The Fans Are at the Plate, in the Clutch

This spring, I did something that would make any true-blue Dodger fan green with envy. Vacationing in Florida, I dropped by Vero Beach for a Dodgers exhibition game. I wasn’t working, but I wangled a media pass and hung out in parts of Dodgertown that are off-limits to the general public.

Just to have Sandy Koufax walk past was a thrill. In a bar conveniently located adjacent to the press room, I ordered a beer and tried to eavesdrop on an interview.

The journalist was George F. Will, political pundit and baseball bard. He was questioning Brett Butler, a man who looked much too fit to have a cancerous tumor growing in his throat, a fact unknown until this week. Perhaps I should have introduced myself, but I was feeling more like a groupie than a reporter.

From what I could hear, Will had Butler expounding on the art of batting leadoff. Later, a Butler was talking about the baseball strike and its aftermath. “I was bitter,” Butler said. This, I assumed, was his reaction to how the fans treated him during the Mike Busch affair.

Bitter? Fair enough. We fans are fickle; that’s part of the job description. We booed Brett Butler then because something needed booing and he’d made himself the best possible vehicle for our anger. Long before we learned that Butler’s life is threatened, he had changed those boos into cheers.

By the time I saw him in Dodgertown, Butler had won me over. And though it may seem odd, he had won me over on the night of Aug. 30, 1995, an ugly 8-1 loss to the Mets that left such a bitter taste with Butler. I happened to be there that night, and a remarkable night it was. I’ve written about it before and now I’m writing about it again.

If you don’t happen to be a baseball fan, you’ll need a little context. Understand first that, during the baseball strike, Brett Butler acted like Cesar Chavez--a rich man’s Cesar Chavez. When the Dodgers promoted former replacement player Mike Busch from the minors, the Dodgers treated him as a “scab.” These lucky, spoiled greedheads even refused to play catch with him, and Butler, a team leader, explained why. So the fans, angry with both players and owners, embraced Busch as a folk hero. He was our underdog.

Butler had long ago established himself as one of the Dodgers’ most popular players, in part because of his good-guy image. But on this night, as he approached the batter’s box, the fans let him have it. The boos grew louder with each step. It was a lovely sound.

Crack. A clean single. There was silence and then a smattering of applause. No doubt some people who were booing were now clapping. Hey, nothing personal, Brett.

All night long, the jeers rained down on Butler. His teammates weren’t booed the way Butler was, but they seemed unable to handle the pressure of a hostile home crowd. Mike Piazza, a great hitter, struck out three times with the bases loaded. With the game out of reach, Piazza finally got a hit--and then he got booed, too.

How did Butler react? Five times he stepped up to the plate and five times he heard those boos. Four times he got on base, with three singles and a walk. And, if memory serves, his only out was a drive to the right-field wall late in the game. I now suspect that Butler, no power hitter, was trying to yank one out of the park, because a home run would have been so sweet.

That night, I began to think that maybe I’d been underestimating Butler all these years. Oh, I knew he was a good player. Sure, he was “scrappy” and “pesky” and every cliche ever attached to an undersized athlete who makes the most of modest talent. Yes, nobody can bunt like Brett Butler.

But the Busch affair revealed something about character, both on and off the field. Several teammates shared Butler’s views but did not speak publicly for fear of repercussions. It was Butler who had demonstrated the courage of his convictions, dubious as those convictions were. The next day, having properly considered the fans’ opinion, Butler led his teammates in making peace with Busch--or at least in making a public show of peace. And it wasn’t too long before the fans were cheering Butler again.

And now comes the news that Brett Butler, age 38, has cancer. During a routine tonsillectomy, a tumor the size of a ripe plum was discovered in his throat and removed. The malignancy, however, has spread to at least one lymph node. More surgery and radiation treatments are planned.

The cause is unknown, but doctors say one possibility is the chewing tobacco that Butler used for a few years in his early 20s. Butler’s doctors in Atlanta say he has a 70% chance of surviving five years. Some other doctors suggest that’s optimistic.

Real life always has a rude way of interfering with our games. But then, one reason fans enjoy baseball is that, more often than our other games, it proves such a fine metaphor for the drama of real life.

Jim Murray, or one of us Jim Murray wannabes, might write that Death has two strikes on Butler, which is too bad for Death. Behind in the count, Butler gets tough, fouling off pitch after pitch, waiting for one he can slap to left.

It’s a nice thought. And it’s comforting to know that a fighting spirit is said to help. So here’s to the hope that Brett Butler can be as inspired by our cheers and prayers as he was by our boos.

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. Readers may write to Harris at the Times Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth 91311. Please include a phone number.

Long before we learned that Butler’s life is threatened, he had changed those boos into cheers.