Mondays with Murray

Former Angels outfielder Tim Salmon threw out the ceremonial first pitch before the season-opener against the Minnesota Twins on April 5. . . . Salmon, a native of Long Beach, Calif., played his entire career with the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim franchise. Known affectionately among Angels fans as the King Fish, he is considered one of the greatest players in the franchise history, and, most certainly, he was a favourite subject of the late, great Jim Murray.

Mondays With Murray

APRIL 26, 1998, SPORTS
Copyright 1998/THE TIMES MIRROR COMPANY

This Star Knows How to Produce

If I were Tim Salmon, I'd be a first-class jerk. A royal pain in the you-know-what. You know, come to the ballpark late . . . in a stretch limousine . . . in a bad mood . . . complaining about everything: "Can't somebody turn that music down! Who's the wise guy who took my hair dryer?"
   That sort of thing. I'd throw my weight around. Brush past the autograph hounds: "Not now! Can't you see I'm busy?” Backbite the manager: "I can't do everything around here. What am I, Ty Cobb?" Skip batting practice: "I don't need it. Let the rest of those clowns who do take it." In other words, show 'em who the Star is. The one the people come to see.
   Now, we switch to the real Tim Salmon. He is the Star of the Anaheim Angels, no question about that. But he shows up as if he came to pick up the towels. Or fix a shower leak.
   He's as unassuming as a butler. He hustles. He works out. He takes outfield. You'd think he was trying to make the team, not lead it.
   All he does is hit 30 or more home runs a year, drive in 100 or so runs, bat .290 to .300, and cross the plate 90 or more times.
   If that doesn't entitle you to be insufferable, I don't know what does. If it were me I'd make Albert Belle look kindly. If Salmon did that in New York, they'd name a candy bar after him. He'd have a nickname. He'd be a least "King" Salmon.
   He's the Anaheim Archangel. But you'd never know it. He's as taken for granted as the U.S. mail. You only notice it when it's not there.
   He doesn't make waves. He's as dependable as the tides. He's polite to everyone. He's a church-going Christian. He arrives early, leaves late. He loves the game and is grateful that he gets paid to play it. He's the Angels' quiet man.
   When he got kicked out of a game last year, the whole league was in shock. It was the first time in six years and 700 games. He didn't curse the umpire, he just made a few suggestions about how the ump could be better. It was a rookie umpire and he had a strike zone the size of Texas. He struck Tim out on a ball so low, Salmon would have needed a nine-iron to hit it. Tim thought the ump ought to be made aware of that.
   The league knows he's good, especially the pitchers. But a red light doesn't go on in the press boxes the way it does when Ken Griffey, Belle or Frank Thomas hits town. Oh, sure (yawn, yawn), Salmon is good. But who did he punch lately?
   Tim accepts the second-banana role. He talks glowingly of Griffey — "I'm in envy of him. He bats the same way, the same stance he's always had. He's comfortable at the plate. Me, I change my stance to suit the pitcher. Griffey makes the pitcher change his." He also notes, "When compared to Griffey or (Mark) McGwire, I don't consider myself as that kind of player."
   An interesting bit of modesty in a game where historically most ballplayers would demand to be traded if the manager had the nerve to replace them with Henry Aaron.
   Salmon even admits to being overmatched by a pitcher.
   "Oh sure, it happens," he acknowledges. "Sometimes a pitcher like Randy Johnson is going to overpower you, no matter what you do."
   Most big league ballplayers wouldn't admit they were overmatched by Nolan Ryan in his prime.
   Last year, Salmon finished seventh in the American League MVP voting. Griffey hit 56 home runs and drove in a league-leading 147, so he got all 28 of the baseball writers' votes, for an aggregate 392 points. Fair enough.
   But Tino Martinez of the Yankees, who hit .296, with 44 homers and 141 RBI, was second with 248 points. Salmon also hit .296, with 33 home runs and 129 RBI, but got only 84 points. Several players above him had lower batting averages, fewer homers or fewer RBI, but more votes.
   What should Tim do? Get a dangling earring? Miss the team bus? Become a jerk?
   I bring all this up because we may get a redefinition of MVP. That's because Salmon is out of the lineup thanks to a strained ligament in his left foot that makes every step feel like walking on hot coals.
   Even so, he came to bat, limping, the other night, and promptly hit a massive home run, his seventh of the young season. But he had to leave the game when even a home run trot hurt.
   It's hard to be a team leader from right field. But not impossible. Angel Manager Terry Collins says:
   "His numbers dictate his importance to us. But you can't really appreciate Tim till you get to watch him every day and see his work habits. Whether he's hitting .175 or .375, Tim doesn't take anything for granted. He comes out, he hits early, he runs out every ball, he slides hard. He acts as if he has something to prove. If I'm a young player and I see that, I'm going to be impressed. He's our Star. And our leader."
   So far as Collins is concerned, charisma is knocking in the winning run. Salmon does that. Quietly.
   So, the archangel Tim is the leader of this heavenly chorus. If he can emulate another great leader, Joe DiMaggio, and manage to play despite a painful heel injury, he won't have to be rude and churlish to be recognized as a star. You'll be able to tell by the pennants.
 
Reprinted with permission by the Los Angeles Times.
 
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