Randy Myers arrives at the ballpark early and leaves late, but there still aren’t enough hours in the day to sift through all that stuff. He gets two lockers instead of one for belongings that could fill a general store, and somewhere below his array of hats is his collection of bats.
Like Randy Myers, most of them appear to be cracked.
“You never know,” he says. “If given the chance, I could be a better outfielder than I am a pitcher. I have a lifetime average of only .190, but add 120 points for rust, and you’ve got .310. I could hit for average, power, and I’d be throwing out runners all over the place. If given the chance.”
On a Cubs team that has had problems finishing the job for 50 years, however, Myers will retain his title. With 53 saves last year, Myers established a National League record. He’s better at cleaning up messes from the mound than he is at his stalls. In fact, he’s so good at what he does that he has become overqualified to dabble elsewhere, a common bane of the uncommon man.
“He wants to do what?” says manager Tom Trebelhorn. “Well, Randy does dare to be different. If the norm was abnormal, he would then be normal.”
Myers neither suffers from ulcers, nor is he a carrier. On the contrary, while in uniform, he is a bastion of stability. During spring training, he pumps weights before and after games, then heads home for dinner and a nap, then works out again. His name needn’t appear on charts for designated exercises, because Myers’ physical conditioning regimen is a year-round proposition. A tough body and tough mind are required for a tough job.
“And it is a job,” Myers says. “It pays well, and it can be enjoyable when you win, but it is a job. I haven’t had a summer to barbeque in my backyard with friends since 1981. Or go scuba diving. So, there are sacrifices.”
Ah, but it’s not all drudgery. On a day off last season, Myers and a few of his mates were invited to one of Chicago’s fanciest country clubs for a charity golf tournament. Being an outdoors type from the Pacific Northwest, Myers couldn’t locate conventional attire, not even from his general store. So he showed up at the course, clubs in tow, dressed like a 230-pound canary.
“You mean my yellow knickers outfit?” he says. “It’s not strange. It’s Hawaiian. Tell you what. If you can find those guys I played with, ask them if we had a few laughs. I think I know what they’ll say.”
True enough, beyond the oddball image, Myers has the answers. In a business that rewards splash, he shuns the limelight. In an environment that fattens egos, he helps coach a women’s basketball team during the winter because it’s for his alma mater. In an era when contracts are tied to personal achievements, he looks at individual statistics with an evil eye. In September, while chasing Bobby Thigpen’s major-league record of 57 saves, Myers stepped forward without the bullpen phone ever ringing.
“I wondered whether some of our guys were more interested in their own numbers than in winning,” he says. “There weren’t many, just a few, and they knew who they were. I just wanted them to look in the mirror.”
When Myers does that, he sees a moderately gifted soul who became an athlete instead of an auto mechanic because of effort. He takes career moves and slights in stride. The Cubs are his fourth club, and he still hasn’t gotten a World Series ring from the 1986 Mets, for whom he played a little bit. And he knows he nailed 53 saves because he had 59 opportunities, so somebody else must have been doing something right, too. Meanwhile, Trebelhorn looks at Myers and sees not a loon but a leader.
“Left-handed, yes,” says the manager, “but also, a leader.”
Which doesn’t explain the billy club in Myers’ cubicle.
“It was given to me, and I’ve never used it,” he says. “But it’s a crazy world out there. You never know.”
Myers does have his way of sorting it all out.