He Won’t Understand Doctoring a Baseball

Guy goes into a psychiatrist’s office. Says: “Doc, you gotta help me. My wife thinks she’s a pencil.” Doctor says: “What are you doing about it?” Guy says: “Using a pen.”

Guy goes into a psychiatrist’s office. Says: “Doc, can a man marry an elephant?” Doctor says: “No.” Guy spreads his hands a foot apart and says: “Then would you know where I can get rid of an engagement ring this big?”

Guy goes into a psychiatrist’s office with a pig on his head. Doctor says: “Why did you bring that ugly thing in here?” Guy says: “I’m not sure.” Doctor says: “Pardon me, I was talking to the pig.”

The Dodgers made news the other day by hiring a team psychiatrist. Doctor Dodger.

I assume the guy has a sense of humor. For example, I hear he charges by the inning.

And I hear he already misinterpreted somebody’s use of the word screwball .

And I hear he had to rip up five pages of notes when he found out why pitchers really carry fingernail files in their pockets.

And I hear he has the only couch in California with a seventh-inning stretch.

OK, OK, so psychiatry is hardly a laughing matter. It’s helpful. It’s healthy. Doctors have been giving comfort and aid to patients for centuries now without anyone’s head actually having been shrunken. Psychiatrists have tracked down and caught many a potential problem at the warning track.

But a dugout psychiatrist?

I mean, I’ve heard of doctoring the baseball, but this is really unusual.

How the Dodgers themselves feel about it, I can only wonder. When I spoke to Orel Hershiser the other day, he was concerned that everybody would assume that the Dodgers had drug or drinking problems to contend with, or something equally serious.

Well, maybe they do, maybe they don’t. I did read where several younger guys, mainly in the minor leagues, have experienced some marital complications, which is certainly not a humorous subject.

On the other hand, sometimes humor can carry you through the worst of times.

Tennessee Williams, the playwright, once was asked why he quit seeing his psychoanalyst. He replied: “He was meddling too much in my private life.”

(Funny thing is, his biographer claims that Williams wasn’t kidding.)

Oh, and George Gershwin, the composer, had a friend who mocked psychiatry, asking: “Does it help you with your constipation, George?” To which Gershwin replied: “No, but at least now I understand why I have it.”

You also will hear good Freud jokes from time to time. Heard one the other day, in fact.

Guy says: “I think I might have made a terrible Freudian slip with my wife the other night at dinner.”

Doctor says: “In what way?”

Guy says: “Well, what I meant to say was: ‘Pass the salt, please, dear.’ But what I said was: ‘Give me the salt, you lying, cheating, evil witch.’ ”

I hope the Dodgers work out whatever it is they need to work out. Nice to know they are doing something about this, providing a service to their players.

Maybe the guy can sit in the stands and flash signals, like a third base coach. Finger on the nose means: “You’re having an anxiety attack. Calm down.” Two hands gripping the throat means: “Take two Valium and hit to right.”

I doubt if Doctor Dodger will be all that busy, in reality. Although he might be able to rewrite an entire university thesis if he ever gets to know Mickey Hatcher.

(“Tell me, son, why have you come to see me today with your front teeth blackened out?”)

Like I say, I’m just joking here, but I do have some office scenes in mind.

Eddie Murray telling the doctor, “No comment.”

Or Tom Lasorda taking one of those Rorschach tests. First ink blot: “That looks like a pizza.” Next ink blot: “Cheeseburger.” Ink blot after that: “Ravioli.”

Or Kirk Gibson playing word-association.

Doctor: “Dog?”

Gibson: “What about my dog?”

Doctor: “No, you’re supposed to say, ‘Cat,’ or something.”

Gibson: “That’s the stupidest question I ever heard! ‘Dog.’ Get out of my face with those stupid questions.”

Or Mike Scioscia blocking out the doctor every time he tries to get inside his head.

Or Darryl Strawberry saying: “I don’t care if I’m not at Shea Stadium anymore. I still hear those airplanes buzzing over my head.”

Or the doctor telling Kal Daniels: “And you claim this woman actually had conversations with her St. Bernard?”

And so on.

Just wait until Lasorda tells the guy that he’s a personal friend of Frank Sinatra.

“Sure, sure,” the doctor will say, shaking his head and taking notes. “Maybe you’d better come see me twice a day.”