Once There, Anderson’s Ride Is Smooth

You thought the Angels’ season ended this weekend, didn’t you? Didn’t everyone? The news of “possible multiple loose bodies” floating around in Mark Langston’s left elbow was supposed to finish this team before its home opener, considering the multiple loose bodies that compose the remainder of the starting rotation.

But that was before Brian Anderson arrived.

Before Brian Anderson arrived, the Angels had many pairs of fingers crossed. Not that Anderson would step in for Langston, retire 17 consecutive Milwaukee Brewers, carry a shutout in the ninth inning and earn his first major league victory with a breezy 8 1/3 innings at County Stadium. That was fairy-tale stuff, too good to be true, too much to ask for on a day the Angels simply wanted to endure without inflicting any permanent damage on the road-weary arms in the bullpen.

The Angels’ only hope was for Anderson to arrive. Just get here. Preferably by game time, although Buck Rodgers probably would have been willing to strike a cosmic deal for the bottom of the third inning.

Anderson’s trip to Milwaukee was fraught with hazard, high anxiety and spine-tingling suspense--nothing at all like his trip through the Milwaukee batting order.

Anderson’s 24 hours in limbo began Saturday morning in Vancouver, where he received word that he would be guest-hurling for Langston on Sunday afternoon in Milwaukee. OK, fine, Anderson said. How do I get there?

Frank Sims, Angel traveling secretary, booked Anderson on a whirlwind tour of some of the finest airport terminals in North America--Vancouver to Seattle to Denver to Milwaukee. That was Plan A. Three legs through two time zones, leave at 11:40 in morning, touch down in Milwaukee at 9:30 at night.

And that was the best-case scenario.

Anderson made it to Seattle as scheduled, but it was snowing in Denver. All incoming flights would have to be delayed, long enough for Anderson to miss his connection to Milwaukee.

“I went to the desk in Denver and they told me there were no more flights,” Anderson said. “I told the lady behind the counter that I had to be in Milwaukee for a 1 o’clock game, but it didn’t look promising. The lady just kept typing with this crooked mouth, shaking her head.

“She finally said, ‘We can get you there by 2.’

“I told her, ‘That would be the third inning. That’s not gonna work.’ ”

Anderson then placed a call to Sims, outlining the dilemma.

According to Anderson, Sims’ response was measured, succinct and to the point:

“You have to be here tomorrow.

“You have to pitch.”

Anderson laughed as he recalled the conversation. Yes, Frank, I know, I know.

On to Plan B.

Sims: “You better rent a car and drive.”

Anderson: “From Denver? “

“I think he thought I was in Chicago,” Anderson said. “When I told him I was in Denver, he said, ‘Oh no.’ I really didn’t think I’d get there.”

Anderson was a desperate man. Frantically, he tracked down a couple of airport officials, pleaded his case and apparently lucked into a pair of baseball fans.

“They were wonderful,” Anderson said. “They took me to a separate terminal and got me on a flight to Minneapolis at 9:30 and then a flight the next morning from Minneapolis to Milwaukee.

“I got into Minneapolis at 1 in the morning, got to my hotel room at 2 and didn’t get to sleep until 2:30. Then I had to wake up at 6 a.m. to catch a 7:30 flight. That flight was supposed to get me here at 9 o’clock.”

Just in case, Rodgers made contingency plans. If Anderson couldn’t get here from there, Rodgers “probably would’ve gone with Scottie Lewis, try to get three or four innings out of him, and then go with the freshest arms I had in the bullpen.”

Rodgers cringed at the thought.

“Actually, what I was trying to do was just get the game in. That was my chief thing. Get nine innings in without completely destroying the bullpen.”

In Minneapolis, Anderson phoned home, asking his mother for a 5:50 a.m. wake-up call.

“The way yesterday was going,” Anderson said, “if I asked the hotel for a wake-up call, I probably would’ve missed it. I would have had a lot of explaining to do.”

Sure enough, 10 minutes to six, Mom came through in the clutch. She rang her son’s room, told him to have a safe--and on-time--flight and wished him luck against the Brewers.

Anything else?

“Actually, she gave me a full scouting report,” Anderson quipped. “ ‘OK, they got Brunansky. . .’ ”

On less than four hours’ sleep, jet-lagged from here to British Columbia, Anderson took care of Brunansky, and Kevin Seitzer, and Pat Listach--25 hitters in all. He gave up a double and two singles in the first three innings, then nothing at all from the fourth into the ninth, when Turner Ward singled and Tom Brunansky doubled.

That pitch to Brunansky, his 122nd of the afternoon, would be the last for Anderson. Rodgers knows a dog-tired rookie pitcher when he sees one, so he edited a good story before the ending turned sloppy and brought in Joe Grahe for the final two words: “The” and “End.”

Nearly an hour after the final out, Anderson, jagged on adrenaline, was still chatting with reporters, eliciting bursts of laughter about his wild night’s ride over the Rockies.

Someone asked Anderson if Langston had said anything to him after his stellar understudy performance.

“Yeah,” Lewis interjected as he walked by the crowd.

“ ‘Don’t do that again.’ ”

Everyone laughed one more time. Langston has nothing to worry about, other than today’s examination with the Angel doctors. Anderson was simply glad to be here, simply glad to lend a hand.

He accomplished both, just in the nick of time.