If They Call, Mauch Should Just Say No

L e Petit General? Say it ain’t so, Gene Mauch. Say you’d rather eat green flies than become manager of the suddenly available Toronto Blue Jays. Say you can feel that bronchitis acting up. Say anything; just don’t say yes should the Blue Jays come calling with a contract anytime soon.

I know, I know: You miss baseball. You miss that everyday fix of simple joys, such as arriving at the stadium shortly after noon for a 7:35 game, or standing behind the batting cage and admiring swings, or having the clubhouse boy bring your pregame snack--half a frozen Snickers bar and a glass of milk. You miss the comradery of the clubhouse, of sitting on the dugout bench swapping stories with your coaches. You miss watching a game develop, wondering at what point you should intervene. And as corny as it must sound, you miss fungo bats, an umpire’s bad breath, cupping a cigarette in the dugout corridor, the 6-4-3, naive rookies, appreciative veterans and most of all, winning.

But do you remember losing? Can you say Maalox? Do you recall that little speech you gave the day you retired? You mentioned the hurt, the emotional pain of losing a baseball game. Some managers build up an immunity to a loss. It’s like a beekeeper: after awhile, he doesn’t notice the stings so much.

But you’re not like that, Mr. Mauch. Tough and gruff on the outside, a churning caldron on the inside. You care too much. You could out-analyze Einstein. Your instant replay doesn’t seem to have an off button.

I remember the opening of the 1986 season. The Angels vs. the lowly Seattle Mariners. In the Kingdome. The Angels lost the game on some late-inning home run. Meanwhile, you lost your temper. “I’ve got nothing to say,” you snarled as a reporter meekly stepped into your office. “They won the game,” you said, gesturing toward the Mariner clubhouse, “go talk to them.”

Think about it: one game out of a managing career that would eventually endure 2,037 losses and yet, you could muster that sort of emotion. I marveled at your intensity. I also wondered when the cork would pop.

And now you want to manage again?

Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Mauch; the Blue Jays could use you. It is a clubhouse divided, a batting order in disarray, a bullpen in need of calm. The Blue Jays don’t need a miracle worker as much as they need someone they can respect. So if I’m Toronto General Manager Pat Gillick, I think I would include you on the list of candidates.

And I could see the attraction between you and the Blue Jays. This is a team that was selected by many followers--fans and experts, alike--to win the AL East. They have at least two dependable starters, two reliable relievers, plenty of gifted hitters, a decent defense and a new stadium. They have that wonderful word, potential. Turns out it was a curse.

I know what you’re probably doing. I bet you’re sitting in Rancho Mirage right now wondering what it would be like to jot down the names of Kelly Gruber, Fred McGriff and George Bell on a lineup card. You’re thinking how nice it would be to have Jimmy Key or Dave Stieb pitch for you, not against you. You’re figuring that relievers Tom Henke and Duane Ward can’t be as bad as they’ve pitched thus far.

You’re looking at the box scores and smiling. You’ve already decided how you would tinker with the lineup, rearrange the rotation, realign the bullpen. You think--and rightly so--that the AL East belongs to no one. The Boston Red Sox are mired in this ‘Go vs. Wade thing. The New York Yankees aren’t exactly the Bronx Bombers this year. The Milwaukee Brewers don’t seem to be scaring the league. The Cleveland Indians still need pitching. The Baltimore Orioles are no threat. The Detroit Tigers start Gary Pettis, which should tell you all you need to know about their chances. So the outlook is favorable.

Don’t do it, Mr. Mauch. Call the starter’s box and make a tee-off time. Go sink a 30-foot putt with a $10 Nassau on the line. Go take a seat on your condo porch, sip on a beverage and glance contendedly at the desert sun. You need another managing job like the 405 needs gridlock.

What happens the first time enfant terrible Bell throws one of his celebrated tantrums? He’s done it before; he’ll do it again. What happens if the Blue Jay starting staff turns out to be only two-deep? What do you do if the relievers keep botching save opportunities?

Trust me, it isn’t worth the trouble. Anyway, you wouldn’t look good in powder blue.