8902110605
DETROIT FREE PRESS
891016
Monday, October 16, 1989
METRO FINAL
1D
Photo COURT MAST United Press International
MITCH ALBOM
SEE ALSO METRO FINAL CHASER EDITION, 1D
Copyright (c) 1989, Detroit Free Press
SHAPE IN A DRAPE GETS NO RESPECT FROM A'S
OAKLAND, Calif. -- It is not for me, as a sports writer with ketchup
stains on his shirt and a screaming editor on the other end of the phone, to
take sides in this World Series. But I am. Taking sides. Actually, I'm taking
a front. Rick Reuschel's front. Actually, just the part from his chest to his
belt. I like it. Reminds me of my Uncle Mort, the pickle man from Baltimore.
Now, that's a body. Who needs the sleek, pumping, well- defined frame of a
Jose Canseco or Rickey Henderson? Shoot. You can find 20 of them at any track
meet. But Reuschel. He is, as they used to say in the '40s, a shape in a
drape. Or maybe a tent. There is a reason they call this man Big Daddy. And it
isn't because he's a family man.
Of course, none of this helped him Sunday night. The big, bashing Oakland
A's pasted him for five runs in four innings of World Series Game 2, and
before you could say, "Where's that second bag of potato chips?" Reuschel, one
of the Giants' hopefuls in this Fall Classic, was back in the dugout, no
doubt assuming his favorite position, leaning against the water cooler.
He lost. He got clobbered. Which is too bad. Because in this age of all-day
Nautilus and Perrier athletes, here was a guy with whom the average guy could
relate. And I mean average. There are men on couches all across America who
could dust themselves off, find an old pair of sneakers, and whip Rick
Reuschel in a 100-yard dash.
But that's the point. The man is 40 years old. Sunday night, he became the
oldest man in 60 years to start a game in the World Series. With his balding
head and sagging frame, no one will ever suspect him -- as they have Jose
Canseco -- of using steroids. They might suggest it. But no one would suspect
it.
And unlike Canseco, Reuschel does not have adoring females screaming for
his dirty socks. Nor does Reuschel have a 1-900 phone line. If he did, it
would probably go like this:
"Hi, this is Rick. I had a busy day today. Went to the 7- Eleven for some
Marlboros. Picked up a carton of Diet Coke. Came home and fell asleep on the
couch. Well. It's been great talking to you, but I gotta go. I'm out of
matches. . . ."
Now, I know it is commonplace for sports writers at the World Series to
write about the winners. And after all, the A's do continue to treat the
baseball the way Leona Helmsley treated the chambermaids.
There is no wall they cannot send it over. And it's not even the big guns.
Saturday night, Walt Weiss, the No. 9 hitter, donged a dinger. (That's Bay
Area talk.) Sunday night, it was Terry Steinbach, the No. 7 batter who hit
all of seven home runs since April, whacking one off Reuschel into the
leftfield seats.
(By the way, by virtue of Oakland's dominating wins so far, some people are
predicting the A's in four. I doubt that. It should be A's in three.)
But just the same, I think those of us who are too old and fleshy to dream
about the major leagues, or even a competitive game of Wiffle Ball, should
salute Reuschel's efforts for a moment. Especially because we may not see him
again in this Series.
What the man has done is remarkable. Five years ago, when he was 35 (and
the Tigers won the World Series; can you remember back that far?), Reuschel
was given his walking papers from the Chicago Cubs. "Finished," they declared.
Washed up. They went to the playoffs that year and left him off the roster.
Ha. Serves them right, losing to the Padres.
Reuschel, meanwhile, did what any unemployed man would do. "I made a lot of
phone calls," he said. "I talked to a lot of teams. I felt I could still
pitch. I just needed a chance."
Finally, Pittsburgh, a team in dire straits, figured Reuschel might be
worth a gamble. He went to the minor leagues, pitched in Hawaii, pitched in
A-ball, and wound up winning the Comeback Player of the Year Award, going
14-8 for the Pirates. And ever since then, they've been telling him he's
history, and instead, he keeps making it.
Now. It is true. There are not many pitchers I watch and say, "Gimme a
bat. I could hit this guy." I say it watching Reuschel. That is because he
throws these junk balls that have "beat me" written all over them. But the
amazing thing is, he usually puts them past people. He fools them. Like a
beefed- up (or beef-jerkeyed up) Frank Tanana, he makes batters salivate,
then spit.
Not Sunday. Sunday he looked, well, old. He walked three men, and they all
came around and scored. He challenged Canseco, then gave him a base on balls.
He tried to control Henderson, and Henderson just made him look bad. "Rick is
the type of pitcher," manager Roger Craig had said a few days ago, "that you
either get to early, or he goes right for nine innings. There doesn't seem to
be an in-between with him."
There was Sunday. It was bad.
But, hey, that happens. This, after all, is sports. You expect the big,
strong, young and fast to come out victorious most of the time. Just the same,
sometimes, it's not just about the winning and losing. It's about being
there on the mound. It's about believing in yourself. There are several dozen
experts in baseball who, at one point or another, told Rick Reuschel to forget
about it. Find another line of work. And not only did he ignore them, he won
36 games the last two seasons. And last week, he was the winning pitcher when
San Francisco won the national league pennant. Forty years old. A shape in a
drape. Take that, Bo Jackson.
Of course, as I said, we may not get to see Reuschel again. If the A's keep
this up, they'll be fueling the parade cars by Wednesday morning. Remember
when before this series began, the mayors of San Francisco and Oakland tried
to arrange a friendly wager on the Series? And the mayor of San Francisco
said: "Forget it. There's nothing in Oakland I would want."
Yeah. Nothing but their baseball team.
As for me, well, I begin my search for a new shape. Something the average
guy can relate to. On Sunday, Oakland's Dave Parker, 38 years old, slugged a
ball to rightfield, then barely made it to second base in time to beat the
throw.
I kinda like that. . . .
CUTLINE
A familiar sight: Rickey Henderson steals second base in the first inning. He
later scored the game's first run.
COLUMN;GAME;WORLD SERIES;COLUMN