Life, Limb, Wallet Are Threatened

Rejecting diplomatic solutions, batters who are struck, or nearly struck, by pitches they feel have been thrown with suspicious intent have been going to the mound with increasing frequency, trying the case at that location.

What begins as a two-man confrontation quickly escalates into combat involving people from two dugouts, soon joined by people from two bullpens.

A scene of pastoral tranquility--children at play on a carpet of green--quickly degenerates into something untidy.

To help you understand the mentality, not to mention the functions, of those who participate in mound wars, we offer this special report, submitted with no point of view by your impeccable researcher.

Long distinguished for his civility, a nobleman of baseball, Dale Murphy, opposes batters’ practices of taking their grievances to the mound.

Drilled, knocked down and brushed back numberless times, Mr. Murphy has found no cause for fighting, a break for those who throw, considering he rises 6 feet 4 and weighs a hard 215.

“I must make it clear, though,” he explains, “that you can’t play baseball without retaliation. It isn’t practical. So how does a team retaliate? I believe in nice, clean transactions. The other side drills your batter: Your side drills its batter. And the game goes on as if nothing happened.”

“And that would seem the gentlemanly solution?” Murphy is asked.

“It’s the only solution,” he answers. “Bench-clearing is unsatisfactory for a reason anyone can see. Innocent people can be hurt.”

Murphy is asked, “But if a Met pitcher drills Dale Murphy, and a Phillie pitcher then drills Darryl Strawberry, is an innocent person not paying?”

“It’s ugly,” he replies. “But at least it’s a team response. And I see it as better than an individual’s response, such as my going to the mound. Baseball is a team game.”

When a batsman heads for the mound, what is the function of the catcher, the closest defensive player to the aggressor?

“The first thing the catcher would like to do,” says the Dodgers’ Mike Scioscia, “is talk the hitter out of it. The catcher would like to say, ‘Now look, old boy, let’s open dialogue on this issue.’ But the hitter isn’t in a frame of mind to talk. So you follow him toward the mound, wondering how far he will go. If it appears he is going all the way, you do your best to restrain him.”

In that mission, catcher Darren Daulton of the Phillies recently caught up with Dwight Gooden, struck by a pitch and heading for the mound.

According to Bud Harrelson, manager of the Mets, Daulton did more than restrain Gooden. He tackled him and got in some punches to the face, a clear violation of Marquess of Queensberry rules in the eyes of the Mets.

Of course, Gooden earlier in the game had drilled two Phillies.

“Baseball is a stressful occupation,” Scioscia says. “A lot can be going on in a player’s mind. And a high-and-inside pitch may be all it takes to trigger some boiling emotions.”

Last year, for instance, it triggered some emotions in the perennial peacemaker, Scioscia. Pascual Perez threw a fastball that bounced off the bill of his helmet, glancing his eye.

“I didn’t see it as a case for the U.N.,” Scioscia recalls. “I went after him.”

A warrior of discretion, Perez ran, proving that speed is still a formidable defense.

OK, when the battle begins at the mound, what is the posture of the bullpen, located maybe 100 yards away? Does the manager telephone, calling up reserves.?

“When we see trouble,” says Jay Howell, ace of the Dodger bullpen, “We come in, hoping things will be settled by the time we get there. I wouldn’t say we cover the 100 yards in 9.5. “But we make an appearance because it seems the patriotic thing to do. Bullpen people are level-headed. You rarely will see one of us dive into a pileup. If you wear glasses, that’s a good way to get them broken.”

“How do you view batters who go to the mound?” Howell is asked.

“Players today seem to demand direct action,” he answers. “It was better years ago when guys had more patience. They would turn over the case to the pitcher, who was the equalizer.

“I used to hear pitchers say, ‘It took me two years to get that rat, but I got him.’ Today, it’s boom-boom. Guys race out to the mound and throw punches. One day, a guy will start a fight, look around and find no one behind him.”

Howell’s manager, Tom Lasorda, dissuades students of human behavior from trying to find out why hitters go to the mound.

“Logically,” Lasorda says, “there is no reason to start a fight. But who says people who start them are logical? A guy who is normal gets drilled and suddenly you’re looking at a maniac.”

“And these people can’t be defused?” Lasorda is asked.

“If you’re making $2 million a year and you have a vision of that money going out the window because you are hit in the face, can you be defused? If you want to defuse someone, pick a guy who is making $200 a week.”

Since a lot of performers in Lasorda’s time as a player earned such sums, they rarely charged the mound.

“What did they have to protect?” he asks. “They dusted themselves off and got back in the box.”

“Would the head-hunter eventually be avenged?”

“Not necessarily. Often Stan Musial or Willie Mays would. This gave the other teams more to think about.”

Since the catcher is the first line of defense in today’s wars at the mound, does Nick Leyva, manager of Philadelphia, offer guidelines to this soldier?

“I tell him only one thing,” Leyva says. “ ‘Don’t remove your mask.’ ”