A couple of the guys knew him. "Alvarez. He played at Waterbury."
I want to find out if he has any power.
"Nothing. A Punch-and-Judy. Just bloops the ball over the infield."
I'm trying to get Cedeno's attention so that I can bring him in. My coaches and I are waving towels to signal him to come in. Cedeno paid absolutely no attention.
Fortunately for us, Bob Watson in left field saw what was going on, moved way in and over and, just exactly like the players had told me, Alvarez hit a little blooper into short center field. If Cedeno had been where he should have been it would have been a routine catch. As it was, it took a great catch by Watson, just off the ground, to save the game.
I'm waiting for Cedeno to come in. Now, Cedeno never lost an opportunity to case the grandstand. He hadn't looked into the dugout all year before he hit the top step. Half the time he'd fall into the dugout, with his eyes still up in the stands. I said, "Come in here, Cesar. Don't be looking up in the stands. I want to speak to you."
After he admitted that he had no idea who the last hitter had been, I explained to him how we had been trying to move him in, and how lucky it had been that Watson had seen us. I said, "You know, you got to look in here once in a while, Cesar, or we can't help you. Maybe we'll be trying to get your attention to move you around a little bit, like all clubs do. Didn't you see us waving the towels?"
No, he had been watching the batter.
"But, Cesar, we were waving the towels long before the batter was up."
He looked me right in the eye and cursed me. Then he said, "I can't watch you and the ball, too." Not unpleasantly, either. Cesar just wanted me to know where he stood on the question of whether a player had to look into the dugout for instructions.