Cookie Didn’t Crumble in Crunch and Deserves a Contract Extension

I believe it was Billy Martin--now awaiting his what, 168th return to the New York Yankee dugout?--who said you never turn down a chance to manage a major league team. And if he didn’t say it, he should have.

But even Martin might have thought twice about accepting employment with the 1988 Angels. First of all, there was this business of replacing a managerial legend, the hyper-intense Gene Mauch, relegated to Palm Springs golf courses by a preseason bout with chronic bronchitis.

Next came the Angel lineup, which was thought to be decent enough, like your everyday dishware, but certainly not the stuff you serve the American League West title on, or the pennant or a World Series. Third or fourth place looked good on Angel plates.

And who would want a team whose only starting left-hander was a converted reliever and whose only left-handed reliever had never pitched above the Class-A level. Whose left-fielder wanted to return to second base? Whose catcher was 40? Whose Gold Glove center fielder now played for the Detroit Tigers? Whose clubhouse had been separated a season earlier by a variety of player factions?

You’d have to have a fetish for pink slips to take this job. You’d have to have a burning need to oversee a team, even if that team was headed for a long cruise on the Goodship Mediocrity. And you’d have to have the stomach for losses, lots of them, and the patience to explain why once again, the Angels can never win the big one.

You’d have to be Octavio Rivas Rojas. Cookie, to you.

About the only things Rojas hasn’t endured this year is pestilence and plague. Otherwise, he’s seen it all. An unexpected job offer. Injuries. Losing streaks. Winning streaks. Freak plays. Botched plays. The balk renaissance. Bats cracked over knees.

And yet, here he is, still with his clipped Cuban accent, a vocabulary that would wither without the word helluva , and a knack for survival.

Now all he needs is one more thing: A new contract.

I know it’s early. I know the Angels almost never go public with these sort of decisions. I also know it’s time for an exception.

So what if the Angels finish the year in the vicinity of .500? Hey, the Little General and his troops of 1987 ended the season 75-87 and tied for last place. Fifteen more wins and Rojas’ team tops that.

Who cares if the Oakland Athletics are 15 or so games ahead of the Angels at season’s end? The Minnesota Twins, World Series winners of a year ago, are struggling to stay within 10 games of the A’s. The Kansas City Royals are in double digits. So are the Texas Rangers, the Chicago White Sox and the Seattle Mariners. And how many of those teams had their manager retire on them just weeks before the season began?

Rojas deserves a break, to say nothing of a commitment from the Angel front office--owner Gene Autry and General Manager Mike Port. Something in the two-year variety would do quite nicely, thank you.

Nothing personal, but do you think Chili Davis, who ranks third on the team intensity scale (Brian Downing is first, Jack Howell second), still would have prospered, even played, during his error binge had Mauch, not Rojas been the manager? I’m guessing no. Mauch would have smoldered in anger. Davis would have entered a funk and that would have been that.

Through it all, Rojas has managed to hold the Angel clubhouse together. Who knows how he does it? Maybe it’s as simple as lowering the ivory tower a bit.

When the Angels were at their worst, which was much of the season’s first half, Rojas had a heavy bag installed near the home dugout. It was his way of saying, “Take it out on this, not on each other.”

Rojas hasn’t panicked this year, though he’s had plenty of opportunities. He filled out his lineup card each day from a roster short on power, pitching and bench strength. But he hasn’t used that as an excuse.

And you need a secretary to record the number of disabled list entries Rojas has had to contend with: Donnie Moore, Devon White, Dan Petry, DeWayne Buice, Mark McLemore, Brian Downing, Butch Wynegar and Kirk McCaskill, among others. You try beating the A’s when a quarter of your roster is learning to spell arthroscopic surgery, or ulnar nerve.

I don’t know if any of this earns you a raise, but it should get you a second chance. Under more normal circumstances.

Who would have figured that Mike Witt, with his spanking new contract, limps toward season’s end with more losses than wins and an earned run average above 4.00? Or that Wally Joyner would have 10 homers after more than 450 at-bats? Or that the bullpen ace would be a rookie right-hander who wears his cap like someone in a church softball league?

Not Rojas. Not anyone.

You reward loyalty, don’t you? You salute someone who trys to save a sinking ship. In the Angels’ case, they started taking on water about the same time Mauch made his surprise announcement.

All of which leaves Rojas in contract limbo. Truth is, he isn’t a baseball genius. He won’t revolutionize the game, either. But he won’t give up. And he stands by, not above, his players.

There are probably enough reasons for the Angels to thank Rojas and look elsewhere. Maybe Mauch himself wishes to return. Maybe the self-destructive Martin has inquired about a job. But one reason remains why Rojas should manage here in 1988, and it has nothing to do with records or winning streaks. It has more to do with honor.

Rojas was there when the Angels needed him. How about the Angels doing the same, this time with a dotted line.