With Padres' Davis, It's Only News When the Other Guy Scores

By BOB NIGHTENGALE

Aug. 25, 1989 12 AM PT

Times Staff Writer

SAN DIEGO —

Candy Davis reads it in the newspapers. She sees it on the television. She hears it on the talk shows.

She just wants to scream.

“I hear it at least once a week, and it makes me so mad,” she said. “Everyone keeps talking about those three games in Houston. They say those are the games that cost us the season.

“I’m thinking, ‘Come on.’ There’s been a lot of losses, why pick out those three? Why should those games be any different than the other ones we lost? It’s not right.”

But two of those three consecutive losses, on June 6-8, just happen to be ones in which the Padres blew a 7-4 lead in the ninth one night, and a 5-2 lead in the ninth in another. Those are the games, the Padres say, that punctured a gaping hole in their lifeline to the playoffs, starting a 10-18 skid from which they have yet to recover.

The Padres open a nine-game home stand tonight (7:05) against the New York Mets, still 10 games behind San Francisco. And with just 35 games remaining, the way outfielder Tony Gwynn has it figured, the Padres can afford to lose all of three the rest of the way.

“I’m not putting the blame on any one person, I’m blaming all of us when I say this,” Gwynn said, “but those games in Houston just killed us. I said at the time they might come back to haunt us, and they have.”

Those games just happen to be two of the only three that Mark Davis, Candy’s husband, has blown in 34 save opportunities this season as the Padres’ bullpen stopper.

“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” said Pat Dobson, the Padre pitching coach. “The guy’s had just a phenomenal season. He’s been as consistent as can be. Really, we’re just talking about one bad week all season.

“I’d sure hate to see how many games we’d be out if we didn’t have the guy.”

Davis’ success is taken so much for granted that it only becomes a story when he fails. Why else was Davis ignored by reporters the afternoon of Aug. 5, when he recorded his career-high 29th save? Why else, when he enters the game, do fans leave the ballpark trying to beat the traffic crunch?

“That stuff doesn’t bother me,” Davis said. “Really, people can talk about it all they want on the TV. They can write in the papers. The guys in the clubhouse can talk about it all they want.

“But I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want anyone to say anything to my face about it. That’s a part of our season that wasn’t a pleasant time, so why bring it up?

“I know it’s the story now when I do bad. When I do good, it usually means that the starter does well, too, so everybody talks to them. I can live with all that.

“But to hear people blame me for what’s happened this season, to hear people say that if we hadn’t lost those two games we’d be right there close to the top, that’s just not right. How about the other 60-some we lost?”

Said Mark Grant, Davis’ closest friend on the team: “That’s totally ridiculous. That’s horrible. This guy’s busting his behind, trying to get people out. He’s not going to be perfect every time. I don’t know what people are thinking when they say that kind of stuff.”

That’s the price you pay when you’ve emerged not only as the best reliever on your team, but perhaps the best bullpen stopper in baseball.

Davis, a two-time All-Star, is tied for Mitch Williams of the Cubs for the major-league lead with 31 saves. But with Williams already having blown nine save opportunities, Davis is running away with the Rolaids Relief Man Award in the National League. He not only can become the first Padre to win the award since Rollie Fingers in 1980, but also can eclipse Fingers’ club-record 37 saves in 1978.

He has become a starter’s best friend by allowing just 12 of 50 inherited baserunners to score this season, 18 of 101 the past two seasons. Since his last blown save June 24, Davis has been successful in each of his past 13 save opportunities, recording a 0.92 ERA.

“In my mind,” starter Ed Whitson said, “there’s not a better reliever in all of baseball. How can there be? You know, I’ve always hated being taken out of games--I always have, and I always will--but when I see that boy warming up, it don’t hurt nearly as much. When he comes in, it’s automatic.”

Even Candy Davis says: “You know, I’m probably guilty of the same thing. I’ll be at home with the radio on, and they’ll say he’s coming in, and I think, ‘Oh good, the game’s about over. He’ll be here soon.’

“Then he’ll give up a hit. Or walk somebody. Or something will happen. And the game will last a little longer.

“So when he comes through the door, I’ll say, ‘Why you have to make it so interesting? Why can’t you make it one-two-three.’

“He’ll just look at me and laugh.”

Mark Davis walks into a crowded New York restaurant in which customers sit with their eyes peeled, waiting to get a glimpse of a movie star, politician or sports celebrity stepping through the doors.

They take one look at Davis, drops their heads and take another bite of food. Just another average Joe, they figure. Probably an insurance salesman.

Why, even when Davis is getting out of the cab and walking through a mob of autograph seekers into a stadium, he’ll hear kids shout out: “Mr. Grant, Mr. Grant. Are you Tim Flannery? You’re Mark Parent, right? Will you sign this Mr. Rasmussen? Nice hit last night, Mr. Nelson.”

“I just fit right into that generic role,” said Davis, 28, 6-feet and 203 pounds. “I’m just one of those average-looking guys with an average-looking face and an average-looking physique.

“Nobody knows who I am outside my uniform.

“In Philadelphia one time, a guy game up to me with a Randy Lerch baseball card and asked me to sign it. I told him that I wasn’t Randy. He didn’t believe me. He insisted I sign his card.

“So I signed it.

“Mark Davis.”

On a team with Tony Gwynn, Jack Clark and Bruce Hurst, Davis remains anonymous even in San Diego.

He never has been asked to do a commercial endorsing a product.

He has no radio show.

He has even been waiting four months to receive the supply of shoes he ordered from the manufacturer in April.

Why, no wonder he lives in relative obscurity. There is no drooping mustache or Fu Man Chu, like Sparky Lyle or Goose Gossage. He doesn’t have the quips of Dan Quisenberry. He doesn’t figure out how many different ways there to kill someone, like Randy Myers.

“What can I say?” Davis said, “I’m just a boring guy.”

The most daring episodes on the road, his teammates say, are seeing how many times he can eat at Taco Bell in one day. His late-night activity consists of watching ESPN’s SportsCenter. His idea of a cold one is a chocolate sundae.

Davis also will never fill a reporter’s notebook with bold, brash statements. Then again, how can he? The guy never looks at his stats until the season ends. The only way he knows how many saves and victories he has, he says, is from watching TV sports each night.

“Once in a while, someone will try to tell me about some streak I have going,” he said, “and I’ll have to say, ‘Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. I don’t want to hear it. I really don’t. We’ll talk about it at the end of the season, not now.’ ”

You would never suspect a thing unusual about Davis. Really. That is, unless you start spending a lot of time around him.

“You can say what you want about him,”’ teammate Tim Flannery said, “but I’m telling you right now, the guy is goofy. He’s just weird. Every time I walk by him, I say, ‘You’re weird. You’re weird. You’re weird.’

“I think he takes it as a compliment.”

Davis was nicknamed “Goofy,” by Flannery just weeks after he arrived from San Francisco in July 1987. It took a matter of minutes for it to stick.

“It all came about,” Flannery said, “when we went to Cincinnati on a road trip. I was rooming next door to him, and I heard this loud sound blaring from his room. I thought he was just messing with me, you know, like it was an act or something, but it wasn’t.

“I knocked on his door, and he had his TV on full blast and the speakers from his CD player on full blast at the same time. He was dividing his attention between the two, and I guess he thought he had to have them both on full blast to be able to do it.

“I told him right there, ‘Hey, here are the camp rules: No loud music after midnight.’

“I don’t know if he still makes all that racket or not, to tell you the truth, I just make sure my room isn’t next to his on the road anymore.

“I tell you, being the role he’s in, if you’re not nuts already, this job will drive you nuts. But in his case, I think he was already nuts.”

But Davis is most dangerous as the clubhouse prankster. Oh, he’s seldom blamed for anything, and few ever suspect his involvement, but you almost always can bet that Davis had something to do with the latest gag.

“He instigates it,” Grant said, “but I do it.”

One of their best, they say, is the time at Cincinnati this year when they came up with the idea that instead of the usual hot-foot treatment, they’d try a twist with it and make it a hot rear-end gag.

They soaked a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol and taped it to the bottom of Ed Whitson’s metal chair. While Davis made sure that Whitson was distracted, Grant got on his hands and knees, snuck underneath Whitson’s chair and lit the cotton ball afire.

In a matter of seconds, poor old Whitson was jumping from his chair, his eyes bulging, his rear end smoking.

He vowed to pay Grant back.

Davis simply stood in the background, giggling as if he were an innocent bystander.

Davis’ forte is gag gifts. Exploding cigarettes. Snapping money. Stink bombs. Black chewing gum. Plastic tarantulas. You name it, Davis has it.

“You’ve got watch yourself at all times around those guys,” said Garry Templeton, the Padre captain. “They’re the two goofiest guys on the team. And one’s just as goofy as the other.”

Perhaps this is why kids, particularly those from out of town, frequently confuse Grant with Davis and vice versa. Davis could care less. With his ego, you could mix him up with the batboy and he wouldn’t mind.

“I just hope they mix us up at contract time,” Grant said.

Mark and Candy Davis were out to dinner on July 4, 1987, in Chicago with Ryne Sandberg, Bobby Dernier and their wives. Kelly Downs, Davis’ teammate with the San Francisco Giants, stayed back, watching the kids.

When the Davis’ returned from dinner, Downs told him that Giants’ President Al Rosen had just called. Davis didn’t believe him. Surely it must be another prank.

Finally, Downs was convincing enough that Davis made the call. Rosen’s line was busy. Davis’ instincts told him he must have been traded. But to where? For whom?

The phone rang again. This time, Davis answered. It was a stranger.

“This is Doc Mattei, traveling secretary for the Padres.

Davis: “What? What? Who is this?”

Mattei: “You haven’t heard, yet?

Davis: “Heard what? What”

Mattei: “Oh, I better call you later.”

“When I put the phone down,” Davis said, “I said, ‘Well, I guess I’m a San Diego Padre.’ ”

The deal, as Davis remembers it being described on TV, was Dave Dravecky and Craig Lefferts for Chris Brown and a host of others.

Yeah, Davis and Grant, were included among the host of others.

And why not? Davis, an original No. 1 draft pick by the Philadelphia Phillies organization, had a big league record of 26-49, including a 5-17 season in 1984 and a 5-12 season in 1985.

Instead of jockeying him back and forth between starter and reliever, the Padres told him he’d strictly be a reliever. By the following April, he had become their primary stopper. Today, he is certainly considered among the elite, if not the best, in the game.

“When he first came over here,” Dobson said, “his mechanics were messed up, and I don’t think he was happy the way he was treated before. The only question was whether he could handle the role, capable of coming with it.

“You look at him now, and it’s just unbelievable. There are days when he comes, and the guy’s unhittable. I mean, when he’s got that curveball working, to go along with the fastball, it’s just no contest. The batters may as well pack it in. He’s just electric.

“And you know what the scary thing is? There’s no doubt in my mind that he’s going to get better.”

The scary aspect for the Padres?

They still have to sign him. Davis, who is earning $600,000 in 1989, is eligible to be a free agent at the end of the season.

The negotiations have been on hold, simply because Davis refuses to involve himself with distractions, but are expected to resume in late September or early October.

“We definitely want to sign Mark Davis,” said General Manager Tony Siegle, “and hopefully we will. I hope to have the conversation started with his agents before the season’s over.

“Believe me, we want him back.”

Said Dobson: “The great thing about M.D. is no matter what he gets, and I don’t care if it’s $200,000 a year or $2 million a year, he’s going to act exactly the same. That’s just his personality.

“Well, I’ll tell you what kind of guy he is. I’ve got a standing bet with him that if he throws a fastball down and away on an oh-and-two count, I’ll fall off the bench. He’s done it twice now, and he keeps reminding me that I owe him two falls.

“That’s the thing about him. I don’t think he cares if he gets the hitter out or not, he just wants to see me fall off the bench.

“The guy’s goofy, isn’t he?

“But that’s probably what makes him so damn good, too.”

TO THE RESCUE

Padres’ yearly save leaders:

1969: Billy McCool 7

1970: Tom Dukes 10

1971: Al Severinsen 8

1972: Mike Corkins 6

1973: Mike Caldwell 10

1974: Vincente Romo 9

1975: Danny Frisella 9; Bill Greif 9