Why is carlos ruiz named chooch

About Us Shop. Nickname: Darryl Dawkins. Self explanatory. Michael says:. September 1, at pm. Johnny Goodtimes says:. September 2, at am. Grinch says:. March 28, at pm. Barry says:. March 29, at pm.

Ryan says:. May 19, at pm. Sign up for our Daily Email newsletter to stay up-to-date on the latest local news throughout Philadelphia. The longest of long shots. It took Carlos Ruiz more than eight years to make it to Philadelphia. He climbed every rung of the farm system ladder — dealing with a position change, homesickness and the language barrier. Finally, he arrived in May , a year-old backup catcher who hit. Ruiz is now scuffling with baseball mortality, hitting.

He returns Tuesday, disguised in a Seattle Mariners uniform. For more than four decades, the Phils have largely been blessed with solid catchers.

Hinske swung over the vicious slider. Ellis, minor-league pitcher Tommy Bergjans and a player to be named later see story. Ruiz spent 11 seasons with the Phillies and when you consider where he came from and what he accomplished, well, he always gave the team and its fans the good one.

Excited because at age 37, and firmly in the twilight of his career, he has the chance to join a first-place team and get to the postseason one more time. Ruiz was a backbone member of five NL East championship teams and the best catcher a Cy Young winner named Roy Halladay ever pitched to. Chooch's thoughts light on his own two sons, one an infant and the other just a little older than he was when he lost his father—the boy who loves to race around the house whenever Chooch homers, whether on TV or on his MLB video game, and mimic the famed Hispanic baseball broadcaster Ernesto Jerez hollering, "A lo profundoooooooo y no no no no no no no no!

Chooch smiles, blesses himself and emerges gingerly from the bullpen bathroom. Hamels, when his warmup sessions disgusted him, sometimes reared back and fired the ball right into the john, screaming it off the inside wall, and Chooch would go right to reminding him how splendid a hurler he is and how meaningless are warmup pitches. But all's calm tonight. Chooch rubs his pitcher's back and pounds his sternum, a mother ladling out equal portions of love and challenge, and the bullpen gate opens.

Look at Chooch! Chooch has new shoes!! Chooch has new batting gloves! Look, with his number on them! It's 6 p. Chooch is a superstar now! Chooch has a commercial! Chooch has gone big time! They tease him about everything, and the loudest one laughing at him Rather than defend himself, he'll gyrate and turn the pop hit Like a G6 into "Like a cheese steak! Like a cheese steak! No tomfoolery tonight.

Doc's on the slab, the one guy Chooch won't impersonate. The Tailor grows more quiet and attentive than ever, watching from the corner of his eye as Roy Halladay sits as still as a stone in front of his locker and studies the thick notebooks he keeps on hitters.

Waiting for Doc to nod to him, even walking past the pitcher in silence now and then just to give him that opening, so not a second will be lost once Doc's ready to meet and formulate their game plan. It still awes Chooch. He's catching the best pitcher in the game. The first day they got to know each other well—in March , when Chooch found himself opening his car door to drive Doc to Tampa to pitch against a team of Yankees minor leaguers—he froze. What would a poor boy from Panama say to a living legend?

The silence gathered as they drove. Doc shook off nothing that day and hurled three dominating innings. At once he sensed what the other Phillies pitchers did, something that was burning in those two eyes and shining from that round moon face looking up at him: all the innocence of the boy who'd lost his father and all the responsibility of the boy who'd become the father. Sensed Chooch's belief that the pitcher's ERA was his ERA, and that every opponent's hit should never, ever have happened to his hurler—it was his fault.

Three months after that day Doc was pouring perfection into Chooch's mitt against the Marlins, and four months after that, the second playoff no-hitter in major league history. Of the pitches he threw in those two hitless games, he shook off Chooch once. Doc pointed to his catcher and said, "Chooch is the man! What else can I say? When it was anyone else, Doc's ERA jumped to 3. The two or three times a game he used to shake off his catchers, Doc says, became two or three times a month with Ruiz, and this season he began striking out more hitters than ever at age 34, steamrolling into another All-Star Game with an record and a 2.

Words weren't Doc's currency, so how could he thank his masked mate? Here, Chooch. The home plate that the Marlins dug up and presented to Doc after the perfect game—it's yours. A wristwatch and a stunning diamond ring with that game's date and line score and thanks, roy etched inside it—yours. The topper, a brown box with to chooch and from roy scrawled in the corner, left on a chair in front of Chooch's locker in spring training: an exact replica of Doc's Cy Young Award.

Then came the commercial for the MLB 2K11 video game in which Doc couldn't decide anything—whether to eat a turkey or ham sandwich for lunch, whether to wear his red shirt or blue one—without looking to a Chooch blowup doll for a signal.

Each gesture stunned Chooch. He kept Doc's offerings near his father's photograph, police belt and badge, and his eyes filled with equal reverence when he spoke of both men and their keepsakes. They head toward the bullpen. Tonight the Tailor becomes even more discreet, measuring every word and gesture against the sanctity of the tunnel Doc burrows into when he's pitching. Even on days between starts, rather than risk interrupting Halladay's routine with spoken words, Chooch often exchanges texts with him.

Their warmup session transpires in silence tonight, to the metronome of mitt pop. The Star-Spangled Banner —the hurrah of a young nation overcoming the same empire twice in three decades—averages a minute and a half in length. Who's to say what odds mightn't be overcome by a man who spent a minute and a half each day touching the bottom of his being and the summit of his dreams?

Why, to think