NO HOT DOGGIN' AT RALEY FIELD, RANDALL

Remember that incident a few years ago, involving the Pittsburgh player and the nightly sausage race at Miller Park in Milwaukee?  

On July 9, 2003 Pirates first baseman Randall Simon leaned across the dugout rail with a bat in hand, waiting to strike something other than a Rawlings baseball. When the four sausage mascots came running by the Pirate dugout, Simon reached out and bopped the Italian sausage over the head. The blow caused the mascot to stumble into another sausage, forcing both mascots to the ground.

After the game, Pirate teammate Reggie Sanders offered the excuse that the weight of the sausage mascot head, combined with the bat strike by Simon, may have resulted in a harder blow than Simon anticipated. "It maybe made it look worse than it was," Sanders said. "It was an unfortunate situation and, hopefully, it gets resolved." Public outrage against Simon was quick, as the video clip played hourly on ESPN.  

Simon reportedly was interrogated by the Milwaukee County Sheriff's Department and 

FAST FORWARD ONE YEAR… 

In 2004, Simon started the season as the Pirate's everyday first baseman. But around mid season—almost one year to the day after the sausage mascot incident—he was demoted to the club's Triple-A affiliate Nashville, no doubt to correct a batting average languishing below the Mendosa Line. 

In July, the Nashville Sounds came into Sacramento for a series with the RiverCats. The author scored tickets directly behind the visitor's dugout, which is on the first base side of Raley Field. Having sat in these seats before, we enjoyed the great view of the field and an opportunity to see future major leaguers up close. 

When the Nashville lineup was announced, I rcalled Simon's name and told my wife about the Sausage Incident in Milwaukee. 

Simon came to bat in the first inning and grounded out to first base. As he jogged back to the dugout, some jerk in the stands, sitting behind the visitor's dugout, yelled out, "That's right, Simon. You got no mascots to club over the head here tonight." 

To my chagrin, the jerk in the stands was me.  

I rarely yell anything toward the field except positive encouragement for the home team. But suddenly, I failed to control the compulsion to lambaste baseball's ultimate villain.

When Simon reached the dugout steps, he slid off his helmet and spat out behind clenched teeth, "Like, I've heard that one before!" And then disappeared inside the dugout. 

I felt mortified. And a little scared. I confided to my wife that I needed to do something to rectify the situation. "Who knows what he might do?" I said, conjuring images of flying bats sailing into the stands. I asked her for a pen and slip of paper, which she pulled from her purse. 

"What are you doing?" she asked. 

"You'll see," I said scribbling a quick note. It read: 
Randall—I apologize for my remark. It was rude and uncalled for. I am sorry.

I went down to the edge of the visitor's dugout, called over the first player I saw, and asked him to hand the note to Simon. 

My wife, always the believer, said "He probably won't even get the note." 

About two minutes later, Randall Simon popped out of the dugout, obviously looking for the apologist. I gave a half-hearted wave, hoping for a return salute but half expecting a Louisville Slugger flying in my direction.  

Simon held up a ball and rolled it across the visitor dugout roof toward me. He'd signed a Pacific Coast League batting practice ball with a red clay mark on one side and a Randall Simon autograph on the sweet spot. I gave him a head bob in appreciation. He smiled and ducked back in the dugout. Fair trade, I figured: he got a rare apology from a fan, and I the autographed baseball in gratitude.

Simon only had 68 at bats with Nashville when the Pirates released him in early August. The Tampa Bay Rays picked him up for the rest of the 2004 season. But he played just one more year of major league ball, and as of last year (2009) had hooked up with the Fargo-Moorhead Redhawks, an independent league team. 

I don't know whether he kept the note. But I certainly kept the ball. It's a reminder that ballplayers are just as human as the fans.  

And anyone impersonating an Italian sausage.