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Postcard He's a balldude to the core
By Jeff Pearlman, Sports Illustrated His stool the size of a Popsicle stick, his back less flexible than Jesse Helms, Giants balldude (as they are officially called at Pac Bell Park) Manny Moyano hurts. He hurts for the plight of Yugoslavians. He hurts for the emptiness of homeless children. He hurts for Steve Guttenberg's theatrical inactivity. Mostly, he just plain hurts. It is not easy being one of the world's, ahem, most experienced balldudes. In fact, it is terribly difficult. Bend down. Stand up. Run! Fetch! Run! Duck! Run! Fetch! Oy! "This," says Moyano, "ain't so easy." He is 78 years old, 546 in dog years. The comparison fits, because of the hundreds of employees earning San Francisco Giants coin, few get the canine treatment -- nine innings hunched over on a plank of wood -- afforded the balldudes. Moyano is a Wilford Brimley-looking dude, with vanilla-white hair and a bushy mustache and cute little glasses straight from the good ol' days, when men were men and balldudes were ballboys. He made his first appearance in the black, white and orange seven years ago, weeks after hearing the want ad (WANTED: Old people in search of accelerated death) on a local radio station. The Giants, seeking appeal in unappealing Candlestick Park, thought it'd be wacky to have senior citizens chasing after foul balls. Games and games later, Moyano's heart still pumps blood and stuff . "This kind of job keeps a guy young," says the retired machine shop supervisor. "Baseball has been a love of mine for a long time. Who wouldn't want this?" Answer (according to the latest Gallop Poll): 99.6 percent of all shuffle board-playing geriatrics. In the 1930s, he experienced his first diamond thrill, randomly meeting the legendary Gabby Hartnett. Around that time, he starred as a strong-armed catcher for Santa Clara High, batting .330 as a senior and attracting the eyes of several big league scouts. Any Hartnett-sized hopes ended when he enrolled in the Marines. "But I was a pretty good player," he says. "And if I could've made the money these guys earn today ..." The thought comes. The thought goes. Game 2 is set to begin. The balldude trots out to his left field perch, happy as can be. Baker-gate?Reports were circulating over San Francisco radio yesterday that Giants manager Dusty Baker -- in the final year of his contract -- had been contacted by the Dodgers about their soon-to-be-vacant skipperhood. Baker, the most laid-back manager since Clyde King, quickly dismissed such nonsense (For the record, Baker joining forces with Tommy Lasorda is slightly more likely than Stevie Ray Vaughn playing my son's christening). "You believe everything you hear on the radio?" said Baker. "They can't approach me. I'm under contract. That's tampering. You can't do that, and I wouldn't dare do that." He's no peon"I am not a peon," claimed Paul L. Bellanca, the Pac Bell Park security guard who, in yesterday's column, was called just that. Bellanca was the man who did battle with Giants great Orlando Cepeda in the press box prior to Game 1. Cepeda and his wife Mirian tried entering the stadium press box when Bellanca, sticking to the strictest of guidelines, stopped them when Mirian failed to present a pass. Cepeda, for the record, is a Giants legend and 1999 Hall of Famer. According to Bellanca, whose business card lists him as a security officer/A-V technician/piano teacher, Cepeda misunderstood the situation. "I told him I would get his wife another pass," says Bellanca. "The rule is you need proper credentials to enter here. I was trying to help."
Bellanca is a nice (if a tad too stringent) guy who wears his green
blazer well. The Giants have asked him to file a report. We ask that they leave him alone.
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