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Show by Jim Murray Mumnrs&y nim Sjpauirits His bat does his talking "The first six years Chris Chambliss was in the league, I thought he was a deaf-mute," former umpire Ron Luciano once said. "When I called a strike on him, I thought he just didn't understand the situation." Carroll Christopher Chambliss, the first baseman, throws words around as if they were manhole covers. In the words of one ex-teammate, "Chris still has the first word he ever learned." Said another: "I would hate to be sitting under a falling safe opposite Chris Chambliss. Chris would probably be trying to decide whether he knew me well enough to tell me about it." Chris Chambliss makes Silent Cal Coolidge look like a used-car salesman. When he's standing still, people try to strike matches on him. Roosting pigeons are surprised to find him breathing. It's not the sullen, resentful kind of silence you get from George Hendrick or Steve Carlton. Chambliss is never impolite, unresponsive. And it's not that he can't think of anything to say. Chambliss is a UCLA graduate. Still, some people wonder if Chris can speak the language or whether they have to communicate with him in sign language like an Indian chief. He's not even particularly aloof. Just unexcitable. He's as dependable as tomorrow. tomor-row. He's the only guy who ever played for the George Steinbrenner-Billy Martin Yankees Yan-kees who never got his name in the papers for anything except hitting a home run. If you asked Chris Chambliss what he thought of George Steinbrenner, he'd say, "Who?" In a way, Chris Chambliss is a contradiction in cleats, anyway. He's 220 pounds, well over 6 feet, he has a back like a cab roof, legs like steamer trucks and forearms like trucK axies. In a way, that's his trouble. Chambliss' dimensions are Ruthian. His statistics are not. Chris Chambliss looks as if he should never hit a ball on the ground or even on a line. He should hit everything in the air. Way in the air. Out of sight in the air. When he doesn't, people feel cheated. Chris Chambliss should not be, of all things, a contact hitter. A man that imposing physically should be more erratic. More well, more fun. He should hit 40 homers a year and not much else, like Dave Kingman. He should strike out upwards of 150 times, not 53. He should miss the ball more often. His swing should start in North Florida for home games, in Laguna Hills for Dodger games. But Chris Chambliss' game is like the rest of his life: not noisy, unflashy, consistent, reliable, conservative. His speciality is the game-winning RBI, not the two homers in a lost cause. If he were less massive physically, if he were built more along the lines of Rod Carew or even a utility inf ielder, his statistics would be more impressive. You know that Chambliss is going to hit .280 for you, drive in 90 runs, hit 30 doubles and rap 18 or 20 home runs. He'll play 158 games at first base where, despite his size, he's a Gold Glove performer who once made only four errors in a whole season. He strikes out less than a choke-hitting shortstop. The Yankees thought they were getting a "black Lou Gehrig" when they traded for him with Cleveland in 1974. In a sense, they were. He did everything the Iron Horse did for the old Ruppert Yankees. He won the pennant for them in 1976 with, of all things, a home run. He helped them to three straight pennants. But, owner Steinbrenner would have preferred a lot more noise, which was not the Lou Gehrig style, either. The Yankees traded him to Toronto for catcher Rick Cerone. Chambliss never picked up a bat for Toronto. The Atlanta Braves quickly grabbed him and won instant respectability for their infield and their franchise. That's another Chambliss trademark, and he was soon in his fourth pennant playoff, Atlanta's first since 1969. It is a measure of Chambliss that he has hit almost 350 doubles, a category of achievement achieve-ment in which only a handful of major leaguers have ever topped 400. Since a double is a home run that only has to get a couple of inches higher, you wonder why it wouldn't behoove Chambliss to cnange irom the jaD to the uppercut at the plate, to go from all-around fighter to one-round KO artist. He shakes his head. "It's not that easy to change your style. At the plate or anywhere else. You go with what brought you to the big leagues. You start thinking 'pull the ball' and, pretty soon, you chip away at your other strengths. It could mess you up altogether. You hit the way you started out life hitting." The Atlanta Braves, fortunately, are on the side of Mr. Conservative. They would rather have pennants than headlines. A nice quiet single to right field is OK if it gets them in the World Series. As for Chambliss, he cannot only speak softly but carry a small stick so long as it wins games and championships. They don't care if his suit doesn't light up and he lacks a string of one-liners. Just a nice simple safe squeeze bunt or grounder through the infield will do. 1983 Los Angeles Times Distributed by Los Angeles Times Syndicate |