This Guy Has Been Going Overboard for Pirates

As the hour grew late, Andy Van Slyke gimped his way back toward his cubicle, looking as though he had just returned not so much from Chavez Ravine as from Heartbreak Ridge. Patches of his uniform were torn at the knee and back pocket, reddish dirt from the Dodger Stadium warning track was caked onto him from sleeves to stirrups, and there were black smudges on his stubbled, Sonny Crockett-like whiskers, otherwise known as a Van Slyke beard.

“Excuse me,” he said to the guy waiting at his locker, before walking off again. “Gotta go get frozen.”

Presumably, what he meant was that he needed packs of ice placed strategically upon various parts of his aching body, and not that he intended to dabble in cryogenics and have his entire torso frozen for eternity. Of course one can never be absolutely certain when it comes to dealing with raggedy Andy Van Slyke, All-Star outfielder of the Pittsburgh Pirates, who brings to the ballpark an interesting mixture of Old-Time Religion propriety and New Wave Athlete spontaneity.

It is Van Slyke, after all, who, when asked which famous person he would most like to meet, replies with the name of Jesus Christ, but who, when asked which person he would most like to be stranded on a desert island with, replies with the name of Marlon Perkins, because he figures the man from the Wild Kingdom would be able to identify which wild animals he could eat, and which wild animals he could be eaten by .

Oh, and by the way, when Andy Van Slyke also was asked with which individual he would most love to trade places, his reply was: “My wife, so I can see how great I am to live with.”

This is one swashbuckling Pirate, all right. He plays both the outfield and the interviews with a devil-may-care attitude, but never forgets to say grace, before, during and after. He figures the Lord forgives him for every goofy joke he makes, and always thanks God for large and small favors, not the least of which was his selection for the first time to the National League’s All-Star squad, which he will represent Tuesday night at Cincinnati.

Van Slyke had even more reason to be thankful after escaping serious bodily harm during the other night’s Pirate-Dodger game, when he and right fielder Darnell Coles nearly smashed together like a couple of rams while chasing a deep fly ball. At the last possible instant, at the base of the fence, Van Slyke veered clear of his teammate’s path, diving with his palms up and his arms extended, like a hunk playing volleyball at the beach. Coles, cutting in right beside him, likewise dived, and made the catch.

By the time Van Slyke got back from the training room, his left hand was wrapped in a thick bandage, and strapped to his right forearm was enough ice to fill a Styrofoam cooler. “Whoa. That could have been a major train wreck,” he said. “I didn’t see Darnell until the last second. Good thing I pulled the parachute.”

“What’d you hurt?” a guy asked.

“Everything,” he said.

“Close call.”

“Yeah, it sure was,” Van Slyke said. “I knew it was going to be a bang-bang play. It almost turned out to be a bang-bang- BANG! play. I’m just glad we didn’t loosen the San Andreas Fault.”

One thing about Andy Van Slyke: Even after a near-wreck of trains, he rarely loses his train of thought. When the guy at his locker went on to speculate that an injury at this point in the season certainly would have been poorly timed, what with the All-Star game at hand, Van Slyke picked right up where he left off with his San Andreas reference, and said: “Yeah. Be tough to get to Cincinnati after an earthquake.”

There are many ways a man can count his blessings, and this man has his. For the fact that he has kept his batting average steadily in the .290s, and has donated double-figure home runs and stolen bases, and has become an everyday player for a legitimate contender, Andy Van Slyke is appreciative. A homer Sunday against fellow All-Star Orel Hershiser made him feel good, as did the happy coincidence that the manager who had to name Van Slyke to the National League reserves was the same manager who the year before traded him away, Whitey Herzog.

If Van Slyke is laughing on the inside, he is hiding it on the outside. Of Herzog’s having chosen him, he said: “It has absolutely no bearing on anything. I’m elated to be with the Pirates, because they have given me a new life, and I’m excited to be in an All-Star game, because I’ve been watching those things since Pete Rose killed that catcher (Ray Fosse).”

The thought of playing in the midsummer classic, sort of the Good Ballplaying Seal of Approval on a big leaguer’s career, gave Van Slyke an inspiration. During whatever spare time he has at Cincinnati, he has decided to go see the movie “Bull Durham,” just to remind him of what life could be like for a jock when he is kicking around the bushes. It is an R-rated film not for minors, but about the minors.

Oh, how Van Slyke remembers. Remembers riding the buses. Remembers dreaming of someday making it to “the show.” Remembers the fast food and the bedbugged beds and the so-called crowds.

“That movie will probably make me laugh and bring back some unfortunate memories at the same time,” Van Slyke said. “Sometimes you forget what life was like for a minor leaguer after you’ve made it to the majors, after you’ve beaten the odds. And, you shouldn’t forget. Never.

“I know I’ll never forget standing out there in an empty park asking myself, ‘Is it worth it? Is it worth all this? Why am I riding this crummy bus? Why am I breaking my back making $550 a month?’ The minor league system has a way of weeding out the guys who really want to play from the guys who only think they want to play.

“I broke in at Gastonia. That’s where they should have set that movie, instead of Durham. They got the wrong North Carolina town. If they’d made that thing at Gastonia instead of Durham, they’d be up for seven or eight Academy Awards next year, believe me. It was the worst situation you can imagine.”

“For example?” a guy asked.

“For example, the park,” Van Slyke said. “I brought a Bic disposable lighter with me out to left field. That’s how bad the lights were. You couldn’t see a fly ball until it just about took your cap off. I flicked my Bic out there a couple of times, just to let everybody know I was still out there.”

Bull.

“I’m serious,” Van Slyke said. “That park was terrible. We’d probably draw somewhere from 100 to, oh, 105 fans for every home game, and I’d say around a hundred of them were drunk. The Gastonians were definitely gassed.”