He Probably Won’t Agree, but Downing Was <i> the </i> Angel

Today’s assignment is to name the greatest position player the Angels ever had.

First thought: This isn’t going to take long.

Second thought: Uh, who were the candidates again?

Jim Fregosi? Did you realize he never hit higher than .291 as an Angel, never drove in more than 82 runs and had only one 20-home run season?

Bobby Grich? A .266 career hitter who averaged fewer than 56 runs batted in per Angel season.

Reggie Jackson? He spent five seasons in Anaheim and spent the last four batting .194, .223, .252 and .241.

Wally Joyner? Left too early.

Rod Carew? Came too late.

Brian Downing?

(Long pause while we flip to page 254 of the Angels media guide to see who is listed as the club leader in career home runs, runs, RBIs, hits, extra-base hits, at-bats, games, doubles and total bases.)

There he is.

Brian Downing.

He was a catcher who couldn’t throw, an outfielder who couldn’t run and a leadoff hitter who couldn’t steal.

He didn’t have the athletic instincts of Devon White, the home-run stroke of Dave Winfield, the leadership abilities of Bob Boone or the charisma of Don Baylor.

He shunned publicity, sparred with the press, brooded on the best of days and couldn’t take a compliment if it was delivered three feet outside and in the dirt.

He will probably hate reading this, too, but Brian Downing was the best player to ever play for the Angels. Including pitchers, he did more for the franchise, did more in an Angel uniform, than any man not named Nolan.

What that says about this franchise is certainly open to interpretation, but if the Angels and Downing were ever to sit back and take a second look at things, reflect upon the 13 years they had together, they will come to the conclusion that they both could have done a lot worse.

Now Downing was never the quintessential Angel. He was never the crown jewel in Gene Autry’s treasure chest of overpriced stones, never the embodiment of whatever “California Angel” stood for in the minds of fans in St. Louis and Baltimore and the Bronx.

In truth, Downing was the anti-Angel.

On a team of notorious underachievers, Downing wrung every base hit he could out of his limited natural skills--and then spat and cursed that there weren’t more. He was a poor man’s Pete Rose, an off-the-rack George Brett.

Alongside teammates who jogged to first on infield grounders and spent the month of September planning fishing trips, Downing dove on the grass, rolled in the dirt, threw out his arm and leveled fellow outfielders while tracking down fly balls. Gary Pettis is said to still have the backward imprint of Downing’s jersey No. 5--on his chest.

And while Reggie traipsed around holding cardboard signs that read “Haven’t Been Interviewed In 24 Hours--Please Help” and Wally mailed out advertising kits to the media, Downing kept his nose in his corner locker stall, silently seething while contemplating his next set of arm curls.

Downing was a living testament to the power of negative thinking. He was the league’s leading pessimist, which many attributed to the fact he spent 13 years with the Angels. But his pessimism long preceded, and transcended, the Angels.

Ted Williams used to psyche himself up in the batting cage by gritting his teeth and crunching line drives and snorting, “I’m Ted (Bleeping) Williams! No man alive can get me out!” Downing’s thought process was more like, “I’m no good, I have no business being here, I better get a hit right now or they’re waiving my butt tomorrow.”

Classic Downing: After a game in Chicago, reporters rushed to Downing for his reaction to what was purportedly good news. In a newspaper poll of his peers, Downing had been voted the second-best designated hitter in the American League, behind Baylor.

“That’s a joke,” Downing roared as he began tearing up his locker and throwing equipment. “I (stink)! I don’t belong in the major leagues!”

Downing was upset about how he performed that day.

He’d gone one for four . . . but the outs had come on his final three at-bats.

The day after Downing hit his 200th career home run, more than any other Angel, I asked him what he planned to do with the ball. Downing said he was already using it in his back-yard batting cage.

He shrugged. No big deal.

The implication: If it was something Downing was able to accomplish, it must not have been much of an accomplishment.

If the low self-esteem bit was an act, Downing has a future in Hollywood. The self-deprecation was pervasive, all the way down to his reaction to a measly interview request.

“Why do you want to talk to me?” Downing would grouse. “I’ve got nothing to say you want to hear.”

He’d hem. He’d haw. He’d sigh. He’d grimace. But if a writer hung in there long enough, he could pierce through the protective shell and soon find his note pad filled.

Downing would wax about how Ryan’s free-agent departure cost him handfuls of rings . . . and how he had nightmares about being intentionally walked so Boston could pitch to Doug DeCinces in the ninth inning of infamous Game 5 in 1986 . . . and how the ’86 division winners compared to the ’79 or ’82 division winners. Along with Grich, Downing was the only Angel to play on all three.

Downing never saw himself for what he was--a good quote--or what a working relationship with the press could mean--extra income--so he and the press waged their little skirmishes.

Near the end of the 1988 season, which had been relatively feud-free, a couple of writers expressed to Downing their appreciation for his sudden accessibility.

“Yeah,” Downing said, “I have been pretty good to you guys this year.”

His eyes narrowed.

“But don’t you dare give me the ‘Good Guy Award’ (at the annual postseason banquet)! I’ll break the damn thing over the podium!”

Now, two years after leaving the Angels, Downing is leaving baseball. His final hit came Sunday, as a member of the Texas Rangers, but it came at the proper time and place--Fan Appreciation Day, at Anaheim Stadium.

The hit was greeted with a standing ovation, Angel fans being much more objective judges than Downing ever was. There should be another, sometime next summer, if the Angels can somehow talk Downing into letting them enshrine him in their Hall of Fame.

Downing might not want to believe it, but he has finally found a place where he belongs.