8602060122 DETROIT FREE PRESS 860817 Sunday, August 17, 1986 METRO FINAL

SPT

1H MITCH ALBOM SEE ALSO STATE EDITION Copyright (c) 1986, Detroit Free Press FOR HERNDON, HARD PART OF SUCCESS IS DISCUSSING IT BOSTON -- He was nearly dressed by the time the clubhouse doors opened. Larry Herndon knew what success might bring, and he was trying to escape before it reached him. Too late. The reporters were coming. He buttoned his shirt and quickly focused on a nearby TV set. He stared as if his very destiny were inside it. "Can we get a comment on that tremendous home run?" someone began, as the camera lights clicked on. "Uh . . . uh . . . I'd rather not," said Herndon, stepping back like a trapped animal. The lights clicked off. The Boston media were taken aback. This was a special day. An exceptional day. This was the day Larry Herndon, 32, finally hit his first major league grand slam, in his 12th season. It is the moment every kid dreams about. A grand slam. A pinch-hit grand slam, no less. Surely this was a time to talk. Surely it was. Wasn't it? "You must have been excited," tried another reporter. The camera lights clicked on. "I . . . uh . . . was happy we won the game," said Herndon, still unable to look at the questioner. "Thank you," he added. The lights clicked off. Lights, camera, silence All around the clubhouse, other Detroit players were doing interviews. Jack Morris talked about his pitching in the 12-6 victory. Alan Trammell detailed his RBIs. This was a big game, a must game, and the Tigers had come through with 21 hits. And no one hit was bigger than Herndon's. He had been sent in for John Grubb in the eighth inning with the bases loaded. The Tigers were ahead, 8-5, but the Fenway afternoon had a dangerous feel to it, and even a three-run lead seemed slight. Then Herndon whacked the first pitch over the left field wall, four runs scored, and that clinched the game. "Were you thinking home run?" someone asked, posing the question into Herndon's shoulder blades. "Just trying . . . to make contact," he answered. He was sweating. He wanted out. No one really knows why Larry Herndon is so quiet, why he freezes at the sight of a microphone. There has been speculation that he is afraid of people prying into his private life. Others say it simply makes him uncomfortable. When he homered to win the first game of the 1984 World Series, he went back to his hotel in his uniform, just so he could avoid the media mob. Yet he is never ornery -- even this season, when he is hardly playing. He always says hello, always asks how you are. He does not rough up reporters, or chase them out of the clubhouse. He simply prefers not to speak -- an attitude many players take with their failures. But now success was putting Larry Herndon to the test. "Did you feel something special when you watched the ball go over the fence?" someone asked, refusing to give up. "Well, it felt good," Herndon said, allowing a nervous smile. "You know . . . " "You hit it a ton," someone said. "I hit it enough," he added softly. He let his bat speak for him More microphones gathered in his face. He kept trying to watch that TV set, kept avoiding anything resembling a conversation, but he offered a sentence here, a sentence there. Across the room, Chet Lemon watched. "Hon-dooo!" he yelled. Herndon grinned sheepishly. He was talking. A bit. About his grand slam. Finally, he said, "OK?" -- his way of ending the session -- and the reporters walked off to other subjects, other stories. And when they had left, he dropped onto his stool like a boxer after the 15th round. "That was hard, huh?" someone asked. "Yeah," he said. "But that grand slam did mean something special to you, didn't it?" Larry Herndon paused. Then his mustache curled to frame a smile. "Yeah," he said. "I was afraid I was going to leave the game and never get one of those." Almost no one heard him say that. It was a good quote, and who knows how many stories might have been written around it? No matter. No trouble. The moment lives in Herndon's mind, and, now, in the record books. To each man his glory. To each man his silence. Dave Bergman walked over. "Hondo," he said, "good hit." And the quiet man just smiled. A grand slam. He had a grand slam. He pulled on his shoes and reached for his jacket. Today is a different game. Today is a new day. But for one afternoon -- one baseball afternoon -- Larry Herndon, as usual, was the player who spoke the softest. But he carried the biggest stick. COLUMN