Commentary : Weaver Is Free; Orioles Are in Free Fall

The transition from Orioles magic to Orioles tragic was completed last Sunday. Three years ago, barely a thousand days, the Baltimore Orioles were world champions. Sunday afternoon, they hit bottom--their first last-place finish.

Four years ago, Earl Weaver retired in glory--awash in a crowd’s cheers and his own suppressed tears. Sunday, he left again, sorry that he ever returned to try to restore a time that was gone.

The last time Weaver bade farewell, a crowd of 51,639 chanted so loudly, spelling “O-R-I-O-L-E-S” and bellowing “Earl, Earl, Earl,” that Milwaukee Brewers catcher Ted Simmons hollered along with them “out of self-defense.”

Sunday afternoon, a crowd of 18,320 paid its somber last respects. A short ovation--many standing, a few booing--greeted Weaver when he delivered the lineup card before his team’s 42nd loss in its last 56 games. Later, a “Thanks Earl and good luck” scoreboard message prodded the hard-core into more applause and Weaver into a brief, brusque wave.

The last time Weaver appeared, however, was to replace Tony Arnold, who had just allowed the game-losing run. As Weaver left the field, not one fan made a sound or, presumably, noticed. Weaver paused in front of the dugout and tipped his cap to the silence.

After Lee Lacy’s strikeout ended the day, no one cheered, no one booed, no one took a curtain call. It just, finally, ended; the stadium public-address system played Bonnie Tyler singing, “Nothing but a heartache, nothing but a fool’s game.”

“Unless the stock market goes through the floor, this is the last day I ever have to work in my life. Anybody says that isn’t nice is lying,” Weaver said after his first losing Orioles team ended with streaks of 0-4, 2-12, 9-32.

“I’m 420 games over .500. That’s 10 years of 100-60 and then some. So that’s gonna stay there,” added Weaver defiantly. “On my tombstone, just write: ‘The sorest loser that ever lived.’ ”

“If this team couldn’t be first, it didn’t want to be anything,” said Mike Flanagan, groping to explain how a team 2 1/2 games out of first on Aug. 6 could, when its chances were gone, simply cease to compete.

Things only go right for a reason. But they can go wrong for no reason. Or for interlocking reasons too murky to fathom. Nothing good comes to pass by accident, but only through work and will. Maybe some luck, too. The bad, however, seems to take care of itself. People and projects go forward or backward, but seldom stay the same.

Adults understand this--they don’t like it but come to accept it. Kids (and fans) often refuse to grasp the concept. If victory has heroes, then doesn’t defeat necessarily require villains?

The Orioles, as we have known them for a generation, were buried Sunday afternoon at Memorial Stadium. The cause of death was simply natural causes.

May their memory, and their deeds, rest in a peace untroubled by their current imperfections. Where they lived for so long--on the top--was a work of hands and days, many good hands and many long days. Where they are now is not a disgrace, just a shame.

It would be a relief Sunday afternoon to assess harsh and specific blame for the fall of an organization that once stood for internal harmony, brains and an inspired level of teamwork.

It is, rather, a life lesson to realize that the Orioles -- who now stand for disharmony, disorganization and listless play -- have not been undone by any malevolent hand.

It is not turpitude, but simply age that took away Jim Palmer, Ken Singleton, Al Bumbry, Rich Dauer, John Lowenstein, Steve Stone and others.

It is not some flaw of character, tied mysteriously to money, that has kept new players such as Fred Lynn, Lacy, Juan Beniquez, Don Aase and Alan Wiggins from fully replacing them. They were the same men, giving much the same performances, on their previous teams.

Once a person’s grip on a rope slips, it no longer matters how hard he clutches. The grip is lost, and gravity takes over. The Orioles are a team in free fall now. When Eddie Murray asks to be traded, when Rick Dempsey loses his zest, when Flanagan looks beaten before he starts, when Cal Ripken loses his concentration, when Weaver turns philosophical in defeat and no longer cares, then a reverse momentum is in command and will run its course.

The Orioles are, at this moment, still a team of considerable talent--one that should win more than it loses. But they are also a lousy team--one that takes its cues from its worst, rather than its best, sources. Now the Orioles hustle like Murray, play hurt like Lynn, think like Lacy, battle like Storm Davis, have the confidence of John Shelby and diet like Floyd Rayford.

It would bode well if the Orioles’ problems stemmed from one or two men at the top. However, General Manager Hank Peters is still competent, and owner Edward Bennett Williams, though his methods often make a poor mix with Baltimore mores, is a more knowledgeable, open-handed owner than most.

This was a sadder day than that.

What has happened to the Orioles was years in the making and, in all probability, will take years to fix. The farm system didn’t get shoddy overnight. The locker room atmosphere didn’t turn self-centered and cranky in a day. The team’s love of fundamentals didn’t disappear with one player, but, rather, bled away, one exodus at a time. The Rabbit and Brother Lo, Bee and Singy, Cakes and Wacko, The Throwin’ Swannanoan and Rhino--they all had a chemistry that had no science to it. And they all took something with them.

There was only one lucky Oriole on this closing day--Weaver. He’s out of the mess. Weaver will forget this game in an hour. But ’82 will not disappear. Asked what he remembered about it, Weaver said, “Everything.”

Weaver’s longtime friend Jim Frey visited his office to exchange genial insults. “You’re not managing anymore. Stop yellin’ at everybody,” said Frey. “You can relax now.

“Just leave a message,” said Frey, walking out, “if you wanna play golf.”