Forster Isn’t <i> That</i> Big of a Target

When you’re a big-league baseball pitcher, you very quickly learn to live with criticism. It goes with the territory.

First of all, there’s the manager. He comes out to the mound in the first stages of terminal dementia. His belly is bobbling as he screams, “Whaddid ya wanna throw him the slider for?! That’s the pitch that’s gonna put him in the Hall of Fame. Now, gid oudda here and get your things outta the locker while you’re at it! I’m sending you to Albuquerque.”

Then, there’s the fan. His voice booms through loud and clear out of the beer fumes: “Call yerself a pitcher, ya left-handed Bolshevik?! You wouldn’t make a pimple on a pitcher’s ear! Batting practice was supposed to be at 6 o’clock! Whyn’t you go turn yerself in for embezzlement?! I’ve seen better arms on the Venus de Milo!”

The next day, he has the thrill of picking up the morning paper and knowing his shortcomings are immortalized for posterity: “Lefty Lardbutt was his usual magnanimous self last night as he padded several enemy batting averages, to say nothing of his own ERA. Fittingly enough, he threw a fat pitch to the cleanup hitter in the bottom of the ninth. Considering his silhouette, it’s hard for him to throw any other kind of pitch.”

But what you don’t expect, particularly if you’re a relatively obscure relief pitcher for the Atlanta Braves, is to hear from some late-night TV talk-show host, crooning insults into a microphone for the kind of people who are still up watching TV at 1 o’clock in the morning, presumably because they have nothing to do the next day.

Late-night talk-show hosts are supposed to pick on Nancy Reagan or Sylvester Stallone or tell how-hot-was-it-in-L.A.-yesterday? jokes. They’re supposed to joke about the national deficit, not Terry Forster’s ERA, never mind the resemblance.

But on the night of June 17, either the White House was in a slump, or the weather was inconveniently clement, or he had used up all his Rambo jokes, but a network obscurity named David Letterman took it upon himself, for reasons I wouldn’t dare speculate about, to take on an obscurity in a bullpen named Terry Forster.

It was kind of like two lonely people getting together in a railroad station. Letterman was outraged because Terry Forster was several pounds overweight. He took it personally. Words like fat tub of goo, this silo, and balloon found their way into the monologue.

Terry Forster was startled. At first, he thought they were quoting his wife. He wasn’t used to being called names by someone he wasn’t even married to. Then, he thought maybe the manager was running off at the mouth again.

When he found out it was a network TV guy, Terry was delighted. At first, he was disappointed it wasn’t Johnny Carson, but Terry realized relief pitchers can’t have anything.

Letterman was furious that the Atlanta Braves’ announcers didn’t say Forster was fat. Since the TV picture was clear and in living color, they probably figured they didn’t have to. They probably figured it would be like Letterman announcing, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, would you please welcome my next guest, Orson Welles, who is fat.” Or even, “My next guest, who is that well-known tub of goo, Orson Welles.”

Before June l7, Terry Forster had toiled in relative obscurity at his craft for more than 14 years. He was best remembered in L.A. as the guy who gave up a three-run home run--and the National League pennant--to the Giants’ Joe Morgan on the last day of the 1982 season. The ultimate winner, Atlanta, had lost that day, and if Terry had gotten Morgan out (or even held him to a single), the Dodgers would have tied for the pennant.

But Terry has not started a major league game in eight years. No one has ever gotten him mixed up with Steve Carlton.

Terry Forster has never taken himself particularly seriously, anyway. His avoirdupois is well-documented, painstakingly padded with equal parts pizza, tacos and beer. “Terry doesn’t sweat, he foams,” a teammate once observed.

It’s an old show-biz trick to fake a feud with a compatriot for ratings boosts. Jack Benny staged (a spurious) one with Fred Allen for years. Those even older will remember Walter Winchell and bandleader Ben Bernie. But no one ever picked on a reliever with 26 innings pitched last year, and only 36 this year, as a foil before.

Forster, who will face his tormentor on July 29, started out Letterman with a so-to-say, letter-high fastball. “Johnny Carson’s caddy!” he sneered. (In baseball, a caddy is a lesser player who goes in for a star in late innings of one-sided games, usually for defensive purposes.)

But Forster must be wondering what’s next for him? Denunciation from the pulpit? A blast from the White House? Vatican?

“What am I--a pitcher, or Conan the Barbarian?” he demands. “I wonder what he would have said about Babe Ruth? I mean, we all have to have our heroes.”