This Kid Isn’t Right for the Role

The banners hang from the bleachers with pride. “Wally World!” they proclaim. “Wally Wonder!” “Wally Wonderful!”

The headlines tell the story: “Angel Rookie Strokes 16 Homers in Only 45 Games, Vaults Into RBI Lead.”

The word with California’s first baseman, Wallace Keith Joyner, is that that halo around his cap might be real. Also, don’t light any matches around him. Check and see if he gets a reflection in a mirror. Find out if he sleeps in a coffin. See if he turns into a swan after dark. If light towers explode when his home runs hit them. Is he for real--or is that Robert Redford in costume?

Hollywood is already on the prowl. We take you now to the offices of F. Arnold Fleischmonger, the high-powered talent agent. As we look in, his assistant, Slick O’Fant, is slinking into a chair. Fleischmonger speaks:

Fleischmonger: “All right, Slick, let’s have it. You check out this ballplayer, what’s his name? Willie Marvelous? Dick Doright? Terry Trueheart? What’s the story?”

Slick (sighing): “Yeah, I checked him out.”

Fleischmonger: “And? Tell me! No, don’t tell me! Let me guess! A big fat guy with these little spindly legs and a chaw of tobacco in his cheek. He calls everybody ‘Keed’ and he eats hot dogs in the outfield. Oh, Slicker, I tell you, we’ll make a fortune!”

Slick (holding his head in his hands): “Boss, he’s kind of this nice looking little kid, kind of pale. I think he blushes. Tobacco? He doesn’t even chew gum. He looks like he came to read poetry. To tell you the truth I thought he was the batboy. I tapped him on the shoulder and said ‘Do you know Wally Joyner?’ And he said ‘Know him?! I am him!’ And I said ‘No, I mean the home run hitter. Big guy, probably 250 pounds. Got this blue-black beard. Spits a lot.’ And this kid says ‘Mister, you aren’t looking for Wally Joyner. You’re looking for Hulk Hogan. There’s nobody by that description on this team. Have you tried San Quentin? Or the Yankees?’ ”

Fleischmonger: “We’ll try a little makeup. Doesn’t he even have a scar on his cheek? Wear an ear-ring? Does he yell a lot? Is he holding out for renegotiation. He wants a million a week or he’ll go free agent, right?”

Slick: “Boss, he thinks he’s lucky they start him. He can’t believe his good luck that they pay him to play baseball. He says ‘All my life down in Georgia I used to watch these great players on television and I used to imitate them in the backyard. I was Gail Goodrich bringing the ball up court. I was Willie Mays guessing curveball. All my life I wanted to be in the big leagues.’ ”

Fleischmonger: “Boy, do we have to talk to him! Well, look, he knows how to handle the press, eh? Screams at them, calls them vultures. Won’t talk to them after a game. Hides in the trainers’ room. Says ‘What do you want to ask a stupid question like that for?!’ Surest way to get to be a legend.”

Slick: “Boss, this kid talks to reporters for high school annuals. He held press conferences in New York so he could fit everybody in. He has television crews follow him to bed. Ronald Reagan has more privacy. He sits there and tells them what his favorite breakfast cereal is. The other night he said to some writer from Barstow ‘Excuse me, I have to go take batting practice.’ ”

Fleischmonger: “OK, OK! But a guy hits 16 home runs in his first six weeks has got to have a lot of anger in him. He’s getting even with the world. He takes it out on the ball, the pitcher. He attacks that ball, right!”

Slick: “Boss, he hits balls like a housewife swatting flies. He just flicks at them. I mean, you see Willie Mays or Babe Ruth go after a fastball like a guy hitting a burglar over the head. Like a Nicklaus hitting a drive. This guy looks like he’s an orchestra conductor. He never fell down swinging at a ball in his life. Mickey Mantle used to look like a pretzel. Reggie Jackson went around twice. This guy looks like he’s waving a handkerchief.”

Fleischmonger: “But he’s cocky about his home-run hitting? He says ‘Babe Who?’ when Ruth’s name comes up? He’s says he can hit home runs with the best of them? That he’s gonna hit 60? At least?”

Slick: “Boss, he says he’s no home-run hitter. He says he doesn’t try to hit home runs! He doesn’t know where they come from! Says he’s just trying to hit the ball hard some place, move the runner along if necessary. He talks like somebody whose nickname would be ‘Rabbit.’ Or ‘The Brat.’ You’d think he had to bunt for a living.”

Fleischmonger:”But this guy ran Rod Carew right off a roster! Rod Carew! 3,000 hits! Hall of Fame! All those batting championships! Does he think they handed him Carew’s job so he can sign autographs?”

Slick: “Boss, he says--get this--’I’m no Rod Carew.!’ He says he hopes nobody thinks he’s going to do the things Rod Carew could do.”

Fleischmonger: “And strikeouts! He strikes out a lot, right? For God’s sake, can’t Reggie Jackson at least tell him how to strike out? Tell me he takes these big, flashy, hat-falling-off strikeouts! The public loves those big strikeouts.”

Slick: “Boss, Koufax couldn’t strike him out in the dark. The umps call him out occasionally. They can’t see the ball as well as he can.”

Fleischmonger: “Doesn’t he do anything right? How can we market this guy? This guy has come down with terminal modesty. Is he hitting all these home runs himself or has he made a pact with some guy who can light cigars with his fingers and turn into a bat at midnight?”

Slick: “Well, he does keep his little pinky finger off the bat when he grips it like Babe Ruth used to do. He swings with a nine-fingered grip.”

Fleischmonger: “Ah, so he says ‘Me-and-Babe-Ruth!’ That’s a start!”

Slick: “No. He points out that Babe Ruth swung a 50-ounce bat. He says he swings a 30-ounce bat. He says Babe Ruth must have been some strong dude to swing that heavy a bat that way, that he couldn’t do it.”

Fleischmonger: “Well, look, does he at least get into a lot of extracurricular off-hour didoes like Ruth. Stay out all night. Rustle up the chorus girls. Get fined. Bust some bar room mirrors. That’s good copy.”

Slick (sighing again): “Boss, he’s Mormon. He wouldn’t go into a bar to get out of nuclear fallout. What’re you gonna fine him for--tithing? He doesn’t even drink coffee.”

Fleischmonger: “Well, he’s got to fight with his teammates. Bowl over an autograph seeker or two. Miss a team plane. Pulverize a water cooler. Jump the club.”

Slick: “Negative. He just stands there and hits home runs. Like a gal playing a Salvation Army tambourine.”

Fleischmonger: “OK, OK. Listen, some years ago, when Frank Robinson was hitting all those home runs, he saw Pete Rose hit one of his infrequent ones and then, instead of going into this processional home-run trot, he streaks around the bases in five seconds and Robbie was insulted. He said ‘Listen, kid. You leave those home runs to those of us who can act them out.’ Tell this kid he better do the same.”