Steve Finley's goin' for the sack!
by Jeudi Tabler
"Twenty-six!... twenty-seven!... twenty-eight!"
The cheesy guitar from the "Forty Lashes" scene in Jesus Christ Superstar
is starting to play itself in my head. "Twenty-nine!...wait,..." I ask:
" Was that a double clutch? Does that count as thirty or twenty-nine-and-a-half?"
My roommate Nancy and I always have this argument. "Full-clutch-double,
that counts as thirty." She answers without taking her eyes off home plate.
She tends to be more liberal in her count, and since my vision isn't exactly
perfect, I usually concede. We're in luck, he seems nervous. Padres center
fielder Steve Finley holds his left palm up to the umpire requesting a time-out
and backs out of the batter's-box. He rests his bat between his legs and
adjusts his gloves, jolts the brim of his helmet a few times, and gives
his crotch an emphatic tug. "Thirty-one!" We're nearly shouting now, electric
with the possibility of reaching the magic number forty in one at-bat. We
get a double-grab with his left hand and a single from his right hand before
he even reenters the box. Now begins the routine.
Finley has taken the pre-swing loin-grasp to ritual levels. He predictably places his left foot at the plate and then checks his "between-leg balance" with his right hand. Before he checks the brim of his helmet, he gives his hand what appears to be a sly sniff. Another deep pumping of his package as he heaves his right foot to the plate; and on a good night, we get a little wiggle while he's still fully in clutch. Extremely aggressive wiggles have even counted as triples on occasion.
Then he sets for the pitch. Left foot, grab, sniff, helmet, grab, right foot, set.
About that sniff. Maybe, like crotch grabbing, it is a vital act in the elite athlete's repertoire disguised as a mere vulgarity. I'm talking about "self-pheromonization". By smelling his own pheromones, Finley bats harder and runs faster. Finley's career season in hits, runs, and homers back my theory.
I didn't notice the Golden Glover's complex ritual until June of this year, when the Padres were deep into their June slumpŠ on their way to losing over twenty games out of twenty-three Šlosing their sizable lead in the NL West. At the time, Finley, seemingly unaffected by the slump, was the only player worth watching on the field. On his way to having the best season of his career, the former Astro grabbed, adjusted, clutched, poked and pumped his way to being the Padre's leader in runs (126). The talent didn't stop at the plate. Finley's prowess carried over to center field, making some of the Padres' best defensive plays of the year on a team noted for their fielding skills, although often overshadowed by super-stud Ken Caminiti on third base (who, incidentally, rarely grabs himself). And yes, a common sight is that of the lonely figure of lanky number 12, waiting patiently by the 405' mark on the outfield wall, glove ready, with his throwing hand planted firmly on his cup.
When I first started counting, I asked my baseball fan friends to join in on the fun. The guys didn't want to notice, fearing that observing such a thing might not be very masculine. Almost universally I got defensive comments about it being "a chick thing, all baseball player's do it." Or "Hey, cups are uncomfortable, you'll never know". When they started listening in on the counts, though, and realized that we were into the thirties for some at bats (granted, they were at full-count, with a couple of fouls, etc.), they were suddenly intrigued. Soon they were in on the counting, perhaps seduced by the sheer mystique of what kind of balls would require such constant attention and care. I even started getting reports of counts for games that I didn't attend (crotch-grab counting is strictly a live spectator activity). The best times were in group situations though, when our chorus of voices would rise up out of the stands "eighteen, nineteen," crack! Occasionally, the crowd around us would catch on, and we'd hear their shy murmurs in synch with ours. I don't know how forty became our goal, probably cuz he came so close (over thirty-five grabs) so many times. I have to admit, there were even times I was secretly disappointed when a hit would come if the number was exceptionally high. I tried counting for the other players, visiting teams, etc., but nobody ever came close enough to hold my interest through more than one plate appearance.
(Since the first time Ms. Tabler hepped me to this phenomenon, I have taken it upon myself to alert pretty much everyone to Finley's "preoccupation". Starting with neighboring fans, then entire rows, and eventually the pretending-like-they're-not-paying-attention writers in the press box; Finley-watching has the potential to become the quintessential "game-within-a-game", privy to fan-clubs and betting-pools alike. Imagine if you will, a three-two, bases-loaded count. After fouling off a few pitches, various pockets of fans howl in unison for Finley reaching the vaunted "40-grabs" mark. Meanwhile in Las Vegas, a mid-level bookie has his thumbs smashed for not picking right on the Finley-grab over/under. You can see where this is going... -ed)
UPDATE!
During the grueling
'97 season, Mr. Finley finally reached the vaunted "40 grabs" plateau. Expecting
phenomena of the "Wrath of God" variety, on the two-and-two pitch directly
after the 40th grab, he promptly popped up to first. Kinda' let the wind
out of our sails. But we believe that's why the Padres haven't done so well
this last year. Excuses are nice, aren't they?--ed.
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Finley has taken the pre-swing loin-grasp to ritual levels. He predictably places his left foot at the plate and then checks his "between-leg balance" with his right hand. Before he checks the brim of his helmet, he gives his hand what appears to be a sly sniff. Another deep pumping of his package as he heaves his right foot to the plate; and on a good night, we get a little wiggle while he's still fully in clutch. Extremely aggressive wiggles have even counted as triples on occasion.
Then he sets for the pitch. Left foot, grab, sniff, helmet, grab, right foot, set.
About that sniff. Maybe, like crotch grabbing, it is a vital act in the elite athlete's repertoire disguised as a mere vulgarity. I'm talking about "self-pheromonization". By smelling his own pheromones, Finley bats harder and runs faster. Finley's career season in hits, runs, and homers back my theory.
I didn't notice the Golden Glover's complex ritual until June of this year, when the Padres were deep into their June slumpŠ on their way to losing over twenty games out of twenty-three Šlosing their sizable lead in the NL West. At the time, Finley, seemingly unaffected by the slump, was the only player worth watching on the field. On his way to having the best season of his career, the former Astro grabbed, adjusted, clutched, poked and pumped his way to being the Padre's leader in runs (126). The talent didn't stop at the plate. Finley's prowess carried over to center field, making some of the Padres' best defensive plays of the year on a team noted for their fielding skills, although often overshadowed by super-stud Ken Caminiti on third base (who, incidentally, rarely grabs himself). And yes, a common sight is that of the lonely figure of lanky number 12, waiting patiently by the 405' mark on the outfield wall, glove ready, with his throwing hand planted firmly on his cup.
When I first started counting, I asked my baseball fan friends to join in on the fun. The guys didn't want to notice, fearing that observing such a thing might not be very masculine. Almost universally I got defensive comments about it being "a chick thing, all baseball player's do it." Or "Hey, cups are uncomfortable, you'll never know". When they started listening in on the counts, though, and realized that we were into the thirties for some at bats (granted, they were at full-count, with a couple of fouls, etc.), they were suddenly intrigued. Soon they were in on the counting, perhaps seduced by the sheer mystique of what kind of balls would require such constant attention and care. I even started getting reports of counts for games that I didn't attend (crotch-grab counting is strictly a live spectator activity). The best times were in group situations though, when our chorus of voices would rise up out of the stands "eighteen, nineteen," crack! Occasionally, the crowd around us would catch on, and we'd hear their shy murmurs in synch with ours. I don't know how forty became our goal, probably cuz he came so close (over thirty-five grabs) so many times. I have to admit, there were even times I was secretly disappointed when a hit would come if the number was exceptionally high. I tried counting for the other players, visiting teams, etc., but nobody ever came close enough to hold my interest through more than one plate appearance.
(Since the first time Ms. Tabler hepped me to this phenomenon, I have taken it upon myself to alert pretty much everyone to Finley's "preoccupation". Starting with neighboring fans, then entire rows, and eventually the pretending-like-they're-not-paying-attention writers in the press box; Finley-watching has the potential to become the quintessential "game-within-a-game", privy to fan-clubs and betting-pools alike. Imagine if you will, a three-two, bases-loaded count. After fouling off a few pitches, various pockets of fans howl in unison for Finley reaching the vaunted "40-grabs" mark. Meanwhile in Las Vegas, a mid-level bookie has his thumbs smashed for not picking right on the Finley-grab over/under. You can see where this is going... -ed)
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