[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 16: Chip Takasagi and the Best of the Best


We had finished May with a 15-14 record, tying us with San Francisco for the lead, and putting us one game ahead of Los Angeles. The NL west was getting crowded, with last place San Diego only 5 games behind. We sat with a 32-24 overall record.

Eastwood started June off right, getting Giichi to agree to a 3 year, 14.1 million dollar extension (4.7 million a year). There was also a slight shuffle in the pen, as Chad Bolick and his 10.13 ERA was sent down to make way for 29 year old Scott Hennessey.

And much to my shame, I had called Caroline. I didn’t understand why - her friends were annoying as hell, she seemed shallow, was obsessed with looking excessively beautiful, and just seemed. . . well. . . fake. Essentially, she was everything I wasn’t attracted to. But something was there - maybe it was just because I was too nice of a guy to never call someone after they gave me their number. Or maybe it was because she had a killer body.

I had called Dewberry, who was still without a team. It almost sounded like he was ready to hang up the spikes - he was having a good time with his wife and kids, and had made hints that he was going to stay with them. I joked that he was giving up his ‘avoid-his-wife-lifestyle’, but he chuckled and told me to not count him out of the game just yet. I discovered what he meant, long after that call. Jerrold always had tricks up his sleeves. Always.

The games had become stale. There was no nail biters in May, nothing to get me fired up. I had only been ejected once - I felt so ashamed. Sure, we were winning, but I was managing calmly. Things had been running far too smoothly, I needed a game that put me back in the swing of things. That game came to me on June 3rd. We were playing the Giants, losing 5-4 in the bottom of the ninth. Moreno started things off with a one-out single, and hot corner fill-in Harland Morales walked. The crowd was starting to warm up. Another backup, Ronnie Smith, who was filling in for injured Michael Gongora, dug into the plate. The first pitch ricocheted of the catcher’s mitt, and the crowd roared as Moreno and Morales scooted up a base. I clapped. I was starting to get that feeling in my stomach. I was starting to sweat again. I loved that. San Francisco drew in their infield. Smith grounded out to the first baseman. Two down.

Now, I’m going to ruin the end by saying we won. And in most stories of epic journeys, it’s the hero that strikes the final blow, but not in this situation. The guy that won this game will never be remembered for his offense. His name was Anthony Morford, and he was the D’backs catcher. He was on his way to his best defensive year, and at 25 stood to have many more on his way. But his bat was weak. Whenever people speak of him, nobody remembers this moment. But for him, he called it the finest moment of his career when it happened. I spoke to him years after his retirement, and he told me that it was still the best. I’ve always found it funny that such small things in baseball can be so important to the players that lived them. It was an 0-2 count, and Morford was trying desperately to keep us alive. He fouled off a few balls. The pitcher, Rich Benarch, threw a devastating splitter. I only know that from watching the tape afterwards. The ball literally bounced in front of the plate, and Morford was chasing. It was probably the luckiest swing in the history of baseball - Anthony looked like he was going to swing right over the splitter, but the ball bounced back up, and hit Morford’s bat square in the barrel. If I hadn’t watched the tape I wouldn’t have believed it myself. But it happened.

The ball wasn’t a home run - Morford didn’t have that kind of power to knock a 82MPH dirt-ball over the fence. Instead, the ball was roped past a diving second baseman into shallow right-centre. Moreno trotted home easily, and Harland decided to test his luck against the outfield-assist leading centrefielder Norman Squier. Morales was not a quick runner, nor was his decision wise. He was beaten by the ball at the plate by about four or five steps, but San Francisco catcher John Shiner bobbled it. The baseball scooted to his right. He grasped it with lightning quick reflexes and dove in front of Harland at the plate, resulting in a cataclysmic home-plate collision. Morales’ helmet went flying and the gloves in his back pocket even were jarred loose. Shiner’s mask actually broke, pieces of the cage and the hat hurtling through the air. For a brief moment, their bodies mingled together, and it became impossible to tell them apart. It actually would have been quite sexual if it wasn’t for the fact that it was two men trying to save the game for their respective teams.

In the end, Shiner fell onto his back and literally sprung Morales up into the crisp, summer air. Morales hit the ground, scrambled back, and tapped the plate. The ball lay in the dirt beside a dazed Shiner. We had won the game 6-5, and Morford was game-winning hero.

Throughout the month, Thomas Westra and Anthony gained the reputation as the twin killers - both had a plus 50 runners thrown out percentage. No two catchers on the same team with 100+ at bats each had ever thrown out 50% or more would-be base stealers in a season by June. Back in 1976 two catchers from Cincinnati had come close with 45% and 51%, but it was simply unheard-of.

On June 10th, I found out that we were tied with San Francisco (still) and the Chicago White Sox for the best record in baseball. The next day, both teams lost and we won. We were the best team in baseball. The interviews flooded in that night, for two reasons. The usual hate-spouting media actually opened up and told me that I had gone back to .500 as a manager at 114-114, and to tell us we were indeed the best team. It was a great day for me. One interview in particular sticks out on this day, because it was done by the same reporter I had slammed last year in Florida.

“Mr. Jazzington, a word?” He asked amongst the crowd.

I looked at him. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“Yes, we’ve met. Back in Florida.”

I searched my mind for a name. “Who are you?”

“Chip Takasagi.” He paused. “You and I got into an argument over your ejections last year.”

It all clicked. “Ohhhh, of course!” I quickly realized that this could be a repeat. “What do you want?”

“I just want to tell you that you’ve reached .500 as a manager again. Congratulations.”

“Um. . . thanks.”

“How does it feel? You’ve calmed down considerably since last year.”

“Well I didn’t know about this until you told me. So it doesn’t matter to me what my record is, as long as the team plays well.”

“Granted.” Chip scribbled on his notepad. “How does it feel to be the surprise team of 2005?”

“It feels like June 11th. There’s still a lot of baseball to play,” I responded. “I’ve long learned that nothing in baseball in safe.”


It wasn’t the best or most important conversation, but it was a change to the last time I spoke to him. Now I’m sure you would all like for it to turn into a great friendship and find out that he became a publisher and helped to publish what you’re reading, but no. I never saw him again after that. I just remember his name and those two conversations.

And all good things don’t last for long. We started to slide as the end of the month came along. Eastwood had seen enough of Deivi Saloman and his 2-6 record coupled with a 8.76 ERA, and he was released. To replace him, 22 year old James Vasser was called up. In AAA, Vasser had gone 10-2 with a 4.13 ERA. This also gave us 3 left handed starters with Yorikazu Yo****ora, Manuel Torres, and him. Vasser was a solid talent, but nothing to depend on. A 5'11, 180 pound American born pitcher with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a serious attitude problem, James was a major headache in the clubhouse. He actually complained to me that he wasn’t getting enough ‘priority starts’. In a sense, he was a more in-your-face version of Luis Guerra. A lot of players didn’t like him because he thought he was god’s gift to baseball. I couldn’t believe it. This guy was not ready for the big show and was at best a #3 or #4 starter with his top game. This was his first major league call-up, and he was complaining about priority starts as if he was a 10 year veteran. I would have complained to Eastwood, but I knew that nobody in AAA was capable of filling in other than Benjamin Sizer, who was injured. So we all had to live with this kid’s attitude.

On the 23rd, I was ejected for only the third time. Fortunately, I was holding true to my ‘at-least-one-ejection-per-month’ record, which now stood at ten months. At least Yorikazu hit his first home run. I congratulated him - through his translator.

On the 27th, Vasser finally got his first start. He pitched 4.2 innings, giving up 7 runs - 6 unearned. He complained endlessly on the bench when I pulled him about how ‘terrible’ this team’s defence was until Morales got tired of listening and told him to shut up.

And remember Scott Hennessey? He made an immediate impression, pitching in 10 games. His ERA was 0.00. His innings pitched was 11. And his WHIP was a phenomenal 0.34. He’d given up 2 hits and 2 walks all month.

We finished June at a mediocre 13-13, 45-37 overall. We’d slipped from the NL West lead, and sat 3 games behind San Francisco. Worse then that, Colorado was only 1 game back from us.

However, a great distraction came along known as the All-Star Game. Ken Giichi and Dominic Rodriguez had been called, and one other guy. I pleaded with Eastwood to tell him personally, until he finally agreed.

I ran like a schoolgirl down the corridor and found the player. “Guess what?” I said, tapping him on the shoulder.

He turned and looked at me. “What’s up, Jazz?”

“Welcome to the NL All-Stars, Christopher Look. I hear it’s your first visit.”