in a theater loge.

He talks the kind of things you want to frame and embroider. He yearns to heal the sick and perform miracles. Except Garvey would probably change the wine into water. Or milk.

A great many people can’t deal with Garvey. We are a nation of cynics. Morality is mistrusted. Virtue is just a ploy. It comes packaged from Madison Avenue. It’s like pancake makeup. You wear it only in public. You take it off when no one’s looking.

Garvey will never be happy till he’s a stained-glass window, they tell you. You can tell he’s coming because you can smell the incense. You don’t know whether to ask for his autograph or kiss his ring. When they say he wants to be President, you are relieved. You were afraid he wanted to be Pope.

They would like to dismiss him, but he just stands there and hits these pennant-winning and playoff-game home runs. He never misses a team bus or a national anthem. He’s never been hit with a paternity suit. He never socked a fan or refused an autograph.

But, shucks, he’s never had his hair mussed or his shoes untied, either. He was the kind of kid who would eat his spinach. He takes his hat off in elevators. He set the league record for consecutive games played. He once went 193 games without an error.

You could throw over him, but you couldn’t throw under him. He was too short to be a first baseman, but he was one of the best anyway. He hasn’t got any strike zone, but he doesn’t need any. You can’t walk him. Every place he goes, the pennant goes with him. He’s so clean, he squeaks, so dependable, ships could navigate by him.

No wonder people hate him.

How can a guy go through life without a hair out of place, shoes shined, suit pressed and hit an annual .286 to .300, drive in 85-100 runs, go to early Mass and pass the collection basket? Got to be a gimmick in there somewhere. What’s his angle?

They say he wants to run for office. But why would he have to run? Why doesn’t he just choose one? Who’s going to oppose Steve Garvey?

Usually, when you have lunch with an author, particularly an Irish one, you expect he’ll be at least late. He’ll have this shock of unruly hair, he’ll be wearing a jacket with no shirt under it, thongs for shoes and pants that look as if they came off a beachcomber.

He’ll probably drink his lunch and get in a fight with the waiter or the people at the next table, or maybe even you. I had just such a lunch with Brendan Behan once.

But Steven Patrick Garvey has written a book, too, and, although no one will ever mix it up with James Joyce, it’ll sell better. And when you arrive for lunch with him, he’s already there. So’s his briefcase.

He’s got shoes on, all right, and they have laces in them. He’s wearing a tie and a vest and his socks match his tie and his nails are manicured and his cuffs are monogrammed. Garvey always looks as if he’s applying for a loan.

The Dodgers used to play tricks on him, particularly Jerry Reuss and Jay Johnstone, and that was all right--till one day they wanted to throw him into a pool. Garvey almost killed them. Garvey doesn’t let anybody mess up his clothes. Or his haircut.

His book is titled simply “Garvey.” That’s enough. There’s only one. I mean, would Napoleon need another name? Hogan? Cagney? The great ones have single identification. Like Dempsey, Ruth, Rockne.

His book, as you might expect, is something you could read aloud in church. My notion is, if you could cut the average ballplayer’s head open and looked inside, you would find two naked ladies and a six-pack. If you cut Garvey’s, you would find a banana split and a bubble-gum card.

Still, the book is not all rosary beads and home runs. Garvey faces the problem of his public persona and admits that some of his years were what the law calls a poisoned well.

He writes never in anger. He does not precisely see himself as a person feeding the birds and reading the psalms, but the only time he ever got mad in his life was at his pitcher, Don Sutton, and they got into a punchout.

Sutton later apologized, and the wags suggested that he had somewhat more reason to be mad at the rest of his infield. Garvey never did anything to him except prevent two-base errors behind him.

There used to be a time in this country when guys who broke barroom mirrors or missed curfews or spring training or the team planes felt they had something to apologize for.

It’s a new era. Now, it’s the Garveys who need forgiveness. It’s as if he let everybody down by not becoming Hollywood Steve.

“My sense of what it meant to be a Dodger was formed at a very early age of 7,” he writes. “At the first sight of (Pee Wee) Reese, (Jackie) Robinson, (Gil) Hodges and (Roy) Campanella, I became infatuated with the idea of becoming a ballplayer.

“From what I saw evolved my idea of what a successful ballplayer should be. It was that attitude I strived to emulate. I saw only good. (Maybe) signing autographs and visiting sick kids was not what ballplayers did in their spare time, except maybe in the movies. But it was a nice picture, a comfortable picture for me to live with. As the years passed, I saw no reason to challenge it.

“For a while, it seemed to be working. For nearly 20 years. But, somehow, along the road to becoming successful and popular, I manage to alienate my teammates, fail in my marriage and finally even be rejected by the team management I worked so hard to serve.”

Cheer up, Steve, nobody’s perfect. And, the next time around, shape up.

Kick the water cooler. Punch your other pitchers. Backbite the manager. Snarl at the fans. Refuse interviews. Set a record for consecutive games missed. Let your hair grow. Hold out. Drink up. Be late. Tell them you don’t want to be no stinking role model. Strike out a lot.

The way you’re going, next thing you know you’ll be senator or governor. President, for cryin’ out loud! Then, you’ll really find what living with criticism is.

On the other hand, maybe you’re used to it.