8701190485
DETROIT FREE PRESS
870420
Monday, April 20, 1987
METRO FINAL CHASER
1D
MITCH ALBOM
Copyright (c) 1987, Detroit Free Press
FANS' ICY TREATMENT BURNS WILLIE
He was lying on a table, with an ice bag on his shoulder and a towel
covering his face. Right here. The former Cy Young Award winner. The one-time
toast of Detroit. Among the highest-paid relievers in the major leagues.
Willie Hernandez, on ice.
"Ready to talk?" said the visitor.
"Sure," he said, not moving, "go ahead."
Willie on ice. It was an appropriate pose, for this baseball season is
into its third week and Detroit has barely seen its No. 1 reliever. He threw
twice. He got tagged with a loss. And then, inflammation of the shoulder, the
left shoulder, the pitching shoulder. Disabled list. Fifteen days. Willie on
ice.
"I don't like this at all," he said. "It's really boring. It's no fun. I
know they want me back on the field because of who I am, and maybe because of
the money I make. But I shouldn't rush it."
A few feet away a man was having his foot massaged. In the corner, a
therapist worked the weight machine. The room was sterile, joyless, a sports
medicine clinic at a Detroit hospital. How far was this from the final game
of the World Series? How far from the 1984 American League MVP Award? How far?
Very far.
"I want outta here," he said.
Hernandez is still a top reliever, maybe still a great one, but his star
has dimmed in this hungry city. Too many games he came in to save but handed
over instead. His fault? Yes and no. Relief pitching is a high-risk
business. But because he appears with games on the line, a Hernandez mistake
is as unforgettable as a lover's smack.
And so in 1985 the fans booed a little. And in 1986 they booed more. And
Hernandez, who figures he deserves better -- and perhaps he is right -- has
taken it inside and allowed it to boil. Sometimes the things he says, because
his native tongue is Spanish, can be a little unclear. And sometimes. . . .
"Bleep the fans. I don't give a bleep about the fans. I know they pay my
salary. I don't give a bleep. I don't care if you write it down. The way
they're treating me? Bleep 'em. I'm not gonna go out there hurt. For these
fans? They don't give me any bleeping support. I come out of the bullpen, they
start booing! Bleep them!"
Well. That was pretty clear, wasn't it?
But understand this. Hernandez, 32, is a sudden faucet, hot and cold, a
scowl then a smile then a scowl again. His emotions run close to the surface,
you can read them in his eyes, and when he's angry he shows it and when he's
happy he shows it and it's hard to be happy when you ride stationary bicycles
in the morning and lift little weights in the afternoon and all the time
you're wishing you were back with your teammates in the fresh spring
sunshine.
"I feel like I could pitch right now," he said, removing the towel from
his face. "But I can't come off the list yet (his 15 days are up Friday).
I've been watching the games on the television, but sometimes I can't even
watch. The frustration, you know?"
We know. He knows. Hernandez has heard plenty of frustration in the roar
of Tiger Stadium. His 32 saves of 1984 were down to 24 last season ("How you
gonna have another season like '84?"). His ERA rose from 1.92 to 3.55 ("The
team and me struggle together"). The man Sparky Anderson used to turn to with
a private grin has become the man he turns to with a silent prayer. Any
championship-hopeful team needs an ace in the hole, a stopper. It has always
been Hernandez, since he arrived three seasons ago. But this year?
"I don't let any of this stuff ruin my confidence," he said. "I can't go
out there and say, 'I hope I get this guy out.' I say, 'This guy's already
out. I own this guy.' If he gets a hit, I think it's because I mess up, not
because he did something."
He fingered the ice, then put it back on his shoulder. "Sparky gives me a
lot, my teammates give me a lot. But there are people out there who want to
take it away from you. Fans, they make you feel like, 'Oh, man, we can't bring
Willie in now because he's struggling! He's gonna blow it!' Those people can
put pressure on Sparky to think like that. And that's the worst thing you can
do to a guy who's struggling. He needs support. He needs confidence."
He sighed.
"That's bad. No confidence."
At his best, in his rarest form, Hernandez was virtually invincible. He
appeared in 80 games in the magical World Series year. That's one shy of half
the entire schedule. Yet, as he is quick to point out, that year was
deceptively easy, because the team was blessed with a perfect script, and
because he was healthy the entire season.
"You know what?" he said. "The people should appreciate my 1985 season
more. Look how many injuries I have in '85! I was a cripple. My Achilles
tendon, my back, my elbow, my shoulder, my neck, two busted ribs. I was
hurting, and I came in from the bullpen every day hurt.
"I couldn't even get out of my car because of the ribs. You know, when you
cool down after the game? I didn't have any strength. I had to honk the horn
when I got home. My wife was waiting at the door to help me out of the car."
He shook his head.
"That's what people should appreciate."
Hernandez had an 8-10 record in 1985, with a 2.70 ERA. But it was the 1986
campaign that brought the loudest boos. He endured a series of late-inning
collapses. The Tigers fell out of the race. To the Detroit fans, the stopper
had become a time bomb, and this year's injured start has done little to
bolster his image. He has come a long way from the dusty fields of Aguada,
Puerto Rico, where he learned to play with a right- handed glove. Yet now his
salary (more than $1 million a year), in these suddenly frugal times, stands
out like a fastball among knucklers.
"I'm still confident," he said. "Nothing's gonna change my attitude. The
fans aren't gonna change it, Sparky's not gonna change it, the front office is
not gonna change it. No way. I'm positive."
He removed the ice bag, and went to change clothes.
"I don't even care if all the fans leave when I come out of the bullpen,"
he said.
"That would be interesting," someone mused.
"Yeah," he laughed. "I probably do better."
So here was Willie on ice. Who knows, when he gets back, if he'll be the
old one, the new one, the in-between one? Relief pitching is Russian roulette.
You hope. You play. Hernandez said he is feeling better, he is ready to get on
with it. And he is counting the hours, not the whispers.
As he walked through the building on his way out, a woman came up with a
paper and pen.
"Oh Willie, I'm a really big fan of yours," she said. "Could you sign this
for me, something in Spanish?"
"In Spanish, really?" he said.
He took his time and signed a fairly long message, in Spanish, as she had
asked. She walked away. Hernandez smiled.
"I'm gonna be so happy when I get back," he said.
"Happy enough to forgive the fans?" he was asked.
"Bleep the fans," he said.
WILLIE HERNANDEZ;DTIGERS;BASEBALL;COLUMN