It’s Tough to Be Frank With Robinson Around

So I go to the Washington Nationals’ clubhouse before Monday night’s game at Angel Stadium, run into Jose Guillen, who shakes my hand and pats me on the back. A few minutes later he walks by, playfully bumps into me, and I yell, “assault, assault,” and he laughs.

A year ago when Guillen was with the Angels we couldn’t be in the same room without nasty barbs flying, but we already had made nice on his visit to Los Angeles a few weeks ago to abuse the Dodgers.

A large group of reporters and TV types arrives with the intent of talking to Guillen on his first return visit to Angel Stadium since being suspended for insubordination, and a team spokesman says Guillen will speak to everyone in the dugout at 4:45.

He’s a few minutes late, takes his place before the reporters, but before he can answer the first question, Washington Manager Frank Robinson demands everyone’s attention so the team’s PR guy can make an announcement.

The PR guy says Guillen will speak until 5, but Robinson interrupts with a stern pronouncement of his own, warning the media it cannot ask Guillen any question having anything to do with last season.

I figure all the reporters will go home because there’s no other reason to talk to Guillen, or for that matter have a news conference, but no one moves.

“If anybody tries to go around the back door,” Robinson continues, “that’s the end of the press conference.”

A reporter for the San Diego Union-Tribune, already wearing a sling after undergoing surgery on his shoulder, takes a header after hearing Robinson’s announcement. I presume he’s worried that his paper, known for being cheap, will not reimburse him for the drive to Anaheim now that he won’t be able to ask Guillen about last season.

I have a choice to make. Move closer to hear Guillen speak or pick up the shattered reporter writhing in pain on the dugout floor. It’s a good thing I already spoke with Guillen when he came to L.A. a few weeks ago.

I help the fumbling, bumbling reporter from San Diego, losing my spot in front of Guillen. That’s when I notice Robinson. He’s standing behind me, monitoring the session.

I try to tease him since I can’t hear Guillen. I tell him it’s ridiculous to try to quash something one of his players might say, and I realize he doesn’t know what quash means. (I’ve finally found someone I can whip in Scrabble.)

“What did you say?” he snaps, and had he added the biting word, “mister,” at the end of that question, it’d have been just like talking to my dad before he blew his stack.

“I don’t think it’s right to tell someone what they can or cannot say,” I say, and Robinson blows his stack, swearing at me. Just like my dad. (Three days back from vacation, and I can’t wait for the next one.)

Robinson says he doesn’t care what I have to say, and that makes him no different from most e-mailers, or Dwyre, or the wife. Guillen, meanwhile, is probably spilling his guts to the media, and I’m stuck exchanging sweet nothings with Mr. Robinson.

Robinson says angrily, “I’m in control here, and you’re not ... and you can get your [butt] out of the dugout right now.”

I realize if my (butt) leaves everything else will follow, so I tell him I have no plans to go anywhere -- although to be honest, a quick return trip to Lake Tahoe does cross my mind.

I tell him he’s in control, but I’m entitled to an opinion -- paid to give them -- and it’s silly he’s getting so worked up.

“I’m not riled up,” he replies. “You’re the one who is riling me up.”

I laugh, because that makes no sense, and now he’s glaring at me. I start laughing some more because I realize he’s looking at me through sunglasses with only one eye. I learn later he had laser surgery earlier in the day, which explains the pirate look.

Robinson grabs the media credential hanging around my neck, and I’m thinking what a great Plaschke story this will make: “Poor sportswriter choked by his own media credential, and the gutty guy fights back with all his heart.”

It also crosses my mind listening to Robinson’s rant, that people think Guillen has an anger-management problem.

The Cyclops takes a closer look at the nametag with his one good eye and says, “Your reputation precedes you.”

“So does yours,” I reply.

*

FOR ALL I know the Union-Tribune writer has passed out behind us. The Cyclops is upset and has my attention, and I sympathize, because he’s a longtime Laker season-ticket holder, back in town and probably frustrated like everyone else.

The Cyclops calls me a “smart [butt],” and I guess he wants to prove he really does know my reputation. I worry about Robinson’s over-reaction, wondering whether he’s been taking lessons from Guillen.

Guillen, meanwhile is trying to convince everyone he’s now OK -- even praising Manager Mike Scioscia -- although a hovering Robinson is making it clear to everyone the guy still needs a baby sitter.

The PR guy announces there are three minutes left to ask Guillen questions -- so long as they don’t ask him what they really want to ask him.

I know the Cyclops is waiting for me to ask a question so he can call off the interview, but I already spoke at length with Guillen in L.A. a few weeks ago out of sight of the baby sitter, and Angels revisited is old news.

The only thing I might ask Guillen now is advice on how to deal with the chip on Robinson’s shoulder. But the interview is over.

The Angels go on to pound the Nationals under the watchful eye of Robinson, while Guillen settles for a RBI single.

Each time he comes to the plate, though, he hears some boos, but nothing like Shawn Green hears on his return to Dodger Stadium. For all I know, the baby sitter has warned the fans too.

I’ll ask him the next time I see him, and then get my butt out of there.