Playboy's 1989 Baseball Preview

Nineteen Eighty-Eight was The Year the Ball Died. After a 1987 season in which the hitters feasted, the hurlers reasserted themselves with a little help from a ball that went nrf. It was also The Year of Bleeding Blue. After a summer in which the Mets and the Athletics strode from coast to coast, rumbling "Fee, fi, fo, fum," they were struck down in quick succession by a gimp, a choirboy and 23 Dodgers dwarfs. If 1988 proved anything, it was that baseball is too whimsical for predictions.

Whimsical or not, the game offers a stirring prospectus. Hitters, stifled last year, will retaliate. (More remarkable than Jose Canseco's 42-homer/40-steal coup was the fact that he was the only pro in America to hit 40 home runs.) Look for a power surge in 1989. Don't look for the Dodgers to repeat--lightning seldom strikes twice in the same Ravine. Expect George Steinbrenner and Dallas Green to try to strangle each other, and if the Yankees are lucky, both men will succeed. The celestial Canseco and Orel Hershiser will be joined on high by a stellar Reds outfield of Kal Daniels, Eric Davis and Paul O'Neill. Cincinnati's Reds and Jose's A's will meet in the world series.

Or not. Reds mascot Schottzie and A's manager Tony LaRussa could spend the fall in a duplex doghouse. Pick one from column A.L. (Twins, Yanks, Jays, Red Sox, Brewers, Royals, Rangers) and one from column N.L. (Mets, Cards, Pirates, Expos, Dodgers, Padres, Giants). All of the above have a chance to survive October. That's ball--the simplest yet subtlest of games.

The game is as simple as hitting a ball with a stick. It is as subtle as the brain storm that led Ernie Banks to describe it thus: "It ameliorates the classic polarization between the self-motivated individual and the collective ideology." Ernie was right, sort of. Baseball is a balance of polarities--hitting and pitching (often defined as "timing" and "upsetting timing"); power and speed; gut-level decisions and computer-driven strategies; Kirk and Orel; yin and yang. The game rewards a thinking hitter such as Wade Boggs, who works pitchers the way Roger Penske works an engine, but penalizes the man who "thinks too much." It is the most-measured game and still the least predictable. It is classic polarizations reeled out over 2100 games, 19,000 innings, more than 500,000 pitches a year--and all of them can be wiped out by one pitch.

Last year's seven-month campaign was shaken and baked by one pitch on the night of October 15th. Dennis Eckersley threw it; Kirk Gibson hit it. Simple. How did Gibson groove his swing that night? He hit balls off a tee, just like a peewee little-leaguer.

The flip side of that moment's simplicity is the chain of events that led to it. Before the world series, scout Mel Didier told Dodgers hitters that Eckersley, faced with a left-handed batter and a full count, always threw an outside slider. Late in game one, the hobbled Gibson heard Vin Scully on the clubhouse TV, saying Gibson was definitely out of the contest. That pissed Gibson off. He collared bat boy Mitch Poole and limped to a batting cage under the seats. Poole set up balls; Gibson pummeled them off a tee. He sent word to the field that, in a pinch, he could gimp-hit. In the ninth, Eckersley got two quick outs. Mike Davis, a .196 hitter, held up on a pitch a hair-breadth off the plate and became the 14th batter Eckersley had walked all year. Gibson stepped to the plate and fell behind 0--2. He wrestled the count full. Catcher Ron Hassey signaled slider. Eckersley thought about shaking off the sign, then agreed. Next came the back-door slider Didier had predicted. Boom. Dodgers scout Didier did not hit the home run, but by shifting the pitcher's natural advantage toward the hitter, he made it more likely that the homer would be hit. In the words of Ernie Banks, he ameliorated the polarizations. Without Didier, Scully, Poole, Davis, a couple of close ball calls by umpire Doug Harvey, a last-second decision by Eckersley and a dozen other fortuities, the simplest, most famous moment of 1988 might never have happened. Proust is no subtler.

Proust, however, could not hit a lick. The cloud of circumstance that surrounds every event in every ball game is a pundit's delight--it is what makes baseball the thinking fan's game--but the essence of the game is the task at its core: Hit a ball with a stick.

Fans love to hash, rehash and rationalize the game's quirks. We are right to do so. Cogitation enhances our appreciation of the game and wins bets. Put down 20 to one against Gibson's going deep in any at-bat and, in the long run, you'll win a bundle. We also love to apply to ball events heads, hearts, guts and other anatomical metaphors that add human drama to the game. That's fine, too. Gotta have someone to root for. But what we sometimes forget, in analyzing and personalizing the game, is baseball's fundamental simplicity. Its essence is not yin, yang or guts; it's tools.

Tools--strength, speed, vision, coordination--are more basic and more important than character. They enable a man to hit or throw a ball better than 99.9999975 percent of the population. Gibson's will to power may have helped him stamp his scowl on the recordbooks in one historic moment, but there are thousands of fry cooks, truck drivers and housewives who are just as gritty as he is. The difference between Gibson and the rest of them is that Gibson has tools.

"Speed, power and a strong arm are the basics," says Giants scout George Genovese, who signed Jack Clark, Dave King-man, George Foster and Gary Matthews when they were gleams in Al Rosen's eye. "Anything you're short on, you had better have a lot in one of the other areas to make it up."

"With hitters, you look at their hands," says George Santiago of the Major League Scouting Bureau. "How fast do they get their hands through the hitting zone?" When Santiago sees a young player--even one with a mile-high hitch in his swing--who is quick through the heart of the plate, "Nothing else matters. He might strike out five times in a high school game and you'd still love him." See Darryl Strawberry through Santiago's eyes: "He looks better striking out than most guys look when they hit the ball." That's tools.

"Then there's something else," Genovese says. "Instinct. The ability to move the right way without thinking. It's knowing how to run the bases, how to go from first to third on a single and when not to, without being told. Sometimes you'll see a kid who can generate some bat speed, who can run and throw and who has that instinct of how to move. Those are the special ones. Those are the ones you think, He's got a chance to make it."

A chance. But for every prospect who makes it to "the Yard," thousands are left behind--cut down by a vast weed eater, the baseball pyramid. Case in point: Steve White. When I was a freshman in high school, Steve White was the best player on our team. I would try to pull an outside fast ball and would dribble it to short. Steve White would hit the same pitch off the school. I remember being certain that he was ticketed to the big leagues. What happened to him? Beats me. If he were anything like most of the other best players on their high school teams, he washed out a year or so later. He couldn't hit a curve or couldn't get around on a college fast ball. He was beaten out, replaced in the pyramid by guys who would soon be beaten out by guys who would soon be rejected by scouts such as Genovese and Santiago. These rejects--relatively elite players, each one a schoolboy hero--did not have the bat speed, or the numbers on the radar gun, that impresses major-league scouts. Of the few guys left standing--players now three or nine or 27 levels removed from Steve White--a handful played A ball. They, in turn, were beaten out by guys who made Double-A. A handful of those played Triple-A ball. At this point, we are talking about athletes who, in terms of ball-playing tools, make Steve White look like Emo Phillips. Still, the weed eater whirs. Six hundred twenty-four survive. They are all great players. That is why there are no more Babe Ruths: The weed eater is too efficient. In 1926, Ruth led the A.L. with 47 home runs; Al Simmons was second with 19. Such discrepancies are impossible now. Every player's tools are Black & Decker.

That's why ball is the game of the long haul. Roger Clemens threw more pitches last year than the top ten N.F.L. quarterbacks combined threw passes. Baseball is the game in which tools are honed by a 162-game season until the finest shades of difference come clear. The great Clemens last year prevented runs two percent better than the unsung Jim Deshaies. It is a game of hairbreadth margins. Even as we cheer Gibson's shining moment, we should remember that the man homered only 4.6 percent of the time last season. His A's-breaking shot was not just fate; it was an intersection of scouting report, catcher, pitcher, hitter and fate. If guts and heart could produce such moments at will, there would be thousands of big-leaguers.

If Hubie Brooks had scratched out one extra hit a week in 1988, he would have won the batting title. He finished 17th. If wheels merchant Tracy Jones had been healthy enough to leg out one extra hit a week, he would have batted .402. He hit .295, was benched and got traded. Twice. Consistently getting one more hit a week is nearly impossible--pigs could evolve wings but haven't yet. Still, such thin margins illustrate the simple key to the modern game. Every hitter in the big leagues is almost as good as Gibson. Every pitcher, given one more close strike call per inning, could be Cy Young. Here is another illustration: Last year, Ozzie Canseco, Jose's identical twin, hit .222 for Huntsville of the Southern League. Why does Ozzie, gifted with the same genes Jose has, toil in the minors, while his twin is the closest thing to Ruth in the game? Because baseball, now 113 years old, selects vanishingly small differences in talent. It turns 95 percent contact into a fly ball and 97 percent contact into a home run. It rewards Jose, who struck out 21 percent of the time, and omits Ozzie, who struck out 25 percent of the time. One subtext of any season is the way this Ruthless game separates the great from the almost great.

Remember 1987, the year of the lively ball? The dominant sound was baseballs plunking 747s. Catchers claimed that the 1987 balls, like rabbits, bred in the ball bag. Fifty-three big-leaguers hit 25 or more homers in 1987. Andre Dawson and Mark McGwire each hit 49, George Bell, 47, and Dale Murphy, 44. The Tigers cranked 225 out of cozy Tigers Stadium. Ozzie Virgil, the Braves' Sultan of Squat, hit 27. Even Rafael Belliard, all 48 inches of him, parked one. Pitchers griped that if they held the ball too long, it took off for the seats under its own power. Then, last year, after a slight expansion of the strike zone, the rabbit died. Only 22 big-leaguers hit 25 or more homers. Canseco alone reached 40. The Tigers hit just 143 playing in still-cozy Tiger Stadium. Virgil hit nine and split time with Bruce Benedict, who slammed none. Belliard didn't even have a double. The majors' composite E.R.A. fell from 4.28 to 3.72, a gap that over the season meant more than 2000 runs. Hitters griped that the ball had a distressing tendency to stick to the bat. What happened?

The commissar's office would like you to believe that the rabbit ball of 1987 was no different from the sloth ball of 1988. Instead, say the suits, two factors explain those 2000 lost runs: the expanded strike zone and the return of pitchcraft. In short, Hershiser threw a few more good curves and got a few more calls. That explanation is bulldurham: If the slightly larger strike zone had caused the dead-ball E.R.A.s of 1988, we would have found its greatest effects in the major leagues, where the control pitchers are. It wasn't so. The power outage blanketed the bushes as well. Not one minor-leaguer hit 30 home runs. Rod Murrell and Terry McDaniel led Columbia of the South Atlantic League in homers, with five. Lavell Freeman led the American Association in hitting with the lowest league-leading average in 79 years. Minor-league no-hitters jumped from 13 in 1987 to 32 in 1988. Pitchcraft? In the words of one scout, "You got no Hershisers in the minor leagues." What you have instead, and what the commissars of ball should never tamper with, is a cork center swaddled in yarn and cowhide--a ball that can be wrapped as tight as Steinbrenner's heartstrings or as loose as Kirby Puckett's strike zone.

Last year's ball was Nerfed. "Some of the balls I got last summer were so soft you could rub a wrinkle in 'em," says an A.L. pitcher. Bart Giamatti, are you listening? As you take the reins, engage in a bit of baseball glasnost. Admit that the previous regime spent two years tinkering with the ball and running a disinformation campaign to keep the people in the dark. Then take the average compression of the 1987 and 1988 balls, etch those specs into law forever and let the players play.

Whether or not the new commish takes my advice, we can count on more hitting in 1989. If the past two years are a guide, the head office is reheating the ball right now. Even if it isn't, hitting/hurling oscillations tend to even out. The new year should bring higher batting averages, more home runs and bigger E.R.A.s. How much bigger? Not as big as 1987's, but bigger than 1988's. To wit: The cumulative E.R.A. of the majors' top-ten starters two years ago, when the ball was lively, was 3.05. Last year, when the ball was dead, it was 2.38. This zany about-face suggests a mid-point, 2.72, for elite starters to shoot for in 1989. Home runs should go up about 20 percent, to 1986 levels--a tantalizing prospect that hints at 50 for Canseco and 47 for His Darrylness. If healthy all year, Tony Gwynn will hit close to .350, a 12 percent improvement. Boggs could hit .380. Canseco is a good bet to rejoin the Jose-only 40/40 club. Check the N.L. West for a similarly grand performance--the Reds' outfield could combine to go 100/100. Last season, fighting injuries in a pitcher's year, Daniels, Davis and O'Neill had 60 homers and 70 steals.

The balance of power in each league continues its westward shift. The A.L. West boasts the Athletics, last year's finest team (the Dodgers were October's finest), as well as the Twins, who were better than any team in the A.L. East. This season, the A's, the Twins, the Royals and the new, improved Rangers may all be better than any team in the East. Meanwhile, the N.L. East, cradle of five of the past eight N.L. world-series reps, had just two clubs with winning records in 1988. In the N.L. West, only the helpless Braves finished under .500. The N.L. West is now the game's best division. The A.L. West is not far behind. The once-proud A.L. East may be the worst division of all.

Canseco will repeat as A.L. M.V.P. Strawberry, if there is justice in the world, will win the N.L. M.V.P. he deserved last season. This is also the year the Mets' Gregg Jefferies, a two-time minor-league player of the year, becomes a household name. Household-products shill Gary Carter, as his knees erode, is a year closer to a full-time seat in the broadcast booth--a good spot from which to study Jefferies and the rest of the game's new names. The Rangers' 23-year-old Ruben Sierra is the A.L.'s next nova. Milwaukee prodigy Gary Sheffield is odds-on to be the A.L. Rookie of the Year. Tools run in Sheffield's family; he is Dwight Gooden's nephew. Padres second baseman Roberto Alomar and Dodgers hurler Ramon Martinez, both 21, have all-star skills. Ditto Indians strong kid Luis Medina, Phils flash Ricky Jordan, the Cubs' Mike Harkey, Mets lefty David West and the White Sox' Shawn Hillegas. The best-tooled of them all, Mariner bonus tot Ken Griffey, Jr., should show up in Seattle for a late-season cup of Ovaltine. Then there is Giants third baseman Matt Williams. If he learns to swing at strikes, Williams will be the most dangerous young slugger in the N.L. Last year, he homered five times in a span of six Triple-A at-bats; then he went to the majors and hit .205. He is the same hitter Mike Schmidt was in 1973.

Schmidt, 39, says he is as good as new. Last fall, his shoulder hanging belt-high, the Phillies' future manager said he was thinking about learning to hit lefty. Not a good sign. If healthy, Schmidt will keep the Phils above water in 1989, win a new contract and crank his 600th home run in September 1990. By then, Gary Carter, Carlton Fisk, Dave Parker, Bob Horner, Dan Quisen-berry, Ron Guidry, Ken Griffey père and Goose Gossage will all be selling cars. Fred Lynn will still be on the disabled list. And the Rangers' Nolan Ryan, vintage 1947, will still glare at hitters half his age. The milestone of 1989--put a K on your calendar--will come on the season's final day, when Ryan whiffs his 5000th batter.

New York will repeat as the capital of spectacles. Will David Cone write a column? Will Don Mattingly write a book? How is Strawberry's home life? Will Steve Sax see the dark side of Steinbrenner, who cleverly disguised himself as a human when he wooed Saxie? Will Steinbrenner put out a contract on skipper Dallas Green? Green says he expects no trouble from Steinbrenner: "I won't answer phone calls during games." What about telegrams, Dallas? What about letter bombs? Asked if weight training has improved today's players, lumbering Luddite Green says, "They should run, like we did in the old days," and points out that no one ever went from second to third on an exercise bike. Look for chaos at the stadium unless George runs Dallas down on an Exercycle and makes Mattingly the manager. Flushing, mean-while, features the computer-generated Mets, led by Dave Johnson, the only software nerd ever to hit 43 homers in a season (he did it with the Braves in 1973, the year Jefferies turned six). While Johnson fiddles at his VDT, Darryl will sulk, Doc will sulk, Mookie will sulk, Kevin McReynolds will secretly hit 30 home runs and Keith Hernandez will date the Casablancas Agency. The Mets will wear down the Cardinals and the Pirates and, sulking, make the play-offs for the third time in four years.

In the hinterland, where the Humpdome squats, the most entertaining hitter in the game will hack at anything. With no one on base, Kirby Puckett turns up his nose at three-ball counts and hits his way on. With runners on, he drives them in. "He's tough to pitch, because he doesn't swing at particular things," says Red Sox pitcher Dennis Lamp. "He swings at pitches." Puckett, the only man alleged to have swung at Halley's Comet, does not exactly work pitchers. In 1988, he walked 23 times. Wade Boggs walked 125 times. Puckett still hit .356 to Boggs's .366. Puckett had 44 percent more hits than N.L. batting champ Tony Gwynn. He is the anti-Boggs, the pitcher's Rubik's Cube and the worst example a young hitter could have. This season, watch the Cubs' Shawon Dunston, the pitcher's friend, chase 0--2 curves in the dirt and bat .240. Watch Puckett hit 0--2 curves off the Humpdome drapes and bat .340.

Few of us were running backs as kids. Fewer still were point guards. But most of us know what a 3--2 pitch looks like. Maybe we used to hit that pitch off the wall. More likely, we rolled it to the shortstop. Our betters hit it off the school. Their betters hit it off the wall in the minors. Their betters now hit it off the wall in the Yard. Seeing that pitch on a highlight film, we wonder if we, with an ounce more talent, might have done the same. Maybe we would have. Baseball is the least predictable game, the one in which the best team wins least often, the one in which tools, guts and fate come together in strange ways. Only a nut would try to predict it. Here goes.

Milwaukee's Brewers bobbed around the .500 mark last summer, charged late and fell short by two. They are all foam and not much depth. A hamstring here, a rotator cuff there or a lingering ache in Ted Higuera's spine could sink them. But an ultrasound rotation of Higuera, whose curve is the league's best, Don August, Juan Nieves, Mike Birkbeck and Bill Wegman would be plenty stingy. The line-up features .300 hitters Paul Molitor and Robin Yount, boppers Rob Deer, Joey Meyer and Greg Brock and probable Rookie of the Year Gary Sheffield. Dan Plesac's pen saved 51 games, tops in the East. Catcher B. J. Surhoff is an impending all-star. The Brewskis are potent.

Blue Jays left fielder George Bell clubbed three home runs last opening day. His fans--there were at least a dozen of them then--projected his O-day homers over a full season and predicted that he would hit 486, breaking Roger Maris' record by 425. He wound up with 24. Whither George? What of the George Bell--Lloyd Moseby--Jesse Barfield outfield that was supposed to be the best in ball? Gone with the wind out of Manitoba. Manager Jimy Williams had three of the league's finest pitchers last year in Dave Stieb, Jimmy Key and Tom Henke; but beyond them, the staff was so many Mussel-men and Guzmen. With a team of the Eighties that has spent a decade performing at 80 percent, Williams could use another M, for magician, in his name.

The Yankees, those softies, told captain Willie Randolph to get lost. Steinbrenner ripped his two best players, Dave Winfield and Don Mattingly, in The New York Times, Daily News and Soap Opera Digest. He turned Winfield over to the commissar's office, accusing him of abusing funds--a crime the tycoon/felon/owner knows firsthand. Then Steinbrenner, miming integrity, persuaded free agent Sax to leave the world champs for the Bridesmaids of Gotham. Scott Ostler of the Los Angeles Times had the best line on that: "I'm sure [Winfield and Mattingly] would tell you that your future boss, Uncle George, is the salt of the earth. And the Yankees' players are the open wounds of the earth." Sax is better than Randolph, but the owner has allowed Herman Munster look-alike Dallas Green, in a flurry of trades and free-agent pacts, to turn Rick Rhoden and Jack Clark into farm hands and a third of the 83--78 Padres pitching staff. The Yanks were 85--76 already.

Last year, the Red Sox continued their S/M affair with their fans. They had Wade Boggs and Mike Greenwell, the East's best hitters. They had Roger Clemens, who led the East in wins and the league in shutouts and complete games. They had Lee Smith, stolen from the equally fan-hating Cubs in exchange for cleats and a hubcap. On Bastille Day, they beheaded John McNamara, brought in Joe Morgan and won 19 of 20. Four games ahead with a week and a half left, they did their annual impression of Ali MacGraw in Love Story. They dropped six of seven and won the East by default. They went 0--4 in the play-offs to finish like true Sox, playing .091 ball in their last 11 games. Watch them start the year 90--0, then go 0--72 to lose by a game.

Tigers owner Tom Monaghan also runs Domino's Pizza. The star of Domino's commercials is "The Noid," a sparky little character who zaps late-delivered pizzas, turning them crusty and stale. Monaghan should have kept The Noid away from the Tigers. Sparky's aging boys, who fell 30 minutes short last season, will be lucky to break even. New acquisitions Keith More-land and Chris Brown are crusty pepperoni, Fred Lynn's picture is now found in medical texts under Hypochondriasis and Jack Morris turns 34 in May.

Two springs ago, Sports Illustrated--which is plenty tired of hearing this by now--called the Indians baseball's best team. Anyone can make a mistake (S.I. swimsuit starlet Christie Brinkley, after all, fell for Billy Joel). Knuckle-baller Tom Candiotti is the majors' heir apparent to Hoyt Wilhelm, Phil Niekro and Charlie Hough. Joe Carter and rifleman Cory Snyder would be famous in any other town. Change-up artist Doug Jones is a genuine all-star. That's four, leaving 20 little Indians to be picked off, one by one, by the fates that hate Cleveland.

The Orioles, tired of being mistaken for the baby chicken hawk in Foghorn Leghorn cartoons, will replace their cartoon logo with a realistic bird this year--a dodo. Just kidding. It will be a bird of prey, forever pecking out Cal Ripken, Jr.'s, liver. Last year, the O's had the worst team batting average in the majors, the worst E.R.A. in the majors, only two hitters who drove in 50 or more runs and no pitchers with more than eight wins. They lost 34 of their first 40 games and finished 23-1/2 games out of sixth. Kid pitchers Bob Milacki, Pete Harnisch and Brian Holton could each go wild and win nine in 1989. New catcher Bob Melvin is better than predecessor Terry Kennedy. But except for Ripken, Jr., and Phillies failure Phil Bradley, the Orioles' best hitter is manager Frank Robinson.

Jose Canseco is Ruth. Mark McGwire is Gehrig. Dave Henderson is Bob Meusel. Mike Moore, rescued from Seattle's Kingdome, is Waite Hoyt. Walt Weiss is Mark Koenig. Tony LaRussa, in a dual role, is Miller Huggins and Clarence Darrow. Dave Parker is through, but the Athletics will not miss him. They are the 1927 Yankees. It is tempting to love the oncoming Twins, Rangers and Royals, but the A's are more than gifted. They are hungry. "Last year is going to be a constant irritation for us," says LaRussa. "We've all thought a lot about the world series. We've got a lot to prove." And more than enough with which to prove it.

Eighteen months ago, the Twins were counting world-series shares. Their best chance this year is to wave their Homer Hankies toward Oakland in surrender, move to the East and coast to the play-offs. Frank Viola, if he pitched in Dodger Stadium or the Astrodome, would be making three mil a year. He is the game's best pitcher. Kent Hrbek makes every vowel count. Kirby Puckett, the cuddliest star this side of ALF, is a mystifyingly great hitter and an undersung defensive player. But starter Allan Anderson chickened out last fall, passing up his final start to protect a minuscule lead over Milwaukee's Ted Higuera in the E.R.A. race. Anderson finished with a 2.4465 E.R.A. to Higuera's 2.4546. Wuss! That difference represents one earned run in 1200 innings--six years of a starter's career. For that alone, Anderson deserves to be forever confused with Indians catcher Andy Allanson, and the Twins deserve to finish second.

The Rangers got Julio Franco, the league's best-hitting second baseman, for guys they didn't want. They got sweet-swinging Rafael Palmeiro and crafty Jamie Moyer from those chronic muggees, the Cubs. They got Nolan Ryan for cash. They have one of ball's best young hitters in Ruben Sierra, plus Pete Incaviglia's raw, goofy power. One of their starters, Charlie Hough, has the wickedest knuckler in the game (Phil Niekro says so). Another starter--Bobby Witt, the boy Ryan--harnessed his raw, goofy heat last year. So why won't the Rangers win the West? Because the West is too strong. Ball clubs seldom jump from 70--91 to 91--70 in one year, and even if the souped-up Rangers pull off such a stunt, 91--70 will not win the West.

George Brett's Royals boast an outfield of Bo "Eric Davis by Way of Eric Dickerson" Jackson, Willie "Zillion Dollars a Year for Life" Wilson and Danny "Nobody Knows It but I Had 26 Homers and 102 R.B.I.s" Tartabull. Add .304-hitting Kevin Seitzer, Magnum-armed shortstop Kurt Stillwell and a one-two pitching punch of Mark Gubicza and Bret Saberhagen. Then add Brett, who crawled off the training table to hit 24 homers with 103 R.B.I.s and 14 steals. And try to explain how Kansas City wound up 19-1/2 games out of first place. The Royals will finish one game out of first for every week Brett spends on the disabled list.

The White Sox' obscure rotation is one of the league's strongest. New manager Jeff Torborg can rotate baby burners Jack McDowell, Melido Perez, Shawn Hillegas and Jeff Bittiger, all righties, and toss in creaky lefty Jerry Reuss as a change of pace. Bullpen closer Bobby Thigpen racked up 34 saves in 1988. So much for the good side of this unbalanced team. The soccer-style defense, even with the wizardly Ozzie Guillen at short, led the majors in errors. The offense was almost as bad, hitting .244 to finish the season 242 hits off the league lead. Its most productive hitter by far, Carlton Fisk, was 40 years old. "Good pitching stops good hitting, and vice versa," Casey Stengel said. The White Sox have enough vice but not enough versa.

After a somber 1988, in which they fell 29 games short of the A's, the Angels went after fun-guy manager Doug Rader and free-agent hurlers Nolan Ryan and Bruce Hurst. They landed Rader. They signed leftovers Bert Blyleven, 38, and Claudell Washington, 34. This is rebuilding? Rader, the ex-taxidermist, is famous for taking a line-up card to the plate in a frying pan, sitting nude on a birthday cake and describing himself as "eighty-two percent body fat." He will need every trick in his whiz bag to distract attention from a club that stars flat-footed outfielder Chili Davis ("My claim to fame is not leaping.... I'm not sure what my claim to fame is") and all-star candidate by default Wally Joyner.

The Mariners wear a trident on their caps. The trident, symbol of Poseidon, marks ventures that go belly up. Last season, their highest-paid player, Steve Trout, recorded only two outs against the A's on April sixth. He threw seven strikes, 22 balls and two wild pitches. Pitching coach Billy Connors called him "caca." In return for his $990,000 salary, Trout delivered four wins and a league-high 7.83 E.R.A., allowing an astounding 122 base runners in 56-1/3 innings, and the Ms, sinking fast, were last seen 35-1/2 games under the A's. They should pick up that half game this year while waiting for a child, Ken Griffey, Jr., to lead them in 1990.

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The 1988 Mets scored the most runs in the N.L. and surrendered the fewest. They hit 30 more homers than anyone else. They struck out the most batters, walked the fewest and led the majors in E.R.A. They won 100 games. They were better than the Dodgers at every position except second base and Orel. Still, they lost. That's ball. They are the equal of the A's, the game's other great team: Oakland has edges at first, short, center and (barely) right field; the Mets are better at catcher and left field. The Mets have better pitching but even worse karma. Two years ago, beaten, they rode a Bill Buckner bungle to the world title; last year, they lost the play-offs to karma's team. Rookies Gregg Jefferies and David West and lefty closer Randy Myers are golden. So is the rotation, though Doc is not the surgeon general he once was. Keith Hernandez and Gary Carter are not dead yet. Darryl is the Splendid Straw. But if the Mets can contrive to Buckner their way out of their rightful place in the series, they will.

Whitey Herzog is a possum, not a laboratory rat. In 1985, his Cards won the pennant. The next year, they lay low, going home 28-1/2 behind. In 1987, they won again. Last year, they played possum again, finishing 25 games out. "My pitchers are hurt," Herzog sobbed. He is rubbing his paws now. If his hurlers are unhurt in 1989, his brains, Todd Worrell's superconducting right arm and a Coleman-Ozzie-Guerrero-Bruno-McGee-Pendleton-Oquendo-Peña line-up will bounce the Cards back.

"Whitey Herzog is not going to be down two years in a row," says Pittsburgh skipper Jim Leyland. "We are gonna have to play good not to finish last," he says, grinding out a cigarette. Take his prediction with a grain of nicotine. The Pirates' center fielder, Andy Van Slyke, a scout's toolbox, is the least famous all-star in the N.L. Left fielder Barry Bonds is a chip off the 30/30 block his dad, Bobby, once owned. Jose Lind ranks high among the N.L.'s adroit young second basemen. Starters Doug Drabek and John Smiley and stopper Jim Gott are three of the best-kept secrets in the game. Tin-glove corner man Bobby Bonilla, Leyland says, "looks like a lot better third baseman once you see him circling those bases." The Bucs are a year away but young enough to wait.

Not so lesExpos, the dynasty that never was. After the decadelong funk of the Carter-Dawson administration, they still drift. The lanceurs, bolstered by ex-Phil Kevin Gross and 6' 10" Randy Johnson, the tallest player ever to stretch a big-league uniform, are top-drawer. Pascual Perez and Dennis Martinez--the man with the quick-draw pick-off move--allowed only 460 base runners in 423 innings last year. Bryn Smith walks nobody. Andres Galarraga is bullish at first base. The voltigeurs (south of the border, "outfielders") can run, hit and volt. Do you s'pose three Tims--Raines, Wallach and Burke--can lead the 'Spos to gloire?

Portrait of a goombah franchise: Two years ago, the Cubs, weary of Lee Smith's saves, dumped him for Calvin "I'm No Lee Smith" Schiraldi and Al "Me Neither" Nipper. Suddenly lacking in saves, they swapped 27-homer man Keith Moreland for Goose Gossage, who treated save opportunities as grenades. So this past winter, still trying to fill the void they made by trading Smith, they gave up potential batting champ Rafael Palmeiro to get scatterarmed Mitch Williams (in 1988, the only reliever in the majors worse than Williams was Gossage). If not for the sterling farm chain Dallas Green left behind, this club would be as holey as Harry Caray's toy cow. Harry and second baseman Ryne Sandberg are headed for Cooperstown; manager Don Zimmer and G.M. Jim Frey will soon be asked to hit the road.

The Phillies have an imposing offense again. Manager in waiting Mike Schmidt is back. Tommy Herr is on hand, moving Juan Samuel to center, where he belongs. First baseman Ricky Jordan's corked wrists and outfielder Ron Jones's short, sweet stroke are back from sweet short seasons in winter ball. The pitching staff, though, has a chance to be even worse than last year's Salvation Army. In 1988, Phillies pitchers gave up 104 more walks than any other N.L. team and had the league's worst E.R.A. After an off-season shake-up, the staff's only star is closer Steve Bedrosian, who is on the trading block. Nineteen eightynine will be tough on Phillies fans, but not as tough as they deserve. Last summer, they booed an injured Schmidt.

•

Asked to name the clubs she feared most in the Reds' division, owner Marge Schott took four tries to name an N.L. West team. This is an owner who calls one of her coaches "Thingumbob." She takes her Saint Bernard, Schottzie, to the ball park. She sends Riverfront Stadium security guards to fetch her ice cream. But Schott, dotty as raisin bread, is dogged in her pursuit of a pennant. This is the year the dog's team has its day. The manager may have a fondness for bench warmers who, like him, are at that Grecian Formula stage of their careers, but Pete Rose is smarter than a lot of folks think. He is smart enough to perform the manager's most important function--waving his arm when the opposition least wants to see a new pitcher. His frightfully talented team has made a habit of going A.W.O.L. for months at a time, charging late and finishing second. This season, Rose, after a Schottzie-eat-dog September, should win the pennant he needs to keep his job. His outfield is perfect. His line-up is the league's best blend of power and speed. His young rotation could give the Mets a run for their millions, and John Franco is one of three unhittable lefthanded stoppers in the league. Schottzie is starved. So are the Reds.

Last May, the Padres were 16--31. Then Mrs. Kroc sent Little Larry Fauntleroy the way of the late, unlamented McRib Sandwich--another failed experiment that, like Bowa, was thin-skinned and tasteless. Under Jack McKeon, the Pad people played .588 ball. Enter Jack Clark (62 homers in two years), millionaire lefty Bruce Hurst (salivating at the prospect of pitching in Jack Murphy Stadium after nine years in Fenway) and bulldog righty Walt Terrell (ditto after four years in Tiger Stadium). The great Tony Gwynn is a three-time batting champ, pen ace Mark Davis rules the ninth, boy wonder Roberto Alomar will be an all-star before he starts shaving and the supporting cast compares favorably with the Old Vic's, but this club is a gang blind date. The pieces seem to fit, but teams so quickly overhauled tend to gel slowly.

Destiny's Dodgers rode six strong arms (Orel Hershiser, Tim Leary, Tim Belcher, Ken Howell, Alejandro Peña and John Tudor) last year. The only port paw in the bunch, Tudor's, is now duct tape. Bad sign. Rookie Ramon Martinez, Tudor's sub in the rotation, has a fast ball that moves like a snail darter. Good sign. Hershiser, Leary, Belcher, Howell and Peña would have to sell their souls to repeat 1988. Bad sign. Eddie Murray replaces Franklin Stubbs at first base. Good sign. Willie Randolph replaces Steve Sax at second. Bad sign. Health Department bluenoses found that some of the kitchen personnel in Tommy Lasorda's restaurant were rodents. Omen.

Matt Williams, the Giants' proto-Schmidt, hit four home runs in four at-bats last May 25th. That was at Triple-A Phoenix. In San Francisco, he hit two off Tudor in a single game; the rest of the time, he hit .195. If Williams can take over at third, the Giants can put Kevin Mitchell in left, Candy Maldonado--last seen hammering winter-ball pitching--in right and bring ex-phenom Tracy Jones off the bench. First baseman Will Clark, the least popular player in the league, can make up in run production what he lacks in personality. Center fielder Brett Butler, the game's best bunter (18 bunt singles in 34 tries last year--a .529 average), can beat out almost anything. The Giants' split-fingered hurlers, if healthy, can go toe to toe with the Dodgers and the Reds. But, as they say in the Campbell's-soup warehouse, that's a lot of cans. The Giants are humm-mm good, but probably not good enough.

The Astros, fanciers of home cooking, start the season with nine straight Dome games. Watch them jump to a start as quick as Mike Scott's fast ball, then fold like the armadillos on the dear, departed Ryan's Alvin, Texas, ranch. Glenn Davis is a massive talent who could hit 50 homers if his home park were Wrigley or Fulton County. Second baseman Bill Doran, when he is not in traction, is Ryne Sandberg's peer. Outfielder Kevin Bass is a perennial semistar--the mystery is that the Astros put him at the top of their trade-bait list every year. But bull-pen ace Dave Smith has a trick elbow and his valet, Juan Agosto, has as much of a chance of repeating last year's performance as the 'Stros have of finishing second in baseball's best division.

In Fulton County Stadium, the fans sing three-part harmony--four-part when there are four fans--and end the anthem "O'er the land of the free and the home of theBraves." The Braves' home, however, is an empty nest. Macrocephalic mascot Homer the Brave is all that remains of America's team. Four years ago, the Braves could have traded moderate talent Gerald Perry, career disappointment Brad Komminsk and franchise Dale Murphy for an all-star or two and a couple of Triple-A all-star teams. They passed, believing in an organization that has proved as efficient as the Soviet economy. Now they face a season in which they could lose 110 games. Youngsters Ron Gant, Jeff Blauser and Tommy Gregg are valuable properties, but the farm chain is pocked with a few good arms and no hitters. Last year, owner Ted Turner postponed a home game to make time for one of his colorized movies. It was a mercy billing. The Braves wound up 54--106 in 160 games, two fewer than the schedule called for. Turner postponed one game; God canceled two.

October standings Playboy's picks

A.L. East

1. Brewers

2. Blue jays

3. Yankees

4. Red sox

5. Tigers

6. Indians

7. Orioles

A.L. West

1. Athletics

2. Twins

3. Rangers

4. Royals

5. White sox

6. Angels

7. Mariners

N.L. East

1. Mets

2. Cardinals

3. Pirates

4. Expos

5. Cubs

6. Phillies

N.L. West

1. Reds

2. Padres

3. Dodgers

4. Giants

5. Astros

6. Braves

A.L. Champs Athletics

N.L. Champs Reds

World champs athletics

Stats

• Last season, in 712 trips to the plate, Wade Boggs struck out swinging 11 times.

• While Jose Canseco became history's first member of the 40-homers/40-steals club in 1988, the Tigers had only one member of the eight-eight club.

• Nineteen eighty-eight's average salary, $438,729, was more than the total salaries of David Cone, Chris Sabo, Bobby Thigpen and Joe Magrane. Seven members of the last-place Phillies made more than Andy Van Slyke, the Pirates' richest player.

• Last year's balk total more than doubled the previous mark. A new all-time balk record was set in the season's sixth week. This season, with a liberalized back-to-the-past balk rule, umps will again allow hurlers to go to the plate without a "discernible stop."

• Seven everyday shortstops made fewer errors last year than cement-gloved Angels outfielder Chili Davis.

• Orioles shortstop Cal Ripken, Jr., reached 785 batted balls last season, second-best in the A.L. White Sox wizard Ozzie Guillen, the leader, reached 863--nearly ten percent more.

• The Yankees' Ken "Who?" Phelps hit 24 homers in just 297 at-bats, a better home-run ratio than Canseco's.

• In his September 16th perfect game, the Reds' Tom Browning did not go to a three-ball count on any of the 27 Dodgers he faced.

• Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda deserves acclaim for leading a decent 1988 team to the world title and blame for possibly destroying Fernando Valenzuela's arm. In 1986 and 1987, Lasorda let Valenzuela pitch 520 innings--second highest in the N.L.--for Dodgers teams that were never in contention. In 1986, Valenzuela had 20 complete games (Gooden and Rhoden were second in the N.L. with 12). In 1987, he again led the league in complete games. Why? The 1986 and 1987 Dodgers finished a total of 40 games out of first place. Lasorda kept running Valenzuela out there in a vain attempt to finish third. Last year, Valenzuela, rag-armed and possibly finished at the ripe old age of 28, was reduced to throwing out the first ball in the play-offs.

• Texas flame thrower Bobby Witt began 1988 by losing his first five decisions. At that point, the erratic Witt had completed two games in 62 major-league starts. Sent to the minors to work with should-be Hall-of-Famer Fergie Jenkins, Witt became an iron man. Upon his return to the majors, he pitched nine straight complete games.

• The luckiest pitcher in baseball last year was Rangers reliever Ed VandeBerg. He "held" the opposition to a robust .308 batting average. Still, of the 33 runners on base when VandeBerg entered games, only three touched home plate.

• As spring training 1989 began, 21 percent of the players on major-league rosters were born in California.

The Young and the Toothless

It takes time for young players to build their reps and for bygone reps to fade, but every tyke in the left-hand column is more valuable than any of the downhillers on the right.

Comers

Gregg Jefferies, 21

Gary Sheffield, 20

Ken Griffey, Jr., 19

Mike Harkey, 22

Hensley Meulens, 20

Ramon Martinez, 21

Luis Medina, 25

Ricky Jordan, 23

Bob Milacki, 24

Roberto Alomar, 21

Sandy Alomar, Jr., 22

Tommy Gregg, 25

David West, 24

Goers

Gary Carter, 34

Dave Parker, 37

Ken Griffey, Sr., 38

Goose Gossage, 37

Jim Rice, 36

Jesse Orosco, 31

Jeffrey Leonard, 33

Fred Lynn, 37

Rick Rhoden, 35

Willie Wilson, 33

Carlton Fisk, 41

Buddy Bell, 37

Fernando Valenzuela, 28

American East League

Ball Code

Velocity--speed

The show or The yard--the big leagues1

Wheels--feet, if fast2

Scrappy--white3

Natural Athlete--black4

Live Bat--live wrists

Leader in the clubhouse--relic on the field

Max Factor--a young pitcher's "make-up"5

Personal Problems--marital strife or drugs

Franchise--Strawberry, Mattingly, Canseco, Clemens, Hershiser, Viola, E. Davis, Ripken, Jr., Steinbrenner

Mother#%*@!--Steinbrenner

1"The Show" is less courant since the movie Bull Durham popularized the term; "the Yard" is coming up fast.

2If slow, they are "tank tracks."

3See Glenn Hubbard, Spike Owen, Wally Backman, et al.

4See Bo Jackson, Darryl Strawberry, Eric Davis, et al.

5Pitching tools and poise, or lack thereof.

The Phenom

Tom "Flash" Gordon began the 1988 season in A ball, striking out 19-year-olds in Appleton, Wisconsin. Last September, he whiffed Jose Canseco. Pitching for Appleton, Memphis, Omaha and the Kansas City Royals, Gordon fanned 281 hitters in 201 innings. In 185 minor-league innings, he allowed just 96 hits; in 47 innings as a Memphis Chick, he surrendered two earned runs. Not bad for a sixth-round draft pick. "There were scouts who turned up their noses at me when I was in high school. They thought only big guys could pitch in the big leagues," says the 5'9" Gordon. He proved the scouts shortsighted. Last year, in six months, Gordon raced up a minor-league ladder most prospects take at least three years to climb. In his major-league debut, he threw two hitless frames against the Athletics, punching out Canseco with a cruel curve in the dirt. "Nobody's hit my curve ball yet," Gordon says. "If I get an experienced catcher who knows the big-league hitters, I can get them out."

Bob Boone, the wily Methuselah of catchers, joins the Royals this year. He and Flash Gordon would be an electrifying battery. Gordon will bid for a late-season spot in the Kansas City rotation in 1989. He will also, finally, be old enough to buy a beer.

American West League

Factoids

The poor, pitiful Braves used their number-one pick in December's major-league draft to acquire their own guy, having accidentally left Ben Rivera unprotected in the draft.

Giants outfielder Candy Maldonado had off-season surgery for hammertoe. Doctors shortened one of his piggies.

Free agent Bruce Hurst spurned the California Angels to accept fewer millions from the San Diego Padres, explaining that he wanted to play near his Utah home. San Diego is 90 miles farther from Utah than Anaheim, where the Angels play. Maybe Hurst was worried about Angels owner Gene Autry's tenuous hold on clichés. After Angels G.M. Mike Port, a harsh negotiator, failed to sign one free agent, a disappointed Autry coined this gem: "You can catch more flies with jelly than you can with salt."

Dwight Gooden had a batting cage installed in his Florida home.

The Mariners, looking for "experience" and "presence," signed outfielder Jeffrey Leonard. Leonard was called Penitentiary Face when he was plain old Jeff Leonard. So he insisted on being called Jeffrey, whereupon his nickname became Correctional Institution Face. He is also known for carving obscenities on his bat.

In the 1948 N.C.A.A. baseball finals, Yale trailed USC 3--1. In the bottom of the ninth, Yale loaded the bases with nobody out. Jerry Breen strode to the plate. On deck stood future President George "Poppy" Bush. Breen hit into a triple play.

Infanticide

Ever notice how your favorite team always bills its farm-system phenom as the second coming of Cy Ty Honus "The Splendid Say-Hey Train" Ruth? And the kid hits .560 in spring training? And they still send him to the minors for a few weeks of "seasoning" at the beginning of his rookie year? Don't you hate that? Know why it happens? Because in its most recent pact with the owners, the Players' Union agreed that only players with three full years of major-league service are eligible for salary arbitration. That means that in 1991, when Padres star-child Roberto Alomar has 2.88 years under his major-league belt, Mrs. Kroc will still have the right to treat him like an all-beef patty, unilaterally limiting his salary. That is the way Players' Union representatives--the grizzled veterans who help negotiate agreements with the owners--skew the salary structure in favor of grizzled veterans. For instance, Dan Quisenberry, age 36.

$ $ $ $ $

Dan Quisenberry 1988

Won: 2

Lost: 1

Saves: 1

E.R.A.: 5.14

Earnings

$2,288,843

$ $

Roberto Alomar 1988

B.A.: .266

H.R.: 9

R.B.I.: 41

Stolen bases: 24

Earnings

$62,500

National East League

National West League

The Long Man

Manic-depressive? In 1978, he compiled a 3.29 E.R.A. pitching half the time in hurlers' hell, Wrigley Field. His record was 7--15. In 1979, he gave up Lou Brock's 3000th hit. In 1985, he went 11--0 for Toronto; only Tom Zachary, in 1929, won more games in a season without a loss. Two seasons later, he was released three times in one year. And last year, pitching half the time in another hurlers' hell, Fenway Park, he went 7--6 with a 3.48 E.R.A. He started no games and notched no saves but played a key role in Boston's A.L. East title. After a 12-year career, Dennis Lamp has established himself as one of the game's best long men.

"My job is to cut the bridge down," says the Red Sox' bridge between Roger Clemens and Lee Smith. If Clemens falters early, Lamp must stop the hemorrhaging. "A lot of times, when I come in, the other team is at its peak--men on base, they've knocked the starter out and they're sky-high. I have to settle things down."

In the late innings of a close game, it is Lamp's job to protect a narrow lead, allowing Smith to earn a save. "I may not get the glory of the save," Lamp says, "but if I've held the opposition down and made sure that Lee Smith doesn't have to get more than two innings' worth of outs, I've done what I'm paid to do." Lamp, who signed a minor-league contract last year and had to make the team in spring training, has a fat new contract this year.

Career winning percentage

Dennis Lamp, 82--85 .491

Rollie Fingers, 114--118 .491