My Zim story ...
[SIZE=medium]Don Zimmer looked at me, and the fire burned deeply in his eyes. And then the cursing began.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]It was Saturday, Sept. 13, 1980. I was a senior at UNC, but three of us – a fellow classmate and a local sports writer – had bolted Chapel Hill for a seven-day baseball trip that included games in Baltimore, Philly, New York and Boston. On this early-autumn day, my Red Sox, mired near the bottom of the AL East standings, were hosting the New York Yankees in Fenway Park.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]My sportswriter friend had spent Friday night’s game in the Fenway press box. He suggested on Saturday that I use the media pass while he and our other buddy sat in the grandstands. I was wearing a fraternity T-shirt, shorts and sneakers.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]Upstairs, I found a seat beside the Sox beat writer from suburban Lowell. Two memories are clear from that press-box experience. First, there was a beer tap available to the media, of which I took full advantage. Second, Peter Gammons was constantly being summoned to the press-box telephone for incoming calls, probably from beat writers in other cities. This was, of course, long before the cell-phone revolution.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]The Sox were on the way to their fourth loss in a five-game losing streak. Tommy John took a 4-2 Yankee lead into the bottom of the ninth. But a couple of singles and a sac fly helped pull Boston within a run. With two out and the tying run at first, left-handed hitting Jim Dwyer strode to the plate to face the lefty John. From my armchair position in the press box, this seemed the perfect pinch-hit situation.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]Don Zimmer, however, obviously didn’t think so. Tommy John buzzed Dwyer inside, and the best Dwyer could do was a soft grounder to Willie Randolph at second. Game over, 4-3.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]The Lowell writer was noncommittal on my suggestion that Zimmer pinch-hit for Dwyer. As he began to write his game story, he deadpanned, “You’ve got a press credential. Go ask him.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]College kid. Probably eight draft beers worth of courage in my gut. A trip to the manager’s office seemed like a wonderful idea.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]I got directions, found the proper stairwell and, moments later, stood outside an unmarked door. A couple of deep breaths later, I turned the knob, opened the door and stepped inside what certainly must have been the most spartan manager’s office since Jimmy Collins skippered the Red Sox in the early 1900s. (Perhaps Zimmer had already packed his belongings. He would be fired a few days later.)[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]There were three of us in this surprisingly small office: Zimmer, Gammons and me. Gammons was concluding a humorous story about something Earl Weaver had done the night before, but Zimmer wasn’t finding the humor. Suddenly Gammons exited.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]“Somethin’ for ya?” Zimmer asked as he surveyed the Greek letters on my chest. New to media work, I was hardly schooled in asking the warm-up question.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]“Yeah,” I said. “I was wondering why you didn’t pinch-hit for Dwyer in the ninth.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]Don Zimmer’s big, round eyes grew bigger and rounder. I didn’t have one of those micro-cassette recorders, or else Zimmer might’ve rivaled Tommy Lasorda in the post-game-interview hall of fame. (I didn’t even have a pen and pad. All I had was, well, me.)[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]“Who the fuck are you, kid? What the fuck do you know about managing a fuckin’ baseball game?” [/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]I had gotten all the answer I wanted and would gladly have departed, but Zimmer wasn’t finished. His voice grew louder.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]“Dwyer’s already got two hits off John in the game. You gonna tell me Jim Dwyer can’t hit Tommy John? Huh? Who the fuck let you in here? And one other thing – if I bring in a righty, they get Gossage outta the bullpen! You think we’ve got a better chance against Gossage?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]Irate, Zimmer still managed to toss me a snippet of respect when he tersely asked, “Anything else?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=medium]I didn’t have anything else. I mumbled my thanks and departed through the same door I’d entered. Fortunately for me, I didn’t exit with a black eye or a foot in my ass. Just a lifetime memory.[/SIZE]
