This Dodger Is Dependable, Not Flashy

It was the bottom of the second inning of a scoreless game. Two were out, nobody was on and the Cincinnati Reds’ no-hit pitcher, Tom Browning, was throwing strikes.

He got two of them to the Dodger batter, John Shelby, but then, Shelby hit what appeared to be a routine ground ball down the third-base line.

Protocol calls for the batter in this situation to throw his bat in disgust and lope down to first base in a symbolic trot, gnashing his teeth.

But Shelby took off as if a posse were chasing him. He crossed the bag a split second before the throw.

A few moments later, Rick Dempsey hit what the players call a “gapper,” a soft liner between the outfielders, to right-center. It didn’t go all the way to the wall, just far enough for Shelby, taking off at the crack of the bat, to slide home with what would prove to be all the runs the Dodgers needed that night.

They don’t keep the statistic, “game-winning hit,” anymore. If they did, Dempsey’s double would qualify. But the plain facts of the matter are, Shelby’s was the game-winning hit. It wasn’t really a hit at all. It was an infield out he didn’t give up on.

No one ever called John Shelby the Franchise. He’s not one of your million-dollar players. What he is, is as dependable as a sunrise. What you get is nine, or more, innings of impeccable baseball night after night. What you get is a guy who runs out ground balls, chases down line drives, never makes waves. In short, a pro.

The Dodgers got him for a phone call. He was a throw-in in the trade that sent Tom Niedenfuer to the Baltimore Orioles. Shelby was in the minor leagues at the time, in Rochester.

He was the biggest bargain since Alaska.

Baseball men call it “the pennant line.” It’s the stretch of ground beginning with the catcher and running through the pitcher’s mound, shortstop and second baseman and ending up with the center fielder. It’s the backbone of the ballclub. Chintz on any of those positions and forget the playoffs.

Pitchers would rather have it than a lineup of .300 hitters. The Dodgers have one of the best.

Baseball teams can make do with adequate people at the corners. Left fields are full of guys who can’t throw, can’t go back on the ball, lack speed or quickness--but can hit. Managers keep marginal players on the roster to caddie for these kinds of left fielders--go in for them for defensive purposes in the late innings. It’s nice if first and third basemen can field with grace and precision. But if they can hit, managers don’t care if they have to knock down ground balls with their chests.

Center field is the pivotal position. A good center fielder is a guy who gets hits with his glove. The patron saint of the breed was Terry Moore, a guy who hit .300 only once in his career but was supposed to be so finely tuned he could play the position blindfolded.

Willie Mays almost retired the position with 7,095 putouts in his career, many of them three-base hits, but the record books indicate that Richie Ashburn of the Phillies was a center fielder for the ages. Nine straight years he led the league in putouts. Four times he caught more than 500 outs and nine times more than 400.

Richie’s trouble was, he could hit. Nine times, he hit over .300. Once he hit .350. Twice he led the league. He never got his due because he distracted people by being too good a hitter.

On the night John Shelby legged out the game-saving hit, he made two rally-killing catches, one an inning-opening drive by Kal Daniels that seemed to take off like a second-stage rocket just as it reached him. He scored a run and saved two. That’s what a center fielder is supposed to do.

Football needs linebackers, hockey needs penalty-killers, basketball needs off-guards. And baseball needs its pennant line.

If John Shelby is under-appreciated, it’s because he has no flair for self-promotion. Well-liked on the team--where he answers to the nickname Bone, for T-bone, his favorite delicacy--and well-respected in the league, Shelby is like a dependable mechanic. He’s on time, in shape, steady, reliable, the perfect temperament for a center fielder--or anything else. You get your money’s worth from John Shelby. He’s grateful to the Dodgers for bailing him out of the minor leagues, where he didn’t belong, and putting him into the World Series, where he does.

You know all you need to know about John Shelby when you recall the playoffs last year. In the ninth inning of the first game, with one out and two on, he charged a Texas League pop-up by the Mets’ Gary Carter but couldn’t quite hold onto it, and before the ball could be retrieved, the Mets had scored the two winning runs.

Dissolve then to Game 4 of the National League playoffs in New York. It is the bottom of the 12th inning, the bases are loaded, two out, and as the dangerous Kevin McReynolds comes to bat, the Dodgers call on Orel Hershiser to get the final out. McReynolds hits a blooper to center. With the runners circling madly around the bases, Shelby doesn’t hesitate. He makes a diving catch. If he drops that one, the series is 3-1 Mets and there might have been no Dodger World Series the next week.

If there’s a rap against John Shelby, it’s that he strikes out a lot--128 times last year. Of course, so did Babe Ruth. But John is no Sultan of Swat. Nor does he have to be. When he joined the Dodgers, in ‘87, he hit 21 home runs, more than any other center fielder in the league. He thought he had to. The team needed a big swing.

But now, with Kirk Gibson, Mike Marshall and Eddie Murray in the lineup, the team should be up to its ears in home runs. “I guess I need to learn to hit two-base hits,” poker-faces Shelby.

He already knows how to catch them.