from Newsday

By Ken Davidoff
STAFF CORRESPONDENT

October 27, 2001

Phoenix - Just like every Yankee has a proper position on the field, each man knows his place in the dugout. It doesn't matter whether it's Yankee Stadium, or Legends Field during spring training, or Bank One Ballpark Saturday night. Like trained dolphins at Sea World, the Yankees naturally take their places once the game begins.

This dugout, according to those who have played for other teams, presents the perfect mix - just like the team itself.

"It's a good, loose group of guys," infielder Randy Velarde said.

"It's not like a football team. There's no 'Rah! Rah!"' catcher Todd Greene said. "But it's intense."

Joe Torre, naturally, is the president of the dugout, flanked by Cabinet members Don Zimmer and Mel Stottlemyre at the far right side of the dugout. Zimmer is the bench coach. Stottlemyre is the pitching coach. More important, they are Torre's two closest friends on the team, the people he considers most indispensable.

The manager will bounce every decision off them. When he opted to intentionally walk Seattle's Ichiro Suzuki in the seventh inning of American League Championship Series Game 2 - a controversial decision in that they put the winning run on first in the form of the fastest player on the team - he did so only after consulting Zimmer and Stottlemyre.

In the early innings of a game, however, when one of the Yankees' established pitchers is on the mound and there's little to decide, the three men will often glance at the out-of-town scoreboard and comment on how other clubs are faring. They'll often talk about horses, or their dinner plans, or countless other topics. They wear stoic expressions, yet they are approachable. "It's such a great thing to have all of that knowledge together in one place," Greene said.

Torre's other coaches are nearby, if they are needed. Bullpen coach Tony Cloninger - situated, obviously, in the bullpen - is accessible by phone. Hitting coach Gary Denbo prefers to stand up and lean on the front railing of the dugout, near the on-deck circle, where he can shout out advice to his hitters if something occurs to him.

Third-base coach Willie Randolph and first-base coach Lee Mazzilli occupy their respective coaching boxes when the team is hitting. When the team is in the field, Randolph sits to Stottlemyre's right. He will critique the play of his infielders in a voice that they can't hear but others on the bench can. If Derek Jeter tries to get too fancy with a play in the hole, attempting his jump-and-throw, Jeter will hear about it from Randolph. But first, those sitting around Randolph will hear it from Randolph. Mazzilli tends to hover around the Torre-Zimmer-Stottlemyre trinity, but he often sneaks inside the tunnel for a cigarette.

The players divide into soloists and group performers. Paul O'Neill, faithful to his legendary intensity, mostly sits at the far left end of the dugout, alone in his thoughts. An unspoken "Do Not Disturb" sign hangs around his neck. When a rally is needed, however, O'Neill will sometimes become more interactive and tell his teammates they can overcome the deficit.

Bernie Williams also sits alone, absorbing what he has done and what he wants to do. Unlike O'Neill, he will not bite if bothered.

When Torre and other Yankees speak of Jeter as a future captain, it is in large part because of his conduct in the dugout. Jeter, who has made Zimmer's bald head famous through his daily ritual of rubbing it, is the first person out of the dugout whenever a teammate hits a home run. He is loud and comical. Jorge Posada, when not conferring with the pitcher and Stottlemyre, joins Jeter in leading the cheers.

Tino Martinez is a motivator of sorts, reminding his teammates to keep up the pressure on the opponent. Scott Brosius is more of a comedian, quick with the one-liner, making noise to ease the tension.

Orlando Hernandez, notoriously moody, will sometimes sit with his own thoughts as well. Other times, he will joke around with some of his Spanish-speaking teammates or play a prank on team masseur Rohan Baichu, one of his closest friends on the team.

The other starting pitchers who aren't playing that game sit on the far left corner, near O'Neill. There, Roger Clemens, Andy Pettitte and Mike Mussina talk about pitching and whatever else comes to mind.

Luis Sojo, a utilityman on the field, is likewise versatile in the clubhouse. He is a teacher, instructing a young player about a defensive mistake he made, and he is also a shoulder to cry on when such an error takes place. He is a cheerleader, telling his teammates that they can come through. And he is a class clown of sorts, cracking jokes, behaving in a generally silly manner.

"Luis is the ringleader," Velarde said. "He tried to get me to do the 'YMCA dance' [at Yankee Stadium], but I don't have any rhythm."

The dugout is a melting pot of personalities. But everyone, ultimately, must have the same mindset.

"The only thing we accept in the dugout," Greene said, "is winning."

Copyright © 2001, Newsday, Inc.