For Now, Gwynn Can’t Lift a Finger to Help Padres

In the months since the 1987 season ended, the Padres have engaged in the usual routines designed to keep them physically fit.

They have worked on arms and legs. They have watched their waistlines. They have jogged.

All the better to be ready for the start of spring training.

In the weeks since the 1988 spring training started, the Padres have engaged in the usual routines designed to bring their physical conditioning to a peak.

They have worked on their arms and legs. They have watched their waistlines. And they have run as if they were in pursuit of Olympic gold, participating each day in Larry Bowa’s Two-Mile Derby.

All the better to be ready for the start of the regular season.

Someone forgot something. All of these exertions emphasized toning major muscle groups or trimming body fat or building stamina or increasing flexibility.

But one little detail seemingly was overlooked in all this preparation.

A finger.

Who ever heard a manager saying his team would spend the first few days of spring training getting its fingers into shape? Who ever heard of a team needing more good fingers . . . or going as far as its fingers would carry them?

Who ever thought that the mood of one team’s spring training could be twisted around one fickle finger on one man’s hand?

Tony Gwynn’s finger, Tony Gwynn’s hand.

More precisely, Tony Gwynn’s left index finger.

It hurts.

Indeed, it must hurt badly, because Tony Gwynn took himself out of a game in the first inning Wednesday. That’s news, because no mas is not in Gwynn’s vocabulary. If a game is being played, Gwynn wants to be in it . . . from start to finish.

And it matters little to Gwynn whether or not it is an exhibition game. If someone has paid to see a game, and he is being paid to play in it, he will be in uniform and on the field until the manager orders him to take a break.

Thus, it was completely out of character for Gwynn to ask out of a game. You just knew he didn’t have a mid-afternoon tee time to make or a soap opera to watch. You knew he wasn’t fleeing the premises because some cruel prankster had put shoe polish in his hat.

He hurt. His finger hurt. Badly.

Gwynn’s finger had been bothering him since the beginning of spring training, but no one seemed to take it too seriously. Gwynn himself did not seem bothered, at least outwardly.

Concern undoubtedly was diminished a bit by the fact that the finger first started bothering him last June, and all he did that month was hit .473. He “slumped” to .292 in July, but came back to hit .402 in August and .385 in September. He could take that aching index finger and hold it proudly aloft, because his .370 batting average was No. 1 in the major leagues.

If all the arms in the National League could not stop him, how could one measly finger?

The truth is that an artist does not have to be a pianist to need reasonably healthy fingers. And Gwynn, an artist in his own way, needs an index finger that can play its part in gripping the bat. Imagine what it feels like to hit a Dwight Gooden fastball in on the fists with an aching finger. The body feels as if it is having a private earthquake.

Gwynn’s problem was that the finger would not straighten out when he was done hitting. It looked like a cup hook until he yanked it straight, and that was about as comfortable as having a tooth pulled a few times a day . . . or maybe a few dozen. After all, the index finger is not off work when a game ends.

Gwynn hoped a rest would help, but it didn’t. He tried a cortisone shot, and the finger felt worse.

What was left was surgery.

A little incision in Tony Gwynn’s left index finger may not seem significant in life’s big picture, and it isn’t, but the fortunes of the local baseball heroes hang on that crooked finger.

Friday night’s surgery will take him out of the remainder of spring training and sideline him for the beginning of the season. The thought of Tony Gwynn being out was enough to cast a dark cloud over Yuma.

The problem with things such as this, a relatively minor surgical procedure, is that the time of recuperation is always vaguely precise, if you will.

The recovery time, Gwynn has been told, will be four to six weeks.

But what does that mean?

Four to six weeks until he can play?

Four to six weeks until he can start getting ready to play?

It is hard to put a finger, if you will, on exactly how long Gwynn might be out. A healing body is not quite like a baking cake, ready to go when the timer rings. In this case, the “ringing bell” will signal the start of the season.

Tony Gwynn won’t be there, not even to throw out the ceremonial first ball . . . not with his left hand, anyway.