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 Biff, be brave Sports Illustrated baseball writer Jeff Pearlman reports on a scary encounter in Atlanta
Posted: Friday October 09, 1998 05:56 PM
The bathrooms in Turner Field are dark. Sometimes, the lights flicker on and off a bit. If you listen closely, there are voices. Most people don't listen at all. Others, however ... "Pssst ..." I was standing at the urinal. "Pssst ... psst." It was coming from two stalls down. I turned my head—saw nothing. "Pssst ... psst ... psst." I turned again. There was a man, in a '70s-style polyester Braves uniform, the one with the funky feather on the sleeve. He was looking my way. His pants were dirty. His hair was Greg Brady, episode No. 36. He held a mitt. Oddest of all, he was aglow—and floating. There was no one else in the dark bathroom. Just me and him. Just him and me. "Don't you recognize me?" he asked, softly. I shook my head. "Topps. 1980. Card No. 287." Again, scared silence. "Catcher, Atlanta Braves. Good-field, no-hit. Long minor league career. Big nose. Lotsa wristbands. Almost 10 years of losing. C'mon, kid. Don't you remember? I had that cool stance ..." Suddenly, it hit me—Biff!? Is that you? It was indeed, none other than the legendary, extraordinary, superior Brave himself, Biff Pocoroba. Or, to be exact, the ghost of Biff Pocoroba past. After all, he has been erased from Atlanta's memory for years and years. He's as good as gone. Or Garber. Are you here to kill me? Biff shook his transparent head. He was sad. Crying, even. "Look around this place. Beautiful ballpark. Good eats. Lots of $30 Chipper Jones T-shirts. Self-flushing toilets. So where, in the name of Kenny Oberkfell are the freakin' people!?" The man...er, ghost, had a point. This was Game 1 of the NLCS—big stuff. John Smoltz was pitching. The Padres, featuring Jim Leyritz as Darth Vader, were in town. Sure, there was a rain delay. But a half-empty stadium!? On opening night!? The team of the '90s!? It was just like every other non-World Series Atlanta playoff game to date. Boring. Boring. Boring. "Remember when I was a Brave?" Of course, Biff. "We sucked pickles. Our shortstop was Rafael Ramirez. I think he once fielded a grounder cleanly. Our second baseman was Glenn Hubbard. Balls got lost in his beard. Our pitchers—Jeez, our pitchers were Ricky Camp and Gene Garber and Craig McMurtry and Rick Mahler and Len Barker and Terry Forster and Donnie Moore and Terry Harper and ..." Uhhh ... Biff, Terry Harper didn't pitch. "I know ... I know. But on those teams, he could've. The point is, we were worse than Poison Ivy II, and there were always die-hard—maybe six of 'em, but real die-hards—watching us at that Fulton County Toilet Bowl stadium. Now, it's all corporate stiffs in three-pieces gettin' those free tix. They come .. they don't come—doesn't really matter." Yeah, but the team still wins. What do you care? "Lemme put it this way. I was in the Yankee Stadium bathroom for interleague, and Joel Skinner's telling me about the time some bleacher fanatics threw batteries at Tim Salmon. I go to San Diego, Gene Richards says he can hardly hear—what with the yelling and all. And Cleveland— hell, Ross Grimsley won't shut up about the Tribe fanatics. Those teams go far, 'cause their fans take 'em there. Our team —we're like Merrill Lynch. The Braves reflect their fans. And their fans are the worst in baseball." I thought this over a bit, finished my business and turned back toward Biff. But he was gone. The lights came on again. A few people straggled in. A man—brown suit, Wall Street Journal in hand—stepped up one stall over. Hey, I asked, what's the score?
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