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 No love lost for Valentine
Posted: Tuesday June 15, 1999 03:46 PM
In the nation of Malta, straws are made of paper. I point this out because, until a couple of days ago, it was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard. Liquid, by nature, is wet. Paper, by nature, gets soggy from moisture. So, should a paper straw touch liquid, as it's intended to do ... Standing in the infield of Shea Stadium, Bobby Valentine explained why he hadn't violated rules by wearing an electrical-tape mustache and Inspector Gadgidiot glasses after being ejected from a game earlier in the week. This was Sunday, and as several of us reporter folk gathered around the Mets manager, he insisted -- straight-faced -- that the top step of the dugout, where he stood in disguise, isn't, ahem, the dugout. "The catcher can go into the dugout to catch a ball," he said, arms folded, hat concealing the eyes, à la Chuck D. "But the top step is out of play. Therefore, it's not against the rules. I want to make that clear." As we scribbled in our pads, cued our tape recorders, did as writers do, I couldn't help but steal a glance from face to face to face, Newsday to New York Post to New York Times to Daily News to me. The expressions, smirks mixed with scowls, said the following: Reporter 1: Bobby, find Jesus. Reporter 2: Bobby, lay off the ganja. Reporter 3: Bobby, were the little yellow buses that rough? Reporter 4: Bobby, shut up. Mostly, it was a universal glare of, Bobby, give us a f#$%ing break. Valentine has proven himself a worthy, if not overwhelmingly successful, big league manager who, of late, has gone Farrah Fawcett mental. It started a few weeks ago, when he told a writer that rightfielder Bobby Bonilla, no love shack himself, would not be playing for six games ... prior to explaining that to Bonilla. Valentine then got into a shouting match with a beat writer, whom he accused of never asking him a question in two-plus years covering the team. Manager and writer exchanged a few shots of "You're an idiot!" "No, you're an idiot!" before it became apparent that -- Congrats! -- both men were correct. Valentine's final bow to freakhood was the disguise. At the time, he explained it away as simple fun; a way to get his slumping team back on a roll. In hindsight, it was pure stupidity -- a manager with a few too many pressure-packed days taking one huge step toward the loon zone. Anyone who's been around Bobby V. for more than 20 minutes knows he is equally baseball-smart and arrogance-stuffed. It has likely been this way for eons, ever since he was Stamford, Connecticut's three-sport wunderkind in the the mid- to late '60s. Valentine was the Dodgers' first-round pick in the '68 draft, a can't-miss outfield prospect who, thanks to a crushing knee injury, missed. During that time in L.A., however, he learned under Tommy Lasorda, the outwardly fun-loving Italian poseur child with a lethal behind-the-scenes tongue and an occasionally vicious demeanor. Valentine paid attention and figured out how to play both sides of the fence. He can be charming one minute, backstabbing (See Hundley, Todd) the next. He clearly knows how to win, but lately, you've gotta wonder. The Bonilla blunder. The idiot fest. The Lone Ranger tribute. Like a paper straw in the deepest of colas, he's turning to slush. The opinions expressed here are solely those of the writer. Sports Illustrated staff writer Jeff Pearlman offers his unique view on baseball every week.
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