Up, Up, and Away: The Kid, the Hawk, Rock, Vladi, Pedro, le Grand Orange, Youppi!, the Crazy Business of Baseball, and the Ill-fated but Unforgettable Montreal Expos (34 page)
Authors: Jonah Keri
One of these connections was the Grand Slam Baseball School, run for more than 20 years by Johnny Elias, first in Montreal’s Town of Mount Royal suburb, then a few kilometres away in Côte Saint-Luc. The list of graduates from the summer baseball camp includes former major league pitcher Derek Aucoin and current big-league catcher Russell Martin. But most of the kids had no aspirations of playing at the highest levels—they just loved baseball. Those afternoons in the summer sun were made even
brighter by the constant presence of Expos players. A few of them would show up to teach baseball skills and talk to campers for $100, maybe $200 for a couple hours; most of them did it for free. Raines was one of them. The campers sure as hell remember.
“I was six, maybe seven years old, and I remember Raines being there,” said Brian Benjamin, who along with Elan Satov, Eric Kligman, and Andrew “Bean” Kensley formed the core of the Maple Ridge Boys, the group of classmates who accompanied me to hundreds of games at the Big O growing up. “He was hitting balls out of the park, onto the street, and I just stood there in awe watching. Then he came over and talked to us for a long time. I mean, I
loved
Tim Raines.”
Unfortunately, and unfairly, the voting members of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America haven’t loved Raines as much.
At this writing, Raines has come up for Hall of Fame induction seven times, and been rejected seven times. This is ridiculous.
From 1981 through 1990 with the Expos, Raines hit .302 and posted a .391 on-base percentage (second-best in the NL). During that time he drew 769 walks, just 17 behind the first-place Dale Murphy among National League players in those 10 seasons. Raines stole a league-leading 626 bases, more than Cardinals speedster Vince Coleman, and nearly twice as many as the number-three player on the list, Coleman’s teammate Ozzie Smith. Raines’ 926 runs scored ranked first, as did his 81 triples. His 273 doubles placed him third, behind only long-time teammates Tim Wallach and Andre Dawson. And by Wins Above Replacement, Raines was number one. In other words,
the best player in the entire National League from 1981 through 1990—10 full seasons—was Tim Raines.
Never in baseball history, other than in cases of steroids use (and that’s a whole other hornet’s nest), has a player who was the best in his league for an entire decade been denied induction into the Hall of Fame. Raines’ detractors argued that he was a lesser player after leaving the Expos, and they’re right. He struggled with injuries and played in 100 games or more just four more times after the 1992 season. But Raines still put up fine numbers, with on-base percentages of .401, .365, .374, .383, .403, and .395 from 1993 through 1998—playing key part-time roles on two World Series–winning teams in New York. He stole 808 bases in his career, the fifth-highest total of all time (with all four players above him in the Hall of Fame), and Raines’ 84.7 percent career success rate is the highest ever for anyone with nearly as many attempts.
Voters’ obsession with round numbers—and only
certain
round numbers—has clouded their judgment. Tony Gwynn made the Hall of Fame on the first ballot with 97.6 percent of the vote. That always struck me as funny, and not because Gwynn wasn’t a great player; he certainly was. But Gwynn posted a career .388 on-base percentage and 763 extra-base hits in 9,288 at-bats; compared to Raines’ .385 OBP and 713 extra-base hits in 8,872 at-bats—with Raines stealing 489 more bases. The two started their careers and retired at almost exactly the same time, and the numbers add up to basically identical career value. But because Gwynn made his living slapping singles, while Raines was a master of drawing walks, Gwynn and his 3,141 hits sailed into the Hall, while Raines and his 2,605 hits are still on the outside looking in. Raines, by the way, also reached base more times in his career than Hall of Famers Honus Wagner, Roberto Clemente, Lou Brock, Richie Ashburn … and yes, Tony Gwynn.
Try this exercise: replace 600 of Raines’ 1,330 career walks with 400 bunt singles and 200 strikeouts. You’re left with an inferior player who’d have been enshrined in Cooperstown years ago: this because the voters are obsessed with hits and don’t count walks—and because humans happen to have 10 fingers and are thus obsessed with counting by increments of 10, 100, and 1,000.
It comes down to this: Tim Raines kicked ass, and too many people missed it. Induct the guy into Cooperstown already and let’s end this nonsense.
Though Raines was irreplaceable, the player tabbed to fill his shoes as the Expos’ biggest star was certainly memorable: another Jheri curl–rocking showman, a three buttons–unbuttoned, gold chain–wearing, diamond earring–sporting, 45-second-home-run-trot-producing character named Ivan Calderon. His first season with the Expos ended up being the second-best of his entire career, as he slugged 19 homers, stole 31 bases, and hit an even .300. Unfortunately, the good times with Calderon didn’t last. He played in just 48 games the following season, and was out of baseball at 31.
What was effectively Calderon’s last hurrah was wasted, as little else went right for the ’91 Expos. The rest of the lineup was a disaster, with DeShields taking a huge step back after an excellent rookie season, and Grissom struggling in his first season-long run with a full-time job. The most perplexing numbers, however, came from the two stalwarts at the infield corners. In his third straight drop-off from a terrific 1988 season, Andres Galarraga hit just .219 with nine home runs, striking out four times more often than he walked. The Big Cat got traded to St. Louis at year’s end (then went on to have a huge second half to his career that few could
have expected). Across the diamond, after nine straight good (or better) seasons, Tim Wallach hit a wall, batting just .225. Once a dazzling defender at third base, his range had shrunk too, and at 34 it seemed clear that he was on the downside of his career. Wallach would get shipped to the Dodgers before the 1993 season.
Meanwhile, the problems in 1991 weren’t restricted to the field: the stadium itself literally fell apart. First, a portion of the always cranky orange roof tore open in June. Repair crews managed to fix that problem quickly. They could do no such thing with the next mishap: a 55-ton beam fell from the facade of the stadium and crashed onto a walkway near one of the outside entrances. Luckily, no one got hurt. But the Expos were forced to play their final 26 games of the year on the road, as 13 home dates were cancelled. With fewer than 14,000 fans per game filing into the Big O that year, the cold, cavernous, terribly located stadium’s reputation already under fire, and the team swooning, this latest calamity seemed likely to strangle future attendance.
About the only highlights in ’91 came from the pitchers. And really, you could boil down all the good tidings to one weekend in L.A.
On July 26, 1991, Mark Gardner took the mound against the Dodgers. He’d been decent to that point, posting a 3.30 ERA even though he sometimes struggled with control. He was certainly sharp that night in Dodger Stadium. Through the first seven innings, Gardner didn’t allow a single hit, with a two-out walk to Eddie Murray as his only blemish. In the bottom of the eighth, the Dodgers got a leadoff walk from Kal Daniels, but a botched bunt attempt and a double play quickly squelched that potential rally. Gardner breezed through the first two hitters in the ninth, getting Alfredo Griffin on an infield popout, then striking out Chris Gwynn on three pitches. On his fifth pitch against leadoff
hitter Brett Butler, the Expos’ starter induced a groundout to second base. Gardner had thrown a no-hitter.
Well, sort of. True, Gardner had fired nine no-hit innings. But the record books only count that as a no-no when your team actually
scores
. The Expos didn’t do that. They managed just a single hit through the first eight innings, advancing just one runner into scoring position but failing to cash him in. They got a walk and a single in the top of the ninth, but again failed to score, as a Calderon flyball sailed to the warning track before dying in Darryl Strawberry’s glove.
You knew what was coming next. Dodger Lenny Harris opened the bottom of the 10
th
with a high chopper over Gardner’s head. Spike Owen charged, tried to field the ball … and dropped it. A frustrating misplay, but with the ball hit that slowly, Owen would’ve had no chance to get Harris either way—it was an infield hit, busting the no-hitter. At least there was still a chance for the win. But two batters later, Strawberry slapped a game-winning single, giving the Dodgers a 1–0 victory, and leaving Gardner with nothing. (Freaking Strawberry never failed to drive us crazy. The fact that about 15 of us spent most of that game in the Orange Julep parking lot—refusing to move with a no-hitter on—didn’t help.)
“I had a great game, but I don’t feel good about it,” Gardner said later that night. “It’s still a loss. It was a great accomplishment but it’s still a loss.”
Not just a loss: no-hitters don’t come around that often, and the Expos had only three, despite Bill Stoneman bagging two in the team’s first four seasons. Somehow, only two days later, the Expos found redemption.
When Dennis Martinez took the mound for the final game of the series, it was a scorching 95-degree afternoon at Chavez Ravine.
Though he couldn’t explain why, Martinez said he came out feeling a little different than usual—a little more confident. Odd, since the Dodgers led the NL West by six games at the time and were riding a five-game winning streak. They’d shut out Montreal in each of the first two games of the series. And through the first five innings of Sunday’s game, Dodgers starter Mike Morgan didn’t allow a single baserunner.
Like Gardner, Martinez plowed through the Dodgers with ease. But while Martinez didn’t allow any hits, he didn’t allow any baserunners, either. Through five, six, seven, and eight innings, not a single Dodger reached base. Martinez said he didn’t even feel a sweat until the ninth, given how quickly he and Morgan were mowing down hitters—heat be damned. Though there weren’t advanced pitch-tracking systems back then to break down every Martinez offering that day, you’d swear he threw 50 of those trademark knee-buckling curveballs. He was so unhittable, only five Dodgers even got the ball out of the infield. And unlike Gardner’s start, the Expos actually scored in the seventh, with a pair of runs against Morgan.
Then, the ninth.
“I ran back out to the mound, I could hear the crowd applauding me,” Martinez recalled. “That’s when it hit me, and my legs all of a sudden got real heavy, like I could barely move.”
Mike Scioscia went down quietly with a weak flyout to left, then Stan Javier struck out swinging. That brought up the Dodgers’ best pinch-hitter, Chris Gwynn.
“I got ahead 1 and 2, then tried to go inside and tie him up. The ball came back toward the middle of the plate. The good thing was it was a little high. He got the barrel of the bat on it—if he could have extended his arms, it would have been out of the stadium. But he didn’t. I knew he hit it well, then I looked to Marquis Grissom. I’m watching the ball, I see Grissom running,
then I see him separate his arms and yell ‘I got it.’ The whole time I’m yelling, ‘Come on Grissom! Come on Grissom! Come on Grissom!’ ”
The Expos’ centre fielder squeezed the final out, and Dennis Martinez had done it. For just the 13
th
time in major league history, a pitcher had thrown a perfect game.
The reactions were unforgettable. Martinez raised his arms in triumph, pounded his glove, then got swarmed on the mound—with the longest-tenured Expo, Wallach, the first to embrace him. The kid who’d grown up in a broken, poverty-stricken home in Nicaragua, who nearly pissed away his career and his life with booze only to return with a flourish in Montreal, had just done what only a dozen men before him ever had. Overcome with emotion, Martinez cried in Wallach’s arms, his shoulders shaking. A huge Sunday crowd of 45,560 rained cheers down on the man who’d just turned their team’s hitters into rubble.
In the clubhouse afterwards, Walker showered Martinez with beer, and the conquering hero carefully wiped it off his face. Later that night, teammates and friends toasted him with champagne; Martinez raised his glass, then set it down without taking a sip.
For many Expos fans, Dave Van Horne’s reaction to that final out remains the enduring memory from that day. Channelling Martinez’s nickname, the Expos’ play-by-play man had the perfect call for the moment, one that remains the most famous call in Expos history.
“El Presidente, El Perfecto!”
——
If Dave Dombrowski had been looking for a law-and-order guy when he fired Buck Rodgers, he sure as hell found one in Tom Runnells. The Expos were a young team, and Runnells felt that his players needed rules. Lots of rules. Rules that would even include
strict curfews—complete with frequent bed checks—on the road. The kind of stuff a manager would enforce on a high-school team, but certainly not in the majors.
So on the first day of workouts in spring training 1992, Runnells decided to have some fun with his hard-nosed reputation. Greeting his full squad for the first time, he showed up wearing army fatigues, wielding a bullhorn.
