The Baseball Scout’s Oath: Keep Everything to Yourself

It’s the far-away gaze that gets to Edith Gardner. One minute, her husband, Jerry, is in tune with her every word. The next, he has drifted off, his expression as glazed as an Easter ham.

Baseball strikes. Again.

“Sometimes I’ll see him staring into space,” Edith says of Jerry, a longtime scout for the Pittsburgh Pirates.

“I’ll say, ‘OK, now which one are you thinking about? How does he hit? How does he throw? Do you think he’ll be any good ?’ ”

Come now, Edith. Jerry promised to love, honor and respect. Nowhere in those wedding vows did it say anything about revealing any scouting info.

Besides, you know him. In nearly 50 years of scouting, Jerry, a 71-year-old Seal Beach resident, never saw a pitch, catch or swing he wanted to talk about, lest the information leak out and into another scout’s report.

When it comes to confidentiality, Gardner can be as tight-lipped as the mouths on Mt. Rushmore. Victoria should have so many Secrets.

But get this. The other day, in a once-in-a-lifetime offer, Jerry Gardner actually allowed us to--yes!--peek into his daily scouting report.

OK, so he made us wear a blindfold. And dark glasses. And a 10-gallon hat over our one-gallon head.

He also made us swear we wouldn’t reveal the prospects’ names or positions. Nor their jersey numbers. Nor their high school, hair color, shoe size or whether they preferred jam or jelly on their toast. (Don’t kid yourself. These reports are detailed.)

Here we go:

Prospect No. 1:

Took infield at catcher. Played right field. Tall rangy, long-waisted, short legs. Can’t run. Poor body control. College player at best.

“His father’s a coach,” Gardner says. “Probably was the guy who tipped them (Major League Scouting Bureau) off. If I had gone through our own scout, we probably wouldn’t have looked at the kid.”

Prospect No. 2:

Has full ride to college. Ability don’t warrant going out (for pro ball) at this time. Follow the player as he progresses at college.

“A borderline case,” Gardner says. “With a full scholarship, his parents probably wouldn’t let him go (into the pros). You’d have to put more money in this boy than I think he’s worth.”

Prospect No. 3 wasn’t really a prospect at all. Not in the scouting bureau’s opinion, anyway. But Gardner noticed he had some potential and made a note of the player’s abilities for his personal files.

“Average on the run, below-average fielder but looks like he’s going to be a good hitter,” Gardner says. “A lot of those (prospects) will fall on their face. But it’s possible, if this kid works hard this summer, he could be the best guy around next year.”

If so, Gardner will be around to see him. Even though he has been scouting full time since 1950, he has no plans to retire any time soon. Or any time at all.

“Why should I?” he says. “I’m planning to live forever. I’m going to get back at all those insurance companies and Social Security and live until I’m 170.”

Feisty? There are times Gardner makes the Tasmanian Devil look tame. It’s probably what’s kept him in baseball so long. That, and his hobbies. Gardner collects fine western art. Combs the galleries from Tucson to Santa Fe. Knows the difference between a well-painted hoof and a shoddy imitation. Enjoys scouting fresh young talent, the result of which is the 60 or so paintings on his walls.

Gardner grew up in Long Beach, playing baseball for Jordan High, then a new school with tents for classrooms. For spending money, he delivered newspapers--his Long Beach route consisted of 88 houses in six square miles. His mode of delivery? A friend’s horse.

As a high school senior in 1938, Gardner, a catcher, signed with St. Louis, and was assigned to a Class-C team in Albuquerque, N.M. His contract entitled him to $100 a month--$75 for baseball, $25 to drive the team bus. Gardner and his teammates were treated like royalty in Albuquerque, he said. Every game, someone baked them a cake.

For 18 years, Gardner either played for or managed a minor league team, sometimes both simultaneously. Under his guidance, the Anaheim Valencias, a Class-C team, won the Sunset League pennant in 1947. An all-star game drew 4,500 to Glover Stadium, Gardner said. That night, he was the lucky fellow who got to escort the game’s national anthem singer, Peggy Lee, to the microphone at home plate.

Fun times, but these days aren’t exactly dismal. Of course, Gardner could do without all the fame. At a game last week, surrounded by scouts of every conceivable baseball affiliation, Gardner wore a cap not of the Pirates logo but the San Francisco 49ers.

“Don’t like to attract attention,” he said.

Actually, Gardner usually sports a cowboy hat--wider brim for better sun protection. Over the years he has been treated for skin cancer on his ears, shoulders, arms, wrists and nose. A work hazard, he says. Just like overzealous coaches, unrealistic players, and mothers who can’t stand to see their little boys leave home to play.

And then there’s the competition. From the scout who can’t seem to watch a game without a caramel lollipop in his mouth, to the row of young, aggressive newcomers who come complete with all sorts of newfangled, computerized gizmos, every scout is trying to beat each other out--or lead each other on.

Gardner says he doesn’t side with the shifty. Sure, he once paid a hotel operator in Mexico $10 so she wouldn’t connect calls to another scout’s room. All in good fun.

But in a profession where everybody’s looking for the next superstar--he’s everything from a better bunter to The Prince of Slides--Gardner admits you have to keep one eye on the action and another on your notes.

Lest someone else does.