Scorecard

And the Band Plays On

Glenn Burke insisted his career had been cut short by baseball's homophobia. Though both fast and powerful, he lasted less than five seasons in the majors and left no mark on the sport more durable than the high five, which he created at the plate to celebrate a teammate's homer in 1977. That is scant legacy for a man scouts once compared to the young Willie Mays. "Prejudice just won out" is how Burke, who played for the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Oakland A's, explained his exile.

There may have been more to it than that. Certainly Burke's descent after baseball—he ended up living on the streets of San Francisco, panhandling, stealing and using drugs—pointed up a lack of discipline. And, as baseball people will tell you, there is hardly anything that discriminates less than big league pitching. As far as that goes, Burke could bat no better than a lifetime .237.

But when Burke, the only major leaguer ever to publicly acknowledge his homosexuality, died of complications from AIDS on May 30 in San Leandro, Calif., at age 42, we were reminded that some bitterness is hard-won. Though he was not openly gay until 1982, when he had been out of baseball for two years, players and management knew early on about his sexual orientation, and that may have compromised his career as much as the slider did.

Burke contended that he was traded from the Dodgers when manager Tom Lasorda discovered he was gay. Lasorda has denied this. Burke also claimed that the Dodgers once offered him a paid honeymoon if he would just get married, a contention denied by former general manager Al Campanis. Burke maintained that he was traded to the A's after spurning that offer: "The Dodgers got rid of me, and everybody on the team knew why."

He fared no better with management at Oakland. Burke told of an incident when manager Billy Martin was addressing the A's in the dugout and, looking straight at Burke, said, "I don't want no faggot on my team." Burke's career all but ended in 1979 when, frustrated, he left the team after appearing in only 23 games. He returned for spring training in '80, only to injure his knee and be sent to the minors. Convinced that he had been blackballed, Burke quit baseball for good.

The game cannot be held responsible for Burke's death, or even for much of his life, but it should take warning from his sad and short career. Baseball cannot afford, through discrimination against gays, to ever again provoke sport's most tragic epitaph, the one offered last week by Giant manager Dusty Baker. "We'll never know," said Baker, the man Burke saluted with his hand held high so long ago, "how good he could have become."

On the Lamb

From Southerndown Golf Club in South Wales comes the woolly tale of Peter Croke, a duffer whose shanked tee shot on the 17th hole struck a passing sheep and lodged under its tail. The startled beastie scampered off, dumping the ball 30 yards closer to the hole. When Croke finally contained his laughter, he needed four more strokes to complete the 416-yard, par-4 hole.

Then he ambled to the 18th tee. Somewhat sheepishly, no doubt.