Royster Is the Perfect Guy to Have on Padre Bench

Smiling.

Real toothy, too.

\o7 Click.\f7 A photographer got him. Now, the picture hangs in the home of Tim Flannery, his current teammate with the Padres, and it has become a source of great laughter, not to mention great meaning.

Royster, Mr. Congeniality himself, is under the belief that baseball is not to be taken too seriously.

Wouldn't he be a great guy to have on the bench?

So there he sits. Forever, he shall platoon because forever he shall not complain. Once upon a time, he protested when he was benched, and it backfired. A lesson was learned.

So there he sits. He always picks a kid to preach to. In Atlanta, it was Gerald Perry. In San Diego, it's Jerry Davis. They are together on the bench. Royster speaks.

"Here comes the hit and run," he says.

He's right.

"Here comes a breaking ball," he says.

He's right.

One day, Davis speaks back to Royster. He says he's going to ask people in the front office why he isn't playing more.

"Don't," Royster advises. "Don't do what I did. Don't make that mistake."

So there Davis sits. And nobody knows he's disappointed by not playing. They say he has a good attitude. The other day, Davis walked by an old woman in the corridor outside the Padre clubhouse.

"Oh, he's a nice boy," she said. "It's a shame he doesn't get to play."

Eric Show, a starting pitcher, talks constantly about his lack of run support, even though his record is 7-7. Royster, being the team sort of guy he is, speaks up.

"It's not that bad, Eric," he says. "If you're on a good team and your record is 2-6, then you're in trouble. But you're at .500. You're not doing badly."

Craig Lefferts, a relief pitcher, has just lost a game in the late innings. It's a road game. Players are on a stadium elevator, socializing, but they seem to ignore Lefferts.

Royster doesn't.

"It doesn't matter," he tells Lefferts. "Nobody will remember in a couple days."

In the clubhouse after the Padre lost to St. Louis last week (the Padres had led, 6-0), Royster tried hanging himself with an ace bandage, to break the tension, not his neck.

Flannery, who platoons with Royster at second base, knows the perfect definition of a utility player.

"He's not right crazy and not right sane, but right on the borderline."

So there Jerry Royster sits.

Once, he was the bad guy. That was in the spring of 1983, after he had the season of his life in 1982, hitting .295 and helping the Braves to the National League West title as their left fielder.

Joe Torre, then the manager, called him his "MVP."

The next spring, however, Royster said the front office wanted Brett Butler to play left field, not for his batting average but for his name and its appeal in Atlanta.

Royster complained.

"I went into Torre's office in spring training and Ted's (Turner) office the day we broke camp," he said. "I said the way I'd played, I'd deserved a chance to play. Joe, who hadn't been behind this, said: 'Bear with me. I'll get you in there.'

"I wanted out of there. I yelled and screamed . . . And I shouldn't have. I told Jerry Davis not to make that mistake. I didn't need that kind of publicity. I wasn't mean or dirty, but it did me no good. I should have shut up.

"When I found out it wasn't doing me any good and I wouldn't be traded, I let it go. I told him (Torre) 'I'll do whatever you need me to do.' And he said, 'Trust me. I'll get you in as much as I can.' It matured me totally."

A utility man was born.

That year, 1983, Royster was a backup shortstop, a backup third baseman, a backup second baseman and a backup outfielder. Yet, a first-string husband.

"When I was married (in 1982), I found there were other things in my life besides baseball," he said.

So what's the big deal if you make an error? In 1982, in the middle of the pennant race, he'd let a ball roll through him in a game against the Dodgers. It cost Atlanta the game.

Afterward, before the reporters could ask him why, he called his wife and asked how she was doing.

"I guess I didn't do so well," he said. "Well, I've got to go. Some reporters want me."

They eventually cornered him.

"I wasn't down, and they kept asking me why I wasn't crying and yelling. But I wasn't upset. I wished I'd made the play, and I was sorry we'd lost, but big deal. I found out you can't worry. My marriage was so more important than the baseball game. If I didn't have that attitude, I could've booted another ball the next day. But I didn't.

"I used to think I was too good to make errors. Every time I made an error, I'd really get down on myself. I'd throw my glove and yell and scream."

Today, baseball is only semi-serious.