You begin to wonder about these Bay Area Bashers. Is it Tampa Bay they represent or Green Bay? Are they afraid to show their muscles, bashful that they look good at the beach, or do they want to tell us, in a strange sort of way, that it`s Sominex they use, not steroids?
Granted, they win Tuesday night on Mark McGwire`s ninth-inning home run, but you question whether they`re making a World Series out of this or merely prolonging the agony. It`s as if they hit the Haiti out of the baseball from April to Boston, then call a truce for the Fall Classic.
You suspect, then, that what these Oakland Athletics need is a fight. They arrive home from Los Angeles in a deep smog, down 0-2 in the tournament, yet their fans accord them a heroes` welcome. There is a pep rally, there are jingles on every radio station, and a local paper lists the 50 greatest things about Oakland, one of them being this is the birthplace of the telephone booth.
But the lulled Athletics do not answer the call until it is almost too late. They beat the Dodgers 2-1 thanks to McGwire and despite Polonia, which sounds like something Tommy Lasorda, the visiting manager, will have as a side dish for his noodles. He can graze even after defeat, because he almost pulls this one out of the microwave, too, with a lineup right out of the ”B” squad games in March.
”We are okay,” says Oakland coach Jim Lefebvre. ”We lose the first game in this series to Roy Hobbs and the second game to Cy Young.” He alludes to Kirk Gibson and Orel Hershiser, of course. But, Tuesday night in Oakland, the Dodger studs are off somewhere in Alameda. Gibson still ails, and Mike Marshall joins him, his back suddenly cranky during the fourth inning. Then John Tudor, the starting pitcher, pulls the parachute. He winces like Dow Jones when the market crashes, not that he ever smiles, anyway.
It smacks of a setup, to be sure, and the Dodgers are poised. They have the Athletics just where they want them, thinking home uniforms and the designated hitter will be the antidote for a .159 batting average the Oaklands bring to the stadium. The Athletics aren`t swatting their weight. The Athletics aren`t swatting their wives` weights. Then the Dodgers inject a cruel and unusual con job, loading the bases with none out in the sixth, never to score.
You imagine that Gibson, at the stroke of midnight, will be propped up at the plate in splints for one swing to steal another game for Tommy`s Pizza Parlor, which is how Lasorda`s batting card reads. But McGwire interrupts, breaking a cooling trend of 0 for 28 by the supposed meat of the Oakland order. This might be just what we need, says McGwire. He wants to sound convincing, but he doesn`t. The Athletics, whose farm club is in Tacoma, are in a coma of their own. The Dodgers are notorious for this. They lull you into a deep snooze, then tiptoe into the room and steal your false teeth.
To the Oaklands of yore, this would never happen. In 1974, when they face Los Angeles in their last of three straight World Series, they begin the best- of-seven finals with a brawl, Rollie Fingers vs. Blue Moon Odom. When they finish, Catfish Hunter announces he`s been shortchanged by Charles O. Finley and will pursue free agency, which he gets. Reggie Jackson is hurting, but wants to play, but says it`s up to manager Alvin Dark, but adds it`s Finley who runs the dugout, anyway. The Athletics are so distracted that they win in five games.
Tuesday night, if they`re in the ballpark, they kill Los Angeles 12-1. But these Athletics are trying to douse Dodger shredded wheat with mineral water. If you aim to live and die with the home run, you better hit more than the Athletics are hitting. If you seek to play chess with the Dodgers, best you adhere to basics. In the third inning, only their second scoring inning of the Series to that point, the Athletics capitalize on two hits, a stolen base, an error and a balk for one measly tally. In the everyday office, this is known as featherbedding. Finley`s mule, should we presume it dead, is spinning in its grave.
Then there is the Dodger sixth, when Danny Heep, of all mortals, slashes a double to left. Luis Polonia, inserted into the contest when lefty Tudor takes ill, cannot fetch the ball. On John Shelby`s subsequent single, however, Polonia is right there. But with Heep parked at third, Polonia heaves the pelota to Fisherman`s Wharf. Shelby takes second base, a free lunch. What is Polonia thinking? Is Polonia thinking? It might be fatal, except that the Dodgers abort. Their limitations are limitless, too.
In the Oakland eighth, Ron Hassey opens with a walk. Runs are hard to come by for this best team in baseball, which has five for 25 innings so far. However, comma, Walter Weiss, who fails to move a mate along during the underwhelming second inning, now eschews the bunt and swings away and lofts a can of corn. Lasorda eats this up, too. The Athletics do puzzling things Tuesday night.
Warning-track power will not wrest this World Series, though the Oaklands survive the night with a narrow conquest. They wait for tomorrow to flex. It is not too late, but it`s not too early, either. The Athletics, heartbroken about not playing the Mets, could wind up like them.
