Carlton’s Return--Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid

Steve Carlton held a press conference last Friday and I missed it.

My, uh, my Lear Jet had a flat tire that day. Yeah, that’s it. That’s the ticket. And I was kidnapped by Morgan Fairchild . . .

No, I cannot tell a lie. The truth is I missed Steve’s press conference because I considered it a duty and an honor not to be on hand.

I’m only sorry some members of the media showed up. Probably a lot of them. Too bad. It would have been a nice scene if Carlton had stepped up to the lectern and faced an empty room.

I suppose the press has a duty to cover such a newsworthy event, Steve Carlton talking after an eight-year silence, after being picked up by the San Francisco Giants, but I had more important things to do. Un-kink my telephone cord. Rotate my couch cushions.

Besides, it’s a long trip to San Francisco, and I was afraid Steve might do the whole press conference in mime, or lip-sync a pre-recorded message. Let’s face it, is anybody really sure this guy is alive? Does anybody care?

For his coming-out speech, Carlton happened to pick the Fourth of July. Later that evening, when they shot off fireworks at the ballpark, he probably thought it was in celebration of his press conference.

Actually, it could have been a spectacular event. Here is a guy who has been silent for eight years, who has been soaking up Eastern and Western philosophy for nearly a decade, living and observing and meditating, absorbing life without uttering a public word. Imagine what wonders must be stored in the man’s head.

What will he say? Will he reveal to us the meaning of life? Recite mystical poetry? Announce he’s switching from Nike to Puma?

I won’t tell you everything he said because that would be a violation of the spirit of my personal boycott of the event. But I will give you the highlight of the press conference.

“I’ve been throwing every day,” Carlton said. “My arm is sound.”

He didn’t say which arm. Probably the right arm, the one not responsible for Carlton’s 4-8 record this season.

In the eight years of Carlton silence, a mystique grew around him, an aura of Zen-like oddness. He trained for pitching by pushing his hand deep into a vat of rice. He worked out in a secret room under the grandstands, and listened to tapes that worked on his subconscious. On the mound, he had the steely glare of a man dwelling in some kind of private twilight zone.

Then he comes out and tells us he’s been throwing every day and his arm is sound.

Was granting this audience to the media a one-shot deal, or did it signify the beginning of a new era of free exchange of ideas and thoughts between the press and the the guy they call Lefty?

“I can’t say if it (talking) will continue in the future,” Carlton said.

Talk about suspense.

Talk about a jerk.

Maybe that eight-year silence was an extension of a deep Carlton philosophy. More likely it is (was?) an affectation and a cop-out.

I’m not sure why, but a sizeable portion of the nation’s baseball-fan population wants to hear from its heroes, even if it’s only a word or two. These are the same fans, remember, who make it possible, by buying tickets and beer and razor blades, for Steve Carlton to make a squazillion dollars a year.

So the media people scurry around the lockerroom, begging for crumbs, hoping the star pitcher will mumble a word or two about his location or rhythm or shin splints, then go back to his beer and chicken wings.

But no-o-o-o-o-o, not Steve Carlton. He had thoughts to ponder, rice to fondle.

He wouldn’t even condescend to share with us his thoughts when he won his 300th game, or when he set an all-time strikeout

record, although he did issue a written statement once. Maybe Carlton was Dizzy Dean in his previous life and figures he already paid his public speaking dues.

Fortunately we have record-breaking baseball stars such as Nolan Ryan and Don Sutton, gracious and chatty guys who at least try to give us all a feel for the game beyond what we see on television. They carry on their shoulders guys such as Carlton and his fellow baseball Harpo Marxes.

I understand Carlton was supposed to pitch Sunday. Maybe I’ll read the box score this morning to see how he did. I hold no grudges. But if Steve tries to phone me and talk about the game, or to let me know his arm is sound, I’ll put him on hold. For eight years.