Only One Way to Beat This Heat

The heat. The heat. The heat of a balmy day in palm-treed L.A., where bare arms and legs stuck like adhesive to an automobile’s leather seats. The heat of a pennant race in the national pastime, where one town’s baseball players kept breathing down the necks of another’s, hot on their trail, hot on their tails, hotter than Georgia asphalt.

The mercury reached 100 degrees on the first day of October here in the city of angels, with enough sunshine left over to lay some off on Pittsburgh. OK, so it was one of those L.A. days when a writer couldn’t help but think of Raymond Chandler, or filch from Larry Gelbart, because there was enough mystery in the Chavez Ravine air to keep everyone on the edge of his or her seat.

The Dodgers didn’t lose. Couldn’t lose. Wouldn’t lose. There are some tough customers from Atlanta they cannot shake. These guys are relentless. When you think you’ve lost them, you turn around and they are there. You look in your rear-view mirror and there’s some character with an “A” on his hat. You dodge and dodge, but they don’t go away. They stick to you like a bug to a windshield.

Looking behind them is not the Dodgers’ style. Hearing footsteps is not their way. They know the Braves are there. They know the Braves are desperate to catch them. They know the Braves keep coming. They try to ignore them. They go about their own business. They take care of themselves.

Hours before doing away with San Diego, 3-1, the Dodgers knew the score. At times they pretend they don’t, but they do. They know exactly what Atlanta is doing, at all times. Don’t let anybody kid you about that. It was 5:30 p.m. in the city of angels and the Dodgers knew precisely where their shadows were. They were in Cincinnati, Ohio, trailing by six runs.

Brett Butler of the Dodgers was hardly blue over the news that the Braves had been plugged six times. It was music to his ears. Nothing could be cooler on a hot afternoon than to hear that another team was finally doing the Dodgers a favor, doing bad things to the Braves, putting a little more distance between the Dodgers and their tormentors.

But, this being Hollywood, stories don’t always turn out the way you expect them to turn out. What was it Chandler wrote? Hollywood is the kind of town where somebody sticks a knife in your back, then has you arrested for concealing a dangerous weapon.

OK, so the Braves were behind, 6-0.

“Doesn’t mean the game’s over yet,” a wiseguy said to Butler.

“Hey, way to be optimistic,” Butler said.

If the Dodgers were behind by six runs after one inning, they wouldn’t care to hear that the game was over. Neither do the Braves. The Braves keep pounding, pounding, pounding. The Dodgers can hear them out there, thousands of miles away. They could practically hear David Justice’s game-winning home run ring out from a portable television, like a gunshot. They can’t see these people, but they can feel them, following them, following, following.

And there is nothing they can do about it.

Except win.

Win, and Atlanta can do nothing. Win, and Atlanta cannot hurt you. Four games remaining and if the Dodgers win them all, the Braves will be stone-cold dead. It is a tall order, taller than Darryl Strawberry, but the Dodgers are nothing if not game. If they are nervous, if they are in trouble, they are certainly not playing like it.

They really showed something Tuesday night, the Dodgers did. They took Atlanta’s best shot. What was it Sam Spade said? “When you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it.” Well, the Dodgers took it Tuesday, took it like men. Atlanta couldn’t have hit them any harder. The Dodgers never flinched.

They went out there with their Los Angeles Met mob. Strawberry homered. Bob Ojeda did the pitching. Roger McDowell did the relieving. Maybe these guys are accustomed to playing under pressure. Maybe nothing rattles them. Strawberry, in particular, has never looked more dangerous. His shots are ringing out in the still of the night.

There are 36 innings to go. The sun is slowly setting on a baseball season in Los Angeles, sinking like a soft bloop single to center. Tonight’s game could be the last one played here until April of 1992. There is heat in the night. You can feel it.