The Man Behind It All

On the night of Sept. 9, 1991, in Cincinnati, Norman Wood Charlton III paid Michael Lorri Scioscia the ultimate compliment one ballplayer can pay another. He tried to hit him in the neck. With a deadly weapon. A five-ounce, 90-m.p.h. fastball. If he did it on the streets, he’d go to jail.

It is considered proper form in matters of these kinds for the pitcher to act aggrieved, to announce loudly, “I don’t throw at .260 hitters” and otherwise acquire an air of injured innocence.

Norm Charlton was having none of that. Charlton’s reaction was, “I did it and I’m glad.” or, “I’d do it again.”

The point was, Norm Charlton knew he wasn’t throwing at any old .260 hitter. He was throwing at the heart and soul of the Dodgers. The ostensible reason was, Scioscia had been stealing signs. But everyone knows Mike Scioscia does a lot more for the Dodgers than steal signs.

It’s hard to compute what a solid, dependable catcher means to a contending ballclub. The “pennant line,” that mythical drawing of the core of a winner, begins with the catcher--then goes through the mound, the keystone combination and center field. But the catcher is the anchor. Teams win without hitting some times; speed, others, and defense occasionally. They never win without a top-of-the-line receiver.

A catcher can’t be temperamental, reckless, flashy. He makes his living like a charlady--on his knees. He is the last line of defense and, next to the pitcher, whom he has to handle like a movie director handles a star, he is the first line of defense as well.

It’s interesting to note that in almost all the cast of characters the game likes to call “colorful”--the flakes, the hotdogs, the temper losers, the brawlers--almost none of them are catchers. The catcher has to be a rock--unexcitable, unflappable, highly observant, always ready. He has to catch up to 150 thrown balls a night that are curving, knuckling, sinking, sliding, bouncing or otherwise trying to get away from him and the batter.

He has to duck foul tips, which have been known to maim. He sometimes even has to duck flying bats. He has to throw out baserunners with Olympic speed.

And then he has to block the plate while some 200-pound, anthracite-hard baserunner with approximately the speed and power of a runaway truck barrels into him. This, Mike Scioscia does better than any catcher who ever played the game. Scioscia guards home plate the way a mother bear guards her cubs. And he has the limps and lumps to prove it.

Nearly 70 times in his big league career, Scioscia has played Horatius at the bridge and held off the National League hordes. Some of his collisions have been seismic.

Bo Jackson with a football never hit a line any harder than a baserunner carrying the winning run home. Pete Rose once crashed home with the winning run in an All-Star game and ruined Ray Fosse’s career. But if you’ll check the record, you will find that when Pete Rose crashed into Mike Scioscia in a game in Philadelphia in 1980, Pete was not only down, he was out.

Some catchers flinch when they hear what football players call “footsteps.” Scioscia shakes his head. “I never heard a baserunner in my life. I never listened for one. I don’t say that arrogantly. I just stay focused on the baseball. Once I got that, home plate is mine.”

A catcher’s lot, like a policeman’s, is not a happy one. On the hottest days, he has to wear what seems like a ton of padded equipment. He has to see the game through a restricting mask. He has to wear a mitt the size of a pizza.

Catchers of the past had it easier. It is a matter of record that, in 1938, Stanley Hack led the National League in stolen bases for the season with 16. That’s not even a good month for Rickey Henderson.

Not only are the runners faster, so are the surfaces. Runners get the kind of artificial runways that have moved the world’s speed records down to 9.8 seconds nowadays. They don’t encounter the sandy footing Ty Cobb had to run through.

“I figure you got about 2.9 seconds to get a baserunner on turf today,” Scioscia allows. “They can run the distance in what, 3.5 seconds? They got a lead which cuts the 90 feet somewhat. I figure the pitcher has got to get you the ball in 1.3 seconds. This gives you 1.9 seconds to get the ball out of your glove and throw it 125 feet.”

The catcher not only has to catch the pitches, he has to call them. This, in turn, calls for a working knowledge not only of the pitcher’s abilities but also the batter’s.

The Dodgers used five pitchers in one inning the other night, tying a major league record. This is another thing old-line catchers never had to concern themselves with. A pitcher went nine innings in those days. He and the catcher got in a rhythm. A complete game today is an artifact.

If all Mike Scioscia did was keep a pitching staff on target and keep the ball from rolling to the backstop, he would still be a key to the pennant. But he keeps coming up with important hits at the least-expected times. He has about as many home runs lifetime as Babe Ruth got in a season, but they are as opportune as the cavalry showing up at the right time.

Kirk Gibson hit probably the most celebrated home run in the history of the franchise in the 1988 World Series. But he would never have gotten to hit it if Mike Scioscia hadn’t hit the most improbable homer of the season--it was only his fourth that year--off Dwight Gooden in the ninth inning of the fourth game of the pennant playoff that year with two outs and Gooden’s Mets leading 4-2 and ready to go up 3-1 in games.

And only two weeks ago, Scioscia’s sixth homer of the season beat Pittsburgh in a game that could prove pivotal.

Norm Charlton knew what he was doing, aiming a fastball at Scioscia. It was aimed right at the Dodgers’ wheelhouse. It was, sound battlefield strategy, cut the communications center. That’s what Scioscia is to the Dodgers.