There are also the "peekers"—runners on first who try to peek into the catcher's glove to see what he is throwing as a basis for whether or not to try to steal second. There are runners on second who, with their bird's-eye view of the catcher, will try to tip location or the type of pitch to the batter with how they lead off second. There are relief pitchers in the bullpen who will communicate location to the batter by how they drape their arms over the bullpen wall. There are first-base coaches who will tip location with a series of sudden movements. There are coaches who will spend hours staring into dugouts to see if they can figure out the pitchout sign, like Cardinals bench coach Pettini did when he broke the Pirates earlier in the season.
There are ways to combat all of this. A manager, knowing he is surrounded by all these cat burglars, will act like he's putting on a sign when it's simply a series of dekes. La Russa does that sometimes when he goes to his leg or touches his hat, much ado about nothing. Aware that an opponent may be watching on television with its intimate camera angles, a catcher such as Matheny may have as many as six different sets of signs for a starter that he will change with a tap on his mask or a thump on his chest. Outright threats are effective as well—like the one Roger Clemens once gave to a runner on second whom he suspected of tipping. He called time, walked up to the runner, and stated succinctly that "somebody was going to get killed" if he kept it up. But attempted thefts still go on throughout a game, an underworld of deceit and deception. Early in his career, when he was with the White Sox, La Russa learned the value of sign stealing from a third-base coach named Joe Nossek. Nossek was the Willie Sutton of his day—he stole signs because they were there—and rare was the sign he couldn't crack. He got La Russa to pay attention to the science, and La Russa was a good student.
In 1983, as the White Sox were making their run to a division championship, they played the Yankees in a three-game series at the Stadium in August. Suddenly La Russa realized that he had figured out the steal sign from the Yankees' third-base coach Don Zimmer after it had been conveyed to Zimmer by manager Billy Martin from the dugout. The White Sox bench was fond of Zimmer. Everybody in baseball was fond of Zimmer. To not be fond of Zimmer was un-American. But the White Sox coaches also knew that Yankee manager Billy Martin had a reputation for being tough on his coaches, calling them out after games if he thought they had done something wrong.
So La Russa set up a decoy to use against Martin so he would not figure out that the White Sox theft had come from Zimmer. La Russa parked coach Eddie Brinkman in the front of the dugout with strict instructions to do nothing but stare at Martin. During the game, the Yankees tried a steal of second and it failed because the White Sox knew it was on. As ordered, Brinkman just stared at Martin and Martin glared back. Late in the game it happened again, another Yankee thrown out attempting to steal, this time Omar Moreno. Brinkman just kept on staring. Martin threw up his hands in disgust, now thoroughly convinced that he was the one whose steal sign had been filched. And Zimmer was saved from getting scalded.
During Game 3 tonight La Russa will pay close attention to a runner on second to see if his movements off the bag are coordinated to where Matheny is setting up behind the plate. If the runner takes a little jab step to third, does that mean he's signaling to the batter at the plate that the ball is coming in on the third-base side? If he takes a little jab step back toward second, does that mean the ball's coming into the first-base side? La Russa wants Matheny to give a good target to the pitcher. It's an essential component of a pitcher making his pitches. The best way for the catcher to set up the target is to frame the pitch nice and early. But because of a concern that the runner on second is telegraphing pitches to the batter, the catcher will move around, or he may purposely not set up early. Which combats the telegraphing but also deprives him of giving the most effective target. So for every plus there's a minus, and for every minus a plus, those pulleys and levers working overtime yet again.
Maybe it's simply paranoia on La Russa's part, one more thing to look for and worry about. But this is not a new issue between the Cubs and the Cardinals. There is some history to it. The prior season, the two teams almost engaged in hand-to-hand combat over suspicions of theft. It happened in May when the Cards were facing the Cubs at Wrigley. Sosa hit a home run in the first inning off Morris; as far as the Cardinals bench was concerned, something wasn't right about it, the way Sosa just seemed to know what was coming. And come to think of it, what exactly was the Cubs' first-base coach Sandy Alomar doing over at first? Why was he falling to his knees like that? Why was he coughing? The Cards became convinced that Alomar was tipping location to Sosa. When the inning was over, the third-base coach Oquendo ran over to Alomar as he was coming off the field and asked him what the hell was going on. Alomar said nothing, but the belief only grew deeper that there was something rotten. Angry words were traded after the game. The Cubs issued denials and the Cards made continued affirmations. There was no resolution beyond the war of words, but the suspicion still lingers, which is why La Russa will have his eyes peeled tonight.
Kenny Lofton comes up to begin Game 3 in his customary role as the Cubs' lead-off hitter and incessant rabble-rouser. He's 4 for 9 in the series, and he's been at the center of just about all the offense the Cubs have been able to muster. He hits Morris for better average than any other hitter in the Cubs' lineup tonight, the matchups in La Russa's back pocket revealing a subplot of 6 for 15. But there's an even more tangled subplot between the two, dating back to the fifth and final game of last year's National League Championship series against San Francisco, when Morris hit Lofton with a pitch in the bottom of the fourth. Given the circumstances of what was at stake, this wasn't some payback plunk, but in Game 1 of the series, Lofton hit a homer off Morris. He paused at first base to admire his prowess, and Morris silently stared at Lofton as he continued around the bases with the subtlety of a rifle scope.
All this adds considerable intrigue to the first at-bat, in addition to the already considerable intrigue imposed by Morris. There's the ankle factor. There's also the excitement factor, which can cause him to fall all over the place on the mound in his hurried delivery, which sends balls that should be located down into the sweet hitting zone of up. There is the tipping factor.
Morris begins the game by throwing a nasty sinker to Lofton on the outside corner for a called strike. If there is still bad blood between the two, Morris is not going to draw it. Tonight is about pitching, not the settling of Hatfield-and-McCoy baseball feuds. He comes back with a sinker to the other side of the plate, and Lofton hits it harmlessly to Scott Rolen at third for an easy pop-out. He uses another one to get the second-place hitter, Martinez, on a ground out to Edgar Renteria at short. He's notched two outs in five pitches. From the foxhole, La Russa looks into Morris's eyes and feels confident that he has the right look tonight: focused, suitably anxious to get it on, but not rushing his pitches to his own detriment.
Sammy Sosa comes up in the third spot. Morris goes after him with a sinker. Sosa looks it in without lifting the bat. It's just outside for 1 and 0. Morris comes in with another sinker, clearly the pitch that he is favoring tonight. Sosa cocks the bat, ready to swing, but he lays off. Strike on the outside corner for 1 and 1. Morris throws another sinker the other way, working the inside of the plate. Sosa takes a whiplash swing, visions of the 402-foot sign in center field swirling in his head. He misses for 1 and 2.
Morris has him where he wants him. It's a perfect waste-pitch opportunity: Try to get him to chase, prey on Sosa's ego to go downtown. He throws another sinker, up and away, to even the count at 2 and 2. But it's still a pitcher's count. There's no reason to risk anything here, still a situation in which you can get Sosa to go for something he doesn't really like, still ample room to prey on his feelings of omnipotence. Morris throws his fifth straight sinker. It's up and out over the plate.
From the dugout, La Russa cringes as he sees it, a slight bracing as if he is readying for some terrible explosion.
His arms are still folded, his eyes still locked, but his lips have clamped down more tightly than usual, as if this is it, the final heartbreak out of the thousands of them that he has experienced in all those years of managing. He's never going to open his mouth again, say another word.
Morris has made a mistake. All pitchers make them, and they often get away with them. But Morris has made a mistake with Sosa, and Sosa is a mistake hitter. On the scorecard La Russa keeps, he will make a one-word notation to describe what has just happened: stupid. No tipping of location here.
Sosa gives a little cha-cha dance step as he hits it, as if maybe the move will propel the ball a few extra feet. In center field, Edmonds turns on his heels and runs back. He keeps running, ever closer to the western front of the warning track. He has his head on the ball as he runs back. He has a bead on it. He knows where it is. Nobody in baseball right now, maybe nobody in the history of baseball, goes back better on a ball than Edmonds does. He makes spectacular over-the-fence grabs look so routine that he's expected to make them. But now he slows to a trot and lifts his head back to watch the ball sail over him, over the 402-foot sign in deep center, landing on a little patch of berm with the silence of a tee shot plump on the fairway.
Morris steps off the mound and walks a few feet as Sosa rounds the bases, not dawdling, but not setting any speed records, adding his own tenderizer to the slab of beef that Morris just served up. Morris removes his glove and wipes his hand, as if to preoccupy himself with anything besides the fact that Sosa just tagged the living crap out of him; the last thing he's going to do is watch Sammy's eternal victory lap. Sosa rounds third and gives a little fist to the third-base coach. Then he touches home and gives a little kiss to the heavens. 1–0 Cubs.
II
KERRY ROBINSON leads off the bottom of the first for the Cardinals, fresh from building another addition on his doghouse, this time for his positioning in right field in Game 2. First-base coach Dave McKay, who handles the positioning of the outfielders, had trouble getting Robinson's attention: Before the start of Game 3, La Russa called Robinson into his office and flat-out told him he'd bench him if there were any more communication problems. In La Russa's mind, it's just another example of Robinson's wobbly fundamentals. His failure to be aggressive in an RBI situation against the Phillies still burns, and it's difficult to think that the relationship between the two can go any lower. The only way for Robinson to redeem himself would be with a spectacular at-bat, and the odds of that plummet as he strikes out on three pitches, all sinkers, groping with late, punchless swings.
Carlos Zambrano is the least known of the Cubs' formidable starting trio, barely a glimmer behind the punky aura of Prior and Wood. Zambrano has neither the redwood thighs nor the sneer. Nor does he have the lineage, signed as a nondrafted free agent out of Venezuela when he was sixteen. But he is hardly some add-on. Prior is Prior, and nobody on the Cardinals disputes that Prior is Prior, a limitless future if he stays injury free. Wood is also Wood, tough because he's nasty and nasty because he's tough, and nobody disputes that, either. But at the age of twenty-two, Zambrano has already developed an instinct on what to throw and when to throw it. At certain times during the season, he has been the Cubs' most effective pitcher, and August has been one of those times.
"I'm surprised at how quickly he's become a pitcher," says the Secret Weapon, who from his blurry-eyed sessions in front of the monitor knows the difference between those who have stuff and those who have Zen and those who have both. Blair means it as the ultimate compliment. He's seen countless clips of Zambrano's splitter, his hard slider, his straight powerball four-seamer, and his lights-out two-seamer sinker that clocks in the low nineties with late movement, resulting in a plethora of weakly hit groundballs. He comes in with a record of 12 and 9 and an ERA of 2.94. His ERA since the All-Star break has been 1.51, and his last three performances give La Russa particular agita:
Nobody in baseball has put together recent numbers like that, the ratio of groundballs to fly balls a remarkable 3 to 1. It makes him the best unknown pitcher in the game right now, an anonymity defined by the little putt-putt green of a partial goatee, centered on his chin, that has become standard equipment among pitchers.
He gets Hart to fly to right; after five pitches, he has two outs. Pujols works a single—the eighth consecutive plate appearance in which he's gotten on base: reason 10,456 why he is the best hitter in the game. But then Edmonds strikes out to end the inning. Zambrano has thrown twelve pitches, nine of them strikes, including first-pitch strikes to three of the four batters he faced.
Morris settles down in the top of the second. He dispatches Simon, Ramirez, and Gonzalez in only six pitches.
Zambrano handles his half of the second by working Rolen and Martinez for easy grounders to third and second. Zambrano shows his precocity with his first pitch to Renteria, a get-me-over slider that most hitters, including Renteria, wouldn't look for. He doesn't lift the bat, and Zambrano has the 0-and-1 advantage. He continues to work Renteria with a combination of sliders and sinkers. The count goes to 1 and 2. Renteria is almost up on his tiptoes as he adjusts to the batter's box, delicate and storklike. Zambrano comes with a nasty sinker inside and low. Renteria simply stays with it, doesn't try to do too much with it, and singles a liner to right.
Matheny, who hasn't had a hit in the entire series so far, lines a single into left. It puts runners on first and second with two outs, a scoring opportunity, but baseball, just a mean bitch sometimes, places Morris into the batter's box.
Morris carries a pretty good bat. But he is clearly overmatched by Zambrano, who is throwing free and easy in the midnineties, his strength rising from thick thighs and chunky buttocks. Even if Morris does manage to make contact, running on that bad ankle subjects him to far more pain and jeopardy than pitching does. On a 3-and-2 count, he hits a slow chopper to the left side, not slow enough for a guaranteed infield hit, not hard enough for an easy out, but exactly in between. Meaning that there will be a play. Meaning that the outcome will hinge on Morris's ability to get down the line to first.
The ball bounces once, twice, past the mound as Zambrano lunges for it and fails. It's heading into that patch of no man's land on the infield grass between third and short, where the lines of personal responsibility between third baseman and pitcher blur. Morris is hustling his buttocks off to get to first because the Cardinals rally will stay alive if he makes it in time, and he will perhaps atone for his mistake with Sosa. The ankle is hurting him like hell. He isn't openly limping, but his stride, with no natural serenity, is halting and choppy, as if he's running against the tide.
Ramirez at third moves toward short to get it on the third bounce. He makes the throw, but the angle is awkward. Simon at first has to dive to get it. He falls off the bag like a skyscraper toppling, and here comes Morris, and it's going to be close, real close. Simon finishes toppling. Because he's big and hardly a garden of coordination, you can almost hear the thud. Morris is on top of the bag. The umpire sees what he sees in the chaos.
He's out. The Cards are still down 1–0 after two.
Morris makes another mistake in the top of the third, rushing a curve ball to Zambrano as if it's a chore, the pitching equivalent of your mother's telling you to take out the garbage and you leave half of it in a paper-towel trail through the house. Zambrano, looking almost surprised to get a cookie like this, slaps it into left to put runners on first and third. If you seek omens, and baseball is all about omens, you can find one in the fact that Zambrano produced a hit, whereas Morris couldn't in his first at-bat. Another omen is Morris's tendency to get the ball up this inning. It's never a good thing, and La Russa is worrying more than ever that Morris's ankle, still throbbing from the close play at first, is definitely starting to affect his concentration and mechanics.
With runners on the corners, Lofton lines a scorcher up the middle, but Hart at second doesn't have to move an inch to get it. It's a blessed break—maybe even an omen that favors the Ca
rdinals—because if the ball goes a foot one way or a foot another, it would carry the Cubs into the land of the crooked number. Morris jams the next hitter, Martinez, with a sinker. It's a nasty pitch, but he gets enough of it to send it into center for a sacrifice fly that ushers home the man on third.
Sosa follows, but Morris handles him far more surgically than he did last time. He bears in on him with a sinker to go 0 and 1 and open up the outside of the plate for himself because Sosa, now inside conscious, is looking for something in the same location. He hits a weak grounder to short for a force-out, ending the top of the third. La Russa is buoyed by the Cubs' failure to reap the crooked number. But the score is still 2–0.
III
IN THE ENTIRE three-game series, the Cardinals have managed exactly one run against the Cubs' starters. It's a horrible trend, and it shows no signs of improvement when Robinson grounds out to short with another overmatched swing and Hart follows by striking out. It brings up Pujols in the three-hole, who finally squeezes out a walk on the seventh pitch of the at-bat when Zambrano's fastball wanders a little high. It's the ninth straight appearance in which he has gotten on base: reason 14,988 why he is the best hitter in baseball.
Three Nights in August Page 26