These Guys Just Never Grow Up

For further proof that baseball players are the biggest babies in professional sports, consult your nearest playoffs.

Consider just a few of the complaints that have been reported since the American League and National League championship series began:

--”The sun is in my eyes.”

After years and years of moaning about how nice it would be to have October baseball in the daytime again, just the way we old folks did when we were back in school, now we are told by a big league ballplayer that it is unfair to force him to catch a fly ball in bright sunlight.

The second game of the National League playoffs ended with All-Star outfielder Barry Bonds butchering a fly ball because of the sun.

What a dirty trick to play on this poor guy, scheduling a game in the sunshine.

Next thing you know, we’ll make ballplayers play on real grass. It’ll be full of bugs and bumps and little clumps that make the ball bounce funny.

Naturally, television gets the blame. It’s all television’s fault. Imagine the nerve of television, expecting baseball players to be able to play baseball before dark.

--”He showed me up.”

Boy, that Dennis Eckersley sure has his gall, shaking his fist after striking out Dwight Evans to end a big Boston threat.

If this Eckersley was any kind of a gentleman, he would have controlled his emotions the way any normal robot would in that situation.

Yeah, I can see Evans’ point all right. He was part of Eckersley’s wedding party. They were friends. The least the guy could have done was have the decency not to react after recording the biggest strikeout of the biggest game of the season.

Come on, man.

Did Eckersley complain that Kirk Gibson showed him up by pumping his fists near second base after that home run in Game 1 of the 1988 World Series?

Baseball players spend endless hours talking about intensity and enthusiasm and how important they are to a team’s success. Then, the minute Dennis Eckersley releases a little understandable emotion, Dwight Evans acts as though the guy spat in his eye.

He must really hate those NFL guys who spike the football.

--”I don’t want to play here.”

So, Rob Dibble can’t stand to play for Cincinnati anymore. He can’t stand how cheap Marge Schott is. He can’t stand how the team uses him. He can’t stand the thought of playing for the Reds one more day, much less the 3 1/2 years left before he could qualify for free agency.

Nice attitude to bring into the league championship series.

Thanks, Robby baby. Pittsburgh’s motto was “We Are Family.” New York’s was “Ya Gotta Believe.” Cincinnati’s can either be “We Aren’t Family” or “Ya Gotta Be Leaving.”

Dibble says he will bringing this healthy attitude of his to next season’s training camp, where he hopes to whine and sulk enough that the Reds will get sick of him and trade him someplace else.

But always remember, the most important thing to an athlete is winning, no matter what.

--”Everybody expects too much.”

And then there is Barry Bonds, who is unhappy because for the rest of his life everybody intends to compare him to his father, Bobby Bonds, forcing him to try to live up to his daddy’s accomplishments.

Hey, I got big news for Barry Bonds. Until this week, half the baseball fans in this country had probably never even heard of Bobby Bonds. I am willing to wager that most of the kids who collect baseball cards didn’t know if Barry’s father played baseball or ran a plumbing business.

So, Bobby Bonds got 30 homers and 30 steals in five different seasons. Good for him. But it’s not as though Barry Bonds is Babe Ruth Jr., or even the son of Roberto Clemente.

I’m sure Bobby Bonds was a fine major leaguer, but frankly, most of the people I know wouldn’t recognize him if he walked into the room.

Poor Barry, though, has to carry this terrible burden for the rest of his life.

--”The strike zone’s too high.”

I have yet to watch one inning of the baseball playoffs without some batter taking strike three and turning toward the plate umpire as though the guy was wearing a blindfold.

This invariably leads to another in a series of discussions of how the American League has a higher/wider/lower strike zone than the National League, or how the high-income batters get calls that the middle-income (i.e., six-figure) batters don’t get.

All I know is what I learned in Little League:

If it’s too close to take, swing at the damn thing.