Pain Forces Tony Gwynn to Go Through Winter Empty-Handed

It was the wrong time of the day for Tony Gwynn to be empty-handed, but there he was. He was wearing neither a batting glove nor a helmet and, most importantly, his bat was lying untouched in a rack at the end of the bench.

It was time for batting practice, usually one of the best of times for Tony Gwynn. Batting practice, for this artist, is a time to tune up for another command performance.

But not on this evening.

The pain would not let him.

The pain.

It has been there virtually all year. Its focal point is his left index finger, that celebratory digit he should be thrusting skyward to indicate exactly where he is in the race for the National League batting title.

The pain.

For Tony Gwynn, it is a constant reminder that the littlest things, the things we take for granted, can be what jump up and grab us.

Such as an index finger.

Gwynn underwent surgery before the season because the stupid finger kept locking on him. The surgery fixed what he calls his trigger, but it did not take away the pain. That has stayed with him.

“Times like today,” he said Friday night, “it hurts too much to hit, so I’ll take batting practice off and go out and play the game. Before this year, I could count the times I’ve done that on one hand. This year, I’ve done it a dozen times already.”

He was talking as though apologizing, as though talking through the little window of a confessional.

But no one else feels the pain, and anyone who knows Tony Gwynn knows that it is an even bigger hurt to not have a bat in his hands.

And that is the way it will be after the season ends . . . until January.

“Usually,” he said, “about a week after the World Series ends, I get itchy and want to start taking some hacks. But I’m not going to hit until January. I’m not going to hit at all until then. I won’t even pick up a bat. For me, that’s going to be tough.”

This might not be the cure, for there might not be a cure. But this is the program.

“I talked to the doctors before the last trip,” he said, “and they told me the only surgery they could do would be pretty radical. They would have to shave the bone so the ligament wouldn’t rub. They didn’t want to do it, and I didn’t want it.”

And so rest will be the recipe, but maybe not the solution.

“I asked the doctors if this will happen every time I swing the bat a lot,” he said, “and they didn’t really know. A normal human being’s finger would probably have been fine by now, but this is what I do. I have to swing a bat.”

A lot.

Gwynn went to the plate more than 600 times in each of the past 4 seasons and won’t fall too far short this year, though he uncharacteristically has missed 25 games.

In fact, this year, according to Gwynn’s perspective, deserves one giant apology.

“After this year,” he said, “I have a big list of things I have to work on.”

He will start with things that do not involve hitting, such as playing center field. That will be his new home next year, and he will go to an old home, San Diego State, and spend the same hours and hours he spent honing the skills to make himself a Gold Glove winner in right field. And he will work on losing 15 pounds, because he feels he has misplaced some quickness.

And come January . . .

“I have to work on hitting inside pitches,” he said. “They’ve been busting me inside all year, and I haven’t been able to adjust. People have told me it’s because of my finger, but I don’t buy that.”

No, excuses are never on Tony Gwynn’s shopping list.

“It’s back to the basics for me,” he said. “For me, this is a down year. I’ve gotta bounce back. I don’t need people putting question marks next to my name, wondering if I’m ever going to be the same again.”

Wait a minute. Gwynn is in his prime, a mere 28 years old. And he is leading the National League in hitting, even though his .312 average is down a bit from his lifetime .335 and a lot from 1987’s .370. But the whole league is down offensively, and no one else has an ailing finger as an excuse, pardon the expression.

“If you had told me in the middle of June that I’d be leading the league at this time of year, I would have told you you were crazy,” he said. “It’s a miracle. But even though I’m on top, I don’t feel good about the year I’m having. Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to win the batting title. I’d love to collect as many silver bats as I can.”

The batting champion wins a silver bat, and Gwynn has two of them with one more week of pain between him and a third.

One more week with putting up with pain . . . and then putting it away for a while.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m already looking forward to next year. Everybody who’s watched us the second half of the season can see that we have a lot of talent. We’re missing some pieces, but maybe we can come up with the pieces that fit. We’ve been punched, beaten, stepped on and kicked while we’ve been down, and now we want a turn knocking ‘em down and not letting ‘em back up.”

Suddenly, Tony Gwynn was upbeat and enthusiastic. He was gesturing as though boxing at shadows. The thought of making a run for the pennant in 1989 was almost enough to make him forget just for a second.

The pain.

The finger.