Further proof of the brotherhood of professional athletes was evident during the recent agony of White Sox bullpen ace Roberto Hernandez. In a stretch of 11 days and nights, June 10-20, Hernandez blew four save opportunities and was so ineffective that manager Gene Lamont relieved him of his assignment as the club’s primary closer.
What most surprised Hernandez was that so many opposing players tried to comfort and encourage him.
Kirby Puckett of the Minnesota Twins, for example, told him: “Keep battling. Things will turn around.”
Oakland’s Ruben Sierra advised: “Forget the pressure. Go out there and have fun.”
Several of Hernandez’s former California teammates, among them Chili Davis and Gary DiSarcina, offered similar advice. So did Chuck Hernandez and Joe Madden, the Angels’ pitching coaches.
Basically, they assured him there was nothing wrong with his mechanics, that he had good stuff and shouldn’t get down on himself.
“I was at a point where I was doubting my ability,” Hernandez said. “I was saying to myself, `Did I really do it (38 saves last season). Or was it just a fluke?’ “
Now that he has turned it around with four consecutive strong efforts, including Monday’s 1 1/3 perfect innings against Milwaukee, Hernandez understands the problem.
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“I was trying too hard to please other people instead of trying to please myself,” he said. “One game, in Minnesota, Jack McDowell was pitching a great game, and when I came in I kept saying, `Don’t blow this for Jack.’
“During the last six weeks Jack was pitching so well, and then he’d get into the late innings and things began to happen. He had three or four no-decisions when he should have had three or four wins. I was thinking about Jack and thinking negative. `Don’t do this, don’t do that.’
“I was trying to be too fine, trying to hit the corners. I’m a plate guy, and when I try to place my pitches, to hit spots, I’m not as aggressive. You’re just a little bit off and the hitters have an advantage. Jackie Brown (the White Sox pitching coach) noticed it, and so did Gene (Lamont).”
Frantic, Hernandez made the mistake of changing his pattern. Instead of opening with his fastball, his best pitch, he began nibbling with breaking pitches.
“I was pitching backward,” Hernandez said, “going with my breaking stuff instead of my hard stuff. And when I did that, the hitters knew I wasn’t in command.”
There were other subtleties. He was shaking off signs, and when an umpire failed to give him a call, he expressed his disappointment by staring at him. The hitters picked up on it and correctly interpreted it as an indication of indecision, of weakness. This strengthened their confidence.
“Right now I’m going in a positive direction.” Hernandez said. “I’m blocking everything out. When I go into a game, the only thing I have control of is that first hitter, my first pitch. I can’t worry about the situation, who’s on deck and what’s going to happen if I blow the save. And if I get the hitter out, then I’ve got to concentrate on the next hitter and the next pitch.”
A native of Puerto Rico, Hernandez is a latter-day Goose Gossage. He is 6 feet 4 inches, 240 pounds, a menacing figure, ideal for a closer. His family is here for the summer-wife Ivonne and their two small children, Kairy, 2, and Roberto Jr., 3 months.
“My wife told me to relax, to reflect how I did it the year before, what kind of attitude I had, if I was mentally prepared,” Hernandez said. “She hit it on the head. I just wasn’t mentally prepared.”
I asked if his teammates, too, were encouraging.
“They sure were,” he said. “(Paul) Assenmacher and (Kirk) McCaskill kept harping on it, telling me it just takes one good appearance and I’ll be out of it.
“Some people think Jack McDowell was angry. I took two wins away from him. He told me: `Don’t worry. You’ve saved a lot of games for me, and you’re going to save a lot more.’ Jack’s a great teammate.”