These Team Owners Live in Their Very Own World

They have become a phenomenon. A sickness. An obsession.

Rotisserie baseball leagues: Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.

Have you ever been cornered at, say, a dinner party by a guy with bad breath, a morsel of cheese dip dangling from his chin, and all he wants to talk about are his split-times for a 10K race he ran, or how he really thinks a Crescent wrench is the most valuable tool in a tool box?

Now take that conversation, multiply the boredom by 1,000, and that’s what it is like to be an outsider in the middle of a Rotisserie league talk. Yak, yak, yak. Drafted this. Wheeled and dealed for that. It’s enough to make you crazy. Crazy enough, of course, to join not one, but two of these idiotic and perfectly wasteful leagues.

Your life changes. Box scores become the center of your universe. Domestic tranquility is permanently threatened as you hunch over the morning sports page.

Wife: “Honeybunch, your breakfast is getting cold.”

Husband: “Will you be quiet! Can’t you see that Mike Witt’s hits and walks to innings pitched ratio is climbing? Have you no compassion? I can’t possibly eat again.”

Your mind wanders. You constantly wonder how “your” players are doing. It consumes you, enough so that it affects your work. For instance, here are some of the column leads I didn’t use today:

According to reliable estimates, there are a half million people in the United States and Canada who belong to Rotisserie baseball leagues. I am one of them. Here is my story. It is sad.

Or. . .

I was working the morning shift when the man, mysterious and coy, approached me.

“Trade you Charlie Leibrandt for Ellis Burks,” he said.

I laughed. “We’re married to Ellis Burks,” I said. “Take a hike before I give you a knuckle sandwich.” My name’s Friday. I carry a badge.

You see?

What I needed was some perspective, some voices of reason. Without a Rotisserie Anonymous available, I sought help at Anaheim Stadium. My therapists? The Angels and Oakland Athletics.

First up, Angel public relations director Tim Mead.

“They drive us absolutely . . . nuts,” said Mead, his voice rising. He was talking about Rotisserie league enthusiasts. And in a sense, he was talking about me.

“We get, conservatively, five to seven calls a day,” he said. “Anytime a guy doesn’t appear in a box score, and he’s one of our regulars, we’ll get phone calls. When (shortstop Dick) Schofield went out, we got 10 phone calls. Or we’ll get, ‘Is (Dante) Bichette going to stay in the lineup?’ We get calls after (Jim) Abbott pitches. They’ll call and say, ‘Do you look for a change in the starting rotation?’ They don’t identify themselves.

“And don’t ever tell (a Rotisserie league member) that a player is on a day-to-day basis,” Mead said. “Because if he’s not in the lineup in two days, they’ll call back on the third.”

I nodded gravely, as if to say I would never stoop to such bothersome tactics. I was in a league with principles, with character. And by the way, I asked, how bad was Schofield’s injury?

The players were next. Surely they could make some sense of the Rotisserie craze. After all, they are the stars, the product. No doubt they’re disgusted with the way these leagues have cartwheeled out of control. It’s darn near a cottage industry now, what with price guides, scouting services, computerized tabulation of Rotisserie league statistics available.

It must be stopped, right?

Well, not exactly, said A’s outfielder Dave Henderson, who, by the way, made his Rotisserie owners happy last year with a memorable season.

“It keeps them interested every day in what you do,” he said. “(Rotisserians) tell you, ‘We need more stolen bases,’ or ‘Hit more doubles, we get more points.’

“Like we’re going to go out and do what they need so they can win their Rotisserie leagues,” he said.

Henderson smiled when he said all this. He obviously isn’t upset about the attention. And with good reason.

“My agent and my wife were in (leagues) last year and neither one of them had me,” Henderson said. “Now they’re trying to trade for me and they can’t get me. What a difference a year makes.”

Tell it to Angel reliever Greg Minton, who, according to at least one price book, dropped in Rotisserie value this season because of his move from save candidate to set-up man for Bryan Harvey.

“Am I in the dollar figures?” he said.

Told yes, but that he could be had for just $12 (compared to $19 last year), Minton remained ecstatic.

“I’d like to get one of those books,” he said. “My wife swears I’m worth $1.80. If I can show her I’m worth $12, she may even like me again.”

Actually, Minton considers the Rotisserie experience a compliment.

“At my stage in my career, I didn’t think anybody had drafted me in the last three or four years,” he said. “I usually get the people who say, ‘Minton . . . Minton . . . wait a second, it will come to me . . . Minton.”’

No such problem for Angel outfielder Devon White, who intrigues Rotisserians with his ability to hit for average and power, as well as steal bases. He is a Rotisserie favorite, as if he didn’t know it.

“People say, ‘You’re on my team. You better get some base hits,’ ” White said. “The main thing they tell me is to stay healthy. Last year (White missed 40 games), it seemed like I let a lot of people down in Rotisserie leagues.

“But I would imagine it’s fun for them,” he said. “You get to pick an all-star team. I would think it’s pretty fun.”

Not all players understand the Rotisserie religion. A’s pitcher Dave Stewart, a star in both the American and fantasy leagues, still doesn’t know how the whole thing works.

“This is new stuff,” he said. “All we used to trade was baseball cards. It was never this complicated.”

I felt vindicated. Maybe Rotisserie leagues weren’t so horrible after all. Perhaps there is a place for them. The players don’t seem to mind their existence.

Satisfied, I returned to the office. The phone rang. Line 1.

“Hello,” I said.

“Yes, can you tell me how bad Johnny Ray’s wrist injury is?” the voice said. The call was long distance.

“Sure, he’s on the 15-day disabled list and--wait a second, who is this?” I said.

“Uh, I’m a Wall Street broker and I’m in a Rotisserie league . . . “

Click.