Joe Should Advise Him to Hit the Road, Jack

When Joe McIlvaine journeyed to Los Angeles Wednesday night to meet with his Padres for the first time, he could have dispensed with one of 1990’s biggest problems with fewer than a few words.

One word would suffice, to be precise.

Goodby.

OK, two more.

Jack Clark.

The man has spent so much of the season with his foot in his mouth, he should go to a cobbler rather than a dentist. Yo, Jack, is that your mouth or a shoe store?

Neither wit nor wisdom have spewed forth, but Clark has not been at a loss for words.

His specialty has been vitriol, and much of that has been directed at Mr. Tony Gwynn. When Gwynn, in the aftermath of a season-ending injury, abandons the team without a farewell, something is wrong.

Jack Clark.

He and Tony Gwynn get along about as well as Jerry Glanville and Sam Wyche.

Who knows when this started? Undoubtedly, it was long before the celebrated clubhouse blowup in New York last May. That was merely when it hit the surface. And it has festered since, exploding again last week when Clark took a few more shots at his injured teammate.

Excerpts . . .

“You hear all this talk about Mr. Padre, Mr. San Diego, and all that crap. I just want to laugh.”

And . . .

“It shouldn’t be, ‘Poor little Tony, making $1 million and batting .300.’ That’s not something you should be pouting about. How about the kids in wheelchairs and those people?”

And . . .

“He let his wife do a lot of talking for him. It’s like, ‘Tony, do you put your foot down, or do you let your wife talk for you?’ Hey, maybe we should all get our wives involved in the decision-making process.”

Wait a minute, aren’t both spouses normally involved in the decision-making process?

Who is this guy? Victor Kiam?

Maybe Clark’s wife should be doing the talking in the family. Clark isn’t doing too well on his own. The guy who ripped Gwynn’s concern for making a relatively modest, by today’s standards, $1 million a year was the same guy who said a $2.5 million offer to him was an insult.

Figure it out, Jack. It can’t be both ways.

What is it about this guy that he cannot get along with Tony Gwynn? Gwynn is the kind of person you hope your daughter brings home. When the house next door goes up for sale, you hope a guy like Gwynn buys it. Ripping Tony Gwynn is like ripping a sunny day.

And yet Jack Clark does it, at first quietly, then loudly and finally publicly.

Even curmudgeonly Dick Williams, who has little praise for anyone in his book No More Mr. Nice Guy, had nothing but nice things to say about Gwynn both professionally and personally.

If it’s any consolation to Gwynn, he’s not the only superstar to incur Clark’s wrath.

Look at what he had to say about former St. Louis teammate Ozzie Smith last year: “Ozzie Smith is in this only to make himself look better. That’s all he cares about. He butters up the Cardinal organization so, when things go wrong, somebody else can take the fall. Guys like Ozzie Smith are a speck, just a speck. You just dust him away.”

At about this point, it should be obvious who should be dusted away . . . though it cannot be said Jack Clark is just a speck.

Instead, Clark is a specter of what is wrong with the Padres. In this most disruptive of seasons, he has stirred the most haunting memories.

Jack Clark is the first problem Joe McIlvaine must confront and solve.

Clark and Gwynn cannot both be part of the 1991 Padres. One of them has to go. That decision is the easy one.

Given no choice but to dispose of Clark, McIlvaine’s chore becomes a bit tougher. How he goes about it and what he gets in return will set the initial course for his administration as the Padres’ vice-president in charge of baseball.

This was the unresolved problem that cost Jack McKeon both of his jobs.

McIlvaine must address it and address it quickly.

Surely, an American League team can use a designated hitter or a National League team can use a designated tongue.

In the meantime, Jack Clark should shut his mouth and try doing something he does not seem to be very good at.

Listening.

Or just read my lips.

Goodby.