Wette 'n' wild

Sporting News, The, May 19, 1997 by Steve Marantz

To appreciate a story "Rangers manager Johnny Oates tells about John Wetteland, it takes a modest understanding of late-inning relief pitchers--closers, of which Wetteland is one of the best and weirdest.

Closers were cast in mirth and myth when former Mets closer Tug McGraw was asked the difference between artificial grass and real. "I don't know," McGraw said. "I've never smoked any artificial grass."

Sparky Lyle sat on clubhouse birthday cakes in his birthday suit. Roger McDowell summoned an audience of fans overlooking the Dodger Stadium bullpen, before opening a door, revealing Jesse Orosco, on a toilet, peacefully reading a magazine. Turk Farrell, leader of the so-called "Dalton Gang" in the 1950s, sauntered over to the Phillies Bar across the street from Connie Mack Stadium in the middle of a game. Moe Drabowsky stocked bullpen water coolers with fresh fish.

The litany of bullpen zaniness goes on and on, explained by an excess of adrenaline, risk and time. That brings us to Wetteland, as depicted by Oates, on the occasion of Wetteland's return to Yankee Stadium last week for the first time since notching the final out of the '96 World Series. Wetteland was a Yankee then, but now he is a Ranger, pitching for Oates, who is in the third base dugout, droll and squint-eyed, jacket zipped against a chill May wind.

About a month into the season, Oates recounts, he noticed a hole in the wallboard facing his outdoor parking space at The Ballpark in Arlington.

"Last year there was a big rain rust spot there," Oates is saying. "I complained about it looking gaudy, and the engineers came in and did a whole new wallboard, painted it nice, put up a nice new nameplate. It was really looking good.

"Then one day I drive in and there's a hole about that high"--his hand measures a level four feet off the ground--"up on the wall. A small hole, about the height of the back of a pickup truck. Somebody had backed a pickup truck into my space. I asked Zack (Minasian, clubhouse manager) who was backing a pickup truck into my spot, and he had no idea."

A few day later, Oates goes on, he and Wetteland arrived at the parking lot at the same time. Wetteland pointed at the hole in Oates' wall.

"I thought that wall was cement," Wetteland said.

"Why?" Oates asked.

"I shot a hockey puck through it," Wetteland said. "I thought it was a cement block and I wanted to see if I could break it with a puck."

Oates chuckles at the demise of his wall. If another player had shot a puck through it while atop in-line skates he might have thought it strange. But Wetteland is a closer, after all.

"All of 'em, you got to be a little bit loose up top," Oates is saying. "You don't have to be lefthanded but you got to be a little bit loose up top. I don't know if it's a prerequisite or not, but it makes 'em all a little better."

"When did you see it in Wetteland?" I ask.

"The day I saw him come into spring training," Oates says. "It was 90 degrees in Florida, and he drives up in a full leather suit on his motorcycle. I knew something was different about him.

"Then he tried to explain that the leather suit was for protection. He convinced me there was reason to wear a leather jacket and body suit in 90 degrees in Florida on a motorcycle. The thing about Wetteland"--Oates' tone is ironic--"I believed him."

Zany closer" is a convenient cliche with limited utility. Sure, Wetteland once kept a pet spider in the bullpen, and yes, he once chewed 32 pieces of bubblegum at the same time. It's a fact he still plays street hockey atop in-line skates and drives a Harley 94 Soft-Tail Custom. And he sure as heck is closing ballgames for the Rangers as capably as ever.

But Wetteland also is described by teammates and managers as "complex." He is a husband, father, Christian, musician (clarinet, guitar, saxophone) and bullpen leader, the latter of which he carries out with the diligence of an elected mayor. "Sometimes I think the most intelligent players get bored," Rangers pitching coach Dick Bosman says. "They have to entertain themselves."

Underlying his complexity is a sensitive nature. When Wetteland broke in with the Dodgers in 1989, an annual ritual required rookies to sing their school songs in front of veterans. Instead, Wetteland recited a poem:

Lost amidst my wheels of confusion

Cast a hopeless gaze toward tomorrow

In search of a fleeting chord

That hears no sound to recollection.

The poem, written by Wetteland, is titled "Mental Requiem." Today, he remembers it as an expression of "a confused and lost boy." In February 1990 he found Jesus Christ and underwent, as he puts it, "a life-changing experience." He married his wife, Michelle, a few months later.

His work and marriage became his poetry. When the players' strike ended in 1995, Wetteland wanted to reach out to alienated fans. He began a custom of giving to a fan the ball used for the final out of a save. The fan always is a young girl or elderly woman.

"You see the guys in the stands bulling around for the foul balls," Wetteland says. "Women can go to a thousand games and never have a chance for one."