Pitchers Have Learned Lessons in This Series

OK, so we’re in a period of headlong, runaway morality. First, we take away the medal in the Olympic 100 meters, now we kick the pitcher out of a playoff game.

What’s next? Secret police for sports? Paid informants? Snitches? Moles?

How do we know Babe Ruth didn’t use a corked bat? Maybe Dempsey’s gloves really were loaded in that Willard fight.

Can tennis be far behind? Will steroids help a golf swing?

Is the quest for an edge destroying sportsmanship as we know it? Or is it just another example of gamesmanship and good old American know-how? Isn’t anyone going to win a game anymore using the skills God gave him? Or the ones the pharmacy gave him?

While we’re in an investigatory mood, I have something I’d like the league to look into and weigh possible suspensions for, too.

It is this: Never in my wildest dreams did I consider going out and pitching Game 2 of the National League playoff series. And yet, a right-handed pitcher for the New York Mets comes out and, in a sense, takes my job. David Cone leaves the pitcher’s mound to take up the world of journalism. He wants to have it both ways.

The only fair thing to do is let me open Game 5 on the mound, for the Mets, right?

Failing that, if Cone is going to persist in moonlighting in this other profession, there are a few things he ought to know. And although I wouldn’t be bold enough to tell him how to pitch to Mike Marshall (although his experiences in the second game would seem to suggest someone should), I thought I might tell him how to handle adjectives. There are a few things about his form and delivery I thought he should work on. I have penned him as follows:

“Dear David:

“It has come to my attention that you have some pretensions to get into the sportswriting dodge. As Durante used to say, everybody wants ta get into da act.

“David, I’ve checked your work, and if you don’t mind my saying so, you’ve got a lot of work to do. You’ve got good stuff, but you are, in a manner of speaking, tipping your pitches.

“As if the poor fellow didn’t have trouble enough, you were quoted as saying of the unfrocked pitcher, Jay Howell: ‘This is the Dodgers’ idea of a stopper? Our idea is Randy Myers, our guy who can blow you away with his heat. We saw Howell throwing curveball after curveball, and seeing Howell and his curveball reminded us of a high school pitcher.’

“You can see from that, David, what pitfalls there are in this business. Turns out, maybe those weren’t curveballs, after all.

“But you’ve got to be be more subtle in this business, anyway. Say something like ‘Jay Howell, who seemed to have a nice curveball, threw 17 of them. He threw 7 strikes, 8 balls and 2 home runs. When someone asked him about it after the game, he said, ‘I don’t understand it. That pitch always worked in high school.’

“You see what I mean? You keep your options. Also, your teeth.

“Calling Orel Hershiser ‘lucky’ just after he has pitched 67 straight innings of shutout ball might be your idea of fearless, fighting journalism. But, you’d never get it past the desk.

“There are ways to do it, David. ‘For the seventh straight game, Orel Hershiser got away with throwing that little peckerwood wrinkle he calls a curveball but the Mets, like several other National League clubs, forgot to wait for him to throw one of his patented mistakes. He got away with it.’

“That’s in the best traditions of sports journalism, David. You have established in one sentence without saying so that 1) Orel Hershiser is lucky; and 2) that the Mets are stupid. You haven’t exactly said so. You don’t have to.

“You can see there’s more to this business than verbs and nouns. It has also come to my attention that you attempted to do a skin-back, a cop-out. You protested that your remarks were ‘facetious.’ You didn’t mean it.

“David! We never--ever!--do that! Never apologize. Never explain. Even if you’re wrong. Especially if you’re wrong. I mean, would Woodward and Bernstein apologize for Watergate? Is anyone going to notice Dan Quayle is kind to animals? No, David, just remember, retractions wind up in the want ads. What you do, if challenged, is snarl, ‘So, go ahead and sue! Our lawyers would just love to get you on the witness stand! We’ll make what we said in the papers make you look as if we admire you, make you look like a church deacon compared to what they’ll dig up.’ Just remember, David, you have the hammer. As someone once told a man threatening suit: ‘Never argue with someone who buys ink by the bucket.’

“Which brings me to the position taken by the club that what you said fired up the Dodgers.

“Don’t worry about that, David. Let me tell you a little story. Many years ago, Cincinnati had a crack relief pitcher named Jim Brosnan. Jim came into town once, and he and I went up on the Sunset Strip to the old Mocambo, and we drew up a column ripping the Dodger lineup. I mean, he took them apart, batter by batter. Two days later, he went in to pitch against them. The announcer, Vin Scully, was impressed. ‘This has to be the bravest man in the league after what he said!’ Vinnie marveled.

“After the game, I asked Jim about that. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What bravery? Do you think Wally Moon isn’t going to hit a home run off me if he can? Whether he hates my guts or thinks I’m the best friend he has? What can they do to me they weren’t going to do already?’

“Baseball isn’t a team game. It’s a series of solo performances. Football is a team game. Putting a clipping on a bulletin board in a football clubhouse can turn the home team into a collection of King Kongs. Putting one in a baseball clubhouse doesn’t make a damn. Steve Sax is going to hit you as hard as he can whether you say he’s a Babe Ruth or a banjo hitter in print.

“Your Mets are well in the driver’s seat in this year’s championship series. Nothing you said had anything to do with it. That’s another thing you have to watch. When a team loses, it is always looking for someone to blame. A journalist is as good as anybody. A journalist who also gets knocked out of the box on the field is at double risk.

“You can always take comfort in the notion that your words about Jay Howell throwing nothing but curveballs may have impelled your manager to get curious as to why a lifelong fastball pitcher is throwing nothing but breaking balls all of a sudden. When he sees a new glove on his hand, a light bulb goes on in his head.

“Now, you’re a real journalist, David. A fink.”