Whitson Always Was a Real Pro

One of the Padres’ all-time leading pitchers retired this week, and it hardly made it off page 17 of area newspapers. Newscasts mentioned it after hockey, of all things. It probably wasn’t brought up at all over coffee or at the water cooler.

It was almost as if the poor guy had disappeared into some misty, mystical village.

Out of thought, out of sight, out of mind.

And now out of baseball, at least as an active player.

Eddie Lee Whitson never was a high-profile guy. He never won, or contended for, the Cy Young Award. He never talked to the baseball or threw spitters. He was never busted at the border . . . nor anywhere else. He never stirred controversy in the clubhouse. He was always just ol’ Eddie Lee from Tennessee to his teammates.

Just give him the baseball every five days.

The Padres found that doing exactly that would get them 13 to 16 victories a year. Nobody put in a more solid year for them in 1984, when they went to the World Series for the only time in their history. He led this team in wins more often than Randy Jones, for heaven’s sake.

Just give him the baseball.

Down 2-0 to the Chicago Cubs in that ’84 National League Championship Series, they gave the ball to Whitson and he gave up one run and five hits for eight innings and gave life to what was a miraculous comeback.

That’s what life was like with the Padres and Whitson.

As historians do their autopsy on the Padres’ 1992 season, they probably will look in the wrong directions when they try to determine when it all came undone. This team seemingly had so much going for it, but something was missing.

I’ll tell you when the Padres should have known they were in trouble . . . and why.

Ed Whitson was missing.

The Padres were in trouble in spring training, when it became obvious that surgery on Whitson’s right elbow was going to keep him out for the season. Right then and there, 220 very professionally pitched innings were gone along with the man’s usual dozen or so victories.

Try replacing that in an era when everyone is so desperately seeking pitching.

Unfortunately, this should have been foreseeable. Two different stints on the disabled list limited Whitson to 12 starts in 1991. He went from having a dismal season in 1991 to none at all in 1992. He would be hard-pressed to try to determine which was worse.

The problem with finishing a career in this manner was that he had been gone so much that no one remembered how much he should be missed.

It was as if he had retired without having a chance to say goodby.

“That’s the way it seems,” he sighed.

Whitson, 37, was home in Dublin, Ohio, where he and his wife were taking their youngsters out for trick or treat. He was a few days into retirement. He wasn’t sure how it tasted, though the 1992 season was a less than satisfying hors d’oeuvre.

“It was a slow year,” he said. “I kept up with the Pads all year long. We spent a month in San Diego and I tried to get into the clubhouse and spend some time with the guys. Once we came home, San Diego came into Cincinnati twice and I was able to get down there.”

It was different. It was more like he was outside looking in, rather than inside looking out. He had been in clubhouses and part of teams since 1974, counting only his professional years, and since almost forever, counting a boyhood entwined with athletics. The disabled list was a lonely place to be.

“From the time I was old enough to pick up a ball,” he said, “I’ve been involved in team sports.”

Whitson played in hamlets such as Bradenton and Salem and cities such as San Francisco and New York. The best of all those stops and all those years was in San Diego, both on and off the field.

“Without a doubt,” he said. “The whole time with San Diego was tremendous. Being able to play in a city like San Diego. The fans were outstanding. You could always go to the ballpark and be at ease. There wasn’t the pressure you have in other cities.”

And Whitson, as he said, was not exactly a stranger at lakes such as Hodges, Miramar and Poway. Fishing was an outlet to him. Take him out of the country and he would end up back out in the country.

However, the man is not ready for a sedentary retirement. He is not ready to take his fishing pole and disappear into the north woods.

Baseball is hardly out of his system.

Now it is a matter of starting over, in a sense.

“I’d like to be a pitching coach or maybe a roving instructor in the minor leagues,” he said. “That’s what I’d love to do. I’ve pitched 16 years in the big leagues and I know the ins and outs and ups and downs.”

He is hoping it pays to advertise. He has sent fliers to every major league team. He wants it to be known he is retired and available.

If Eddie Lee Whitson could use his experience and expertise to bring along a few more Eddie Lee Whitsons, baseball would be better for it.