C'mon guys, it's not that hard

SHELTON E-mail: Click here Archive

© St. Petersburg Times
published May 8, 2002

When it comes to the last pitcher in the game, the first thing we can agree on is this. It's a tough job.

The plate seems smaller and the fence seems shorter and the throat feels dryer. The bats look bigger and the hitters look meaner and the mound feels shakier. The air seems thinner and the ball feels heavier and the ump seems pickier. Being a closer is hard, okay?

But it isn't this hard.

There is no excuse for the way the Rays' bullpen has been barbecued as of late (extra crispy), nor should there be any tolerance of it. Some of the shortcomings on the Rays are because of payroll. Some are because of personnel. This one is a question of professions.

Are these guys pitchers, or aren't they? It's as simple as that.

It's a shame. For eight innings, most nights, the Rays have been a scrappy little ballclub that has bordered on the interesting.

Then comes the ninth inning, and things start to explode, and the other guy sheds the handcuffs, foils the plot and steals the girl. Who's the pitching coach here? Blofeld?

By now, the feeling of pending failure from the bullpen is real enough to touch. A reliever starts to warm, and you can smell bacon. He approaches the mound, and you can hear the music from Jaws. The only question is whether the shark will maul him or devour him whole.

Do you think all of this isn't in Hal McRae's head? Take Tuesday night's game, when McRae left Paul Wilson on the mound in the ninth. McRae never lets a starter see the ninth inning. Had Wilson finished, it would have been the team's first complete game in 183 starts. That alone should have sent a message to the bullpen.

It's about time. The Rays have been apocalyptically, cataclysmically awful of late, awful to the point of sending you scrambling for the history books.

During a recent stretch, for instance, the Rays blew ninth-inning leads three times in three games. That hadn't happened in the AL since the White Sox of 1929 did it, and the entire country promptly went into a depression. Historians disagree on how closely the two were related.

Now consider this: The Rays were one out from victory in all three games. You can bet that's never happened.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's hard. Relief pitchers, and in particular closers, are a lot like the rest of us. Given a chance, they love to talk about how difficult their jobs are. And they're right. Not everyone can do what they do. We understand. There are pinch hitters and pinch runners and pressure. We get it.

But, um, isn't that sort of the job description?

For, say, Mariano Rivera, closing is a hard job. There is a lot at stake, and he's expected to succeed every time. No one expects any of the Rays' pitchers to throw like Rivera. But shouldn't someone be able to do the job sometime? Shouldn't someone getting paid to pitch be better than naming a lucky fan?

Watch the Rays pitch, and you'd get the feeling that no one ever had gotten anyone out in the ninth inning. That isn't true. Last season, two-thirds of all closing opportunities finished in success. Yes, that includes the Rays.

What's the first thing people tell you about baseball? That hitting a thrown ball is the most difficult thing to do in sports. If that's true, then why is it so darned easy to do so against the Rays in the final inning? Certainly, closers working against the Rays don't face the same difficulty.

Yet it goes on, no matter who happens to be on the mound. The ninth inning continues to look like batting practice. The best argument for Yan is Colome, and the best argument for Colome is Zambrano, and the best argument for Zambrano is Yan. Mystery, Riddle and Enigma.

Remember when this slide into the abyss began? The Rays had a 2-1 lead in the ninth against the Twins, and if they won, they would have a 10-10 record. Instead, Yan gave up a five-spot, and all manner of ugliness broke loose.

With Yan, you wonder what Hal McRae sees. Then you wonder what Yan sees. Remember, Yan is the pitcher who groused after being yanked a few games ago in a what-took-you-so-long situation. Esteban, when critics say you need more deception, they mean on the mound, not in the mirror.

Then there is Colome, who has a higher calories-to-speed ratio than any pitcher in memory. How can you throw a ball 99 mph and still have it leave dents in the outfield fence? Hint: When someone talks about good location, they don't mean "the Beach."

Then there is Zambrano, who turned a three-run lead into a three-run deficit in about nine seconds against the Red Sox. Next?

Hey, no one is throwing these guys into a bases-loaded, nobody-out situation. Three outs to go, three bases to spare. That's a ratio a professional pitcher should be able to deal with.

Look at this way. You are a pitcher with a three-run lead. You can walk the first batter. You can allow the next guy to hit a ball 400 feet to the warning track and have it caught. Then you can surrender a home run into the upper deck. Then you can have a batter hit a screaming line drive that will render the third-baseman childless for the second out. Then you can give up a triple. Then a walk. Then another walk. Then the shortstop can make a dazzling play.

And you still get a save.

Frankly, it would be healthier for the Rays if a lot of people were fed up by this streak, including the pitchers. Wouldn't you love to have a starting pitcher tell Hal McRae: "Skip, if you want to pull me from the game, you better call security, because you're going to have to drag me."

Look, it isn't this hard. Brain surgery in the dark isn't this hard. Tap-dancing in a minefield isn't this hard. Sword-juggling on a tightrope isn't this hard. Just get someone out.

Yeah, it's hard.

But it's harder to watch.

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