Lucky Were Fans Who Got to Watch No. 13

Lance Parrish, 36 last week, is scheduled this week to lose his job.

He is to be put on waivers by the Angels, who intend to use younger catchers.

The least I can do is take a few minutes out of my life and a few paragraphs out of this page to thank Lance for everything he has done, behind the plate and behind the scenes. This is one damn fine guy we have had the pleasure of knowing and watching here.

He is an eight-time All-Star. All I can really add to that is, for a few seasons there, Lance Parrish was as good a catcher as any I ever saw, and I dare say he belongs on any list of baseball’s best 10 catchers ever.

I have no notion what is next for Lance. He could give some second-half contender a heck of a pickup. Or he could make some broadcast network a heck of an analyst. Maybe his body can’t take any more baseball. Lord knows, it has taken a beating.

Funny thing is, that was the first thing that attracted attention to Lance back when he broke into the big leagues with Detroit--his body.

Long before men and women wore Gold’s Gym tank tops and strutted around looking like baby Terminators, Parrish was the one of the first to introduce bodybuilding to baseball, a sport never famed for its physical specimens. In his own way, Parrish was as much a ground-breaker as Richard Simmons or Jane Fonda, and probably should have produced his own line of exercise videocassettes.

Parrish confounded his manager, Sparky Anderson, who preferred his players muscular, not muscle-bound. It was Anderson’s harshly expressed opinion that Parrish was endangering a potentially superlative career--actually, I think the way Sparky put it was: “He ain’t doin’ nobody no good”--by lifting so many weights that his limbs lacked flexibility.

Parrish made Anderson a bet. Before the 1983 season, Lance put his torso where his mouth was. He promised to quit lifting weights if Sparky allowed him to play one more full season, conditioning himself. A poor season, Parrish would concede. A good season, Anderson must relent.

He hit 27 homers, 42 doubles, three triples, played in 155 games, batted 605 times, had 163 hits and drove in 114 runs.

True to his word, the manager left the catcher to his own devices.

Anderson said at the time: “I kept wanting him to be the next Johnny Bench. All he wanted to be was the first Lance Parrish.”

The next season, Detroit won 35 of its first 40 games and, by the time the World Series was over, had won 111. Parrish won a Gold Glove award, a Silver Slugger award, hit 33 homers and caught a Jack Morris no-hitter.

But he did more than that. Lance Parrish was then, as he remains now, a presence of dignity and civility in a sometimes crass and unpleasant setting. After a game, win or lose, he was considerate and polite. I never saw him duck anyone carrying a pencil and scrap of paper, whether that person was seeking an autograph or an interview. If ever I ran a team, Parrish would have been captain.

He could be cross when he had to be, as when he would go to the mound to scold Morris when the pitcher lost his temper.

“I love the guy,” Morris said. “He’s got so much more class than I do at times.”

Our favorite game, Parrish’s and mine, was played at Boston in April of 1982, and Lance never tired of talking about it.

The triskaidekaphobia game.

Detroit sent 13 batters to the plate in the first inning. Parrish, who wore uniform No. 13, made all three outs. The inning took 49 minutes. (Four plus nine is 13.) The Tigers won, 13-9.

It was Friday the 13th.

Having fun around Lance was easy. Everybody on the club called him “Big Wheel,” because he made the team go ‘round. A photographer took him aside during spring training and asked him to pose, shirtless, hugging a baby tiger from a Florida zoo. Lance did. He looked like Jim Fowler on an expedition with Marlon Perkins.

Coming to California in 1989 was a pleasure for Lance. He was Orange County’s own. Although born in Clairton, Pa., a mill town where “The Deer Hunter” was filmed, he played high school ball in Walnut and was offered a scholarship by UCLA that he declined in order to sign with the Tigers. His dad, if I recall correctly, was a top California cop.

There were no more World Series, but as recently as 1990, Parrish slugged more homers (24) than any American League catcher and threw out 47% of runners trying to steal. He made his eighth All-Star appearance and singled in his only at-bat.

Lance has been a total pro. I know the distraction he has faced, not only from nagging injuries but from a serious illness that his terrific wife, Arlyne, has bravely fought. No matter what, he always gave the Angels his all.

Thanks, Lance. Thirteen cheers for you.