Steve

I first met Mike Scioscia next to a dishwasher.  

Well, not one dishwasher, but many dishwashers.  I lived at 313 Verdugo Way, A house that would later be bought by Huel Howser’s cameraman Louie.  I pray he treated my room better than I did in my teenage years.

I love(d) baseball. Kids love a lot of things, I loved baseball.  You couldn’t get a game by me.  I remember sitting in the outfield of the old Angels stadium, pre Disneyfication, asking Jose Conseco how he “loved the women of Anaheim”.  Had I known then what I know now, I would have asked him how greenies and other injectables feel (or selling out), but that is the best I could come up with at 10.  

Where we sat, one could hear the crack of the bat and watch the on field proceedings at different intervals.  It taught me the difference between speed of light and sound.  In my head, Conseco was still flirting with my Aunt Mary Jo; I knew it and I hated it.

I decided to marry my wife of 12 years at an Angel’s game.  Well, on the way to one.  The Angels and the Oakland A’s were going into the last series of the season tied for the American League West Division lead.  Whomever won 2 out of 3 games would go to the playoffs, Jose Guillen be damned!  Vladimir Guerrero decided to put the team on his back and win an MVP award.  I never liked the under handed throw from right field at a million miles an hour, nor the box full of his progeny, but I guess everyone else did.  Actually, I loved the guy, he could not have been a nicer human being and the fact that his madre cooked every day for the team, that stole my heart too.

Standing next to a dishwasher Mike Scioscia signed a poster for me.  He was crouched, in a suit, wearing a catcher’s mit on the poster.  He had a Howard’s credit card in his glove. I had no idea how often I would listen to horrible commercials connected to this later in my life.  He asked me my name politely, I gave it to him, and he signed his name.  As I walked away I realized he had not signed my name anywhere, he was just being polite. This would become a character trait over his 19 years of managing that I would come to appreciate.  He was full of unnecessary polite gratitude and minimal involvement of anything not important.   I suppose Polonius would call it brevity.  

I will avoid my story about Lenny Dykstra, Tommy Lasorda and the carwash.  The poster of Mike Scioscia was (is) framed.  I wasn’t a Dodger’s fan, I was an Angels fan!  Also, I’d never read Fahrenheit 451, but Ray Bardbury lived nearby my house and I’d met him and gotten an autographed copy. Meeting Mike was much more than that. He smiled at me, I think he knew I loved baseball.  I’m sure I shared a few insights about his play and his future career, I knew it all, and he smiled at me.  He was kind, I will always remember that.  On the south side of the Howard’s store with his ass halfway on the 10 freeway, he smiled at me, signed a poster, and moved onto his next victim of kindness.

A few years later, Joe Madden was finishing out Terry Collin’s 1999 season.  I had lived through all of it.  Randy Johnson killing our year in 1995.  I watched that game, poor Langston.  I look a bit like Jim Abbot, but I always loved Joyner.  Side note, I think the wonder dog singled in the 6^thto break up a nono.  Check out Rex Hudler’s book Splinters.  

My parents now had a lovely home in Rancho Cucamonga.  The Angels were in the playoffs, charging toward the world series.  I was 20.  I had no idea how spoiled I was about to be.  Bill Stoneman and Mike Scioscia had masterminded a team that ended up being a subplot for a movie with Brad Pitt (and kicked Oakland’s ass!).  Check out the winning streak(s) that Oakland and the Angels went on that year.  Hard to win 20 plus games and not gain any ground (suck it Oakland).  David Eckstein, two kidneys in tow, using three fingers behind the ball.  Darin Erstad (I am not fortunate enough to have a boy, but his name would be Darin if he existed) snarling all over the field, willing his way to victory.  Scott Spezio with whatever he had going on.  I watched at my parent’s house.  I celebrated, I was emotional, I cried.  

I bought a bottle opener that played Rory Marcus’ call of the final out.  I still have it, it will never be thrown away even thrown it doesn’t work.  

My first picture with Mike I was 27.  My daughter Sophie (almost Torii by the way, that was a real coin flip and I’m not joking) was 6 months old, 180 days, 4300 hours, shoot  I'm from the IE not OC, she was half a year old.  Anyway she was new.  At the time, in Tempe Arizona, the players and coaches had not figured out a better way of getting into the stadium than through the crowd.  Mike had a system, don’t stop moving your feet.  Small steps are fine, you’re not being rude, but no stopping.  It was obvious, I’d watched it for a few days. Then we had our shot.  Slow Wednesday, he walked in with a smile, and we got a photo.  My wife is not in the shot because he looked at her before smiling and said “take the photo now”.  It was pre selfie.  We kind of looked related given the dimples and facial structure.  

I am turning 36 on Saturday and 29 of those years have involved Mike Scioscia.  I wish I could thank him personally.  I hope some day I get the opportunity.  The man made me cry today.  He cried today (I don’t care if Dino was ringing the phone to bail him out). I wish he could be sent off to his next job in a better way, but I am ready for bed now.  I will miss him, but I am not short on gratitude for his role in my life, even if he doesn’t know anything about it.