Though Jim Leyland was nowhere in sight when I stopped by Pro Player Stadium on Friday, I can report that I did not see any traces of, if my count is right, the three bouts of stomach distress Leyland reported having the other night in Cleveland.
Several things had brought it on, but generally Leyland laid the blame on the media, those alert messengers who have noticed that this World Series is (1) largely ignored, (2) decidedly second-rate and (3) chronically late.
All of these singly and together made Leyland want to . . .
I am not going to use his word, nor give it the emphasis he did, but let us just say it rhymes, rather appropriately, with “fluke.”
He might have chosen a word that rhymed with “comet,” but Leyland is a plain speaker who never uses two syllables when one will do.
His condition seemed so serious that I half expected to see some evidence of it between the manager’s office and the dugout.
Unless someone has been following Leyland around with a bucket and a sponge, I have to assume the manager of the Florida Marlins has cheered up considerably.
Needing to win just one of two in your home park for the championship of the alert world with your best pitcher on the mound will do that.
Leyland also admitted to being both “sick” and “tired,” a combination with which most of us certainly can identify.
I have not been feeling too well myself, and while much that has happened during this Series has disturbed me, too, none of it has caused actual, you know . . . what Leyland said.
For example, I find myself reaching for the nearest seltzer whenever either Robb Nen or Jose Mesa, the two ace closers of Florida and Cleveland, enter a game. And I am from the town that has employed both Mitch Williams and Mel Rojas.
Starting pitching makes me feel no better. And, in fact, watching Orel Hershiser age before my eyes reminds me of every bad meal I had in the ’80s.
The two teams are averaging 11 walks a game between them, pitching to lineups not exactly chock-a-block with menace. Sandy Alomar is turning into Ken Griffey, and the only thing the two have in common is Junior. OK, Gary Sheffield gets no pitches to hit, but Craig Counsell?
The Indians are batting .340 as a team, and that’s including Manny Ramirez and Omar Vizquel, for whom every called third strike is a surprise.
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So much abdominal distress has to be spreading to the umpires, most of whom have considerable abdomens to distress. They are calling games that have no resemblance to the ones being played.
I do not condemn them for this. Their expectations, like ours, have been so abused that they imagine foulups where there are none.
The Marlins are butchering the ball as if they are field-dressing rustled cattle, less concerned about the mess than getting away with it.
This may be the worst baseball ever played under the banner of the World Series. Cleveland ended its season with the ninth best record in baseball, and Florida was unable to win its division.
“Introducing, your Wild Card Champions,” the Pro Player P.A. announcer shouts with pride. Where would you hang a pennant for that, on the foul pole?
What Leyland should realize is the public is not fooled. Game 5, with the Cuban darling Livan Hernandez pitching, was the lowest-rated Game 5 in televised Series history.
Leyland does not want to hear of any of this. Not TV ratings, not Baltimore, New York, Atlanta. That’s what makes him unwell.
He says there are bigger problems in baseball than TV ratings, and who would know better than someone who manages one of them?
This is going to be the least watched World Series ever, the standard being set in 1989, when Mother Nature shook things up in San Francisco.
What it took an earthquake to do to the World Series, the Marlins and Indians are doing to this one.
It does make you . . . Oops, excuse me. Got to run.