Former Brave of the Fortnight: Damon Berryhill

           Backup catchers come and go in this game; some develop into starters, others flame out early, but often these substandard tradesmen hark their wares from team to team, earning the trust of a pitching staff and locking in here and there for four-year spans of a one-start-a-week existence.

            No squat child catcher dreams of becoming a career backup.  Many part-time backstops realize early their talent limitations, and earn their way onto the big club with tough defense and passable offense.  Damon Berryhill started from the top and worked his way down.  A California kid (born December 3, 1963), Berryhill starred at Orange County community College after graduating from Laguna Beach High School.  He was drafted by the Chicago White Sox in the 13^th round of the 1983 amateur draft, but chose not to sign.  His gamble paid off, as the Chicago Cubs selected Berryhill with the fourth overall pick the next year.  (Though it would seem he was a bust, the first round of the 1984 draft was horrible; Berryhill would probably have gone third or fourth if it was done over.  As first round picks, only Jeff Blauser and Gil Heredia ever proved more useful to major league teams).

Berryhill signed with the Cubs and progressed through the minors, earning a late-season call-up in 1987.  Berryhill didn’t hit in his 12-game splash in the Show, but continued to garner attention in the minors.  He was called up during the 1988 season, and quickly became the everyday catcher.  As a 24-year-old rookie, the switch-hitting Berryhill hit seven homeruns and knocked in 38 runs with a .259 batting average and .295 on-base percentage; nothing special, but good enough for sixth in the Rookie of the Year voting.  Unfortunately, Berryhill’s inability to draw a walk was already an issue.  He was beset by injuries in 1989, ending the campaign with similar abbreviated numbers (.259 average, .291 on-base, 5 homers) in just 91 games.  Berryhill played just 46 games between the majors and minors in 1990, and the Cubs gave up on their investment.  He was traded to Atlanta late in a 1991 season that saw him spend more time at Triple-A and struggle greatly in the majors, with a .l89 average and .244 on-base percentage in 172 plate appearances.  Having seen enough, the Cubs made their move, and the Braves sent Yorkis Perez and Turk Wendell to Chicago for Berryhill and starting pitcher Mike Bielecki.

Greg Olson was already entrenched as the starting catcher in Atlanta, and Berryhill began his career transition to understudy in 1992.  He hit .228 with ten homers in 328 appearances, with a paltry .265 on-base percentage.  The power, slight but real, was intriguing for a backup catcher, and Berryhill’s pedigree preceded him.  He was as exciting as a low-average part-timer could be, always appearing capable despite his repeated failures at the dish.  When Greg Olson suffered a devastating knee injury at the hands of villainous Ken Caminiti, we felt comfortable with Berryhill on the interim.

Atlanta’s trust was repaid in Game 1 of the 1992 World Series.  Berryhill’s shining moment came in the sixth inning, as the Blue Jays led 1-0 behind a laboring Jack Morris.  A walk to David Justice, a single from Sid Bream, and a fielder’s choice by Ron Gant put two men on with two outs for Berryhill, who launched a homerun to deep right field and gave Tom Glavine a two run lead.  It was more than enough for Glavine, who went nine to give Atlanta the Series lead - the last bright spot of that postseason, as Toronto took the next three games and finished the Braves off in six.

It was to be the precipice for young Berryhill, as Greg Olson’s return forced him into a timeshare.  Though Berryhill still ended the 1993 season with the majority of the at-bats, his numbers were still quite modest, even by pre-steroid era standards.  Eight homers, 43 RBIs, a .245 average and a .291 on-base percentage were not enough to earn Berryhill a new contract in Atlanta.  He signed with Boston as the Braves cleaned house at catcher, giving the reigns to Javier Lopez and Charlie O’Brien.

Berryhill hit .263 (albeit with just six homers and a .312 OBP) in part-time duty for the Red Sox, but he also hit age 31 that offseason.  When his one-year deal expired he again hit free agency, joining the Cincinnati Reds.  He barely tasted the field, hitting just .183 in 97 appearances.  A bone spur in his elbow cut Berryhill’s 1995 season short, and he had to watch from afar as the Braves swept the Reds in the National League Championship Series.  He never even made it out of spring training in 1996, as doctors found ligament damage in his throwing elbow.  Berryhill reappeared briefly in 1997, earning a 73 game stint with the San Francisco Giants by raking in a minor league audition.  Though he had arguably his best career numbers in those 188 appearances (.257 average, .335 on-base), it was the end of the line for an aging catcher with a reconstructed right arm.  Berryhill was spit out of baseball by the Edmonton Trappers (an Oakland Athletics affiliate) in the 1998 minor league season. 

Damon Berryhill was hardly reliable, offensively, at least in any way baseball fans define the word.  He was consistent, inasmuch as he spent his entire career getting on base just under 30% of the time, hitting a few homers a season, and getting a hit every four at-bats.  None of those numbers are good, but Berryhill skated by with them in Atlanta because he always seemed to be on the verge of something bigger, until his track record finally proved he wasn’t.  Berryhill was the young backup for a short spell, then the glad-we-got-him replacement and soon the didn’t-notice-he-was-gone ex-pat.  After the fact, Berryhill was a fleeting glimpse of a still-frame past.  He was remembered not for his exploits as much as for his mere existence.  Braves fans do not hold Berryhill’s blast in the same iconic reverence as Bream’s steal, Justice’s shot, Lopez’s pickoff, Otis’s catch and other hallowed memories.  Part of it is that Berryhill’s tenure was so short, and his legacy so non-vital to the game itself, but part of has to do with the inner workings of iconography.

Problem was, the Braves lost the 1992 Series.  After the bomb, Atlanta dropped three straight and hope was lost.  Berryhill suffered historical insignificance thanks to the timing of his heroics.  Special moments sometimes exist on a precipice of immortality, but it is ultimately the circumstances surrounding these moments that forge indelible memories.  Late-Series moments hold significantly more import - though mathematically each game is worth the same, it is impossible to deny the upped intensities of tomorrow-less finality.  It is human nature not just to increasingly exalt others, but to personally become more distinctly aware and nerve-wracked when watching or performing in these very moments.

           Had Atlanta won the World Series, perhaps Berryhill’s moment in the sun could have stood for something, some omen or momentum-shifting swing that signaled and propelled.  Alas, Molitor, Alomar and Olerud swung Toronto on to glory and left Atlanta to lick its wounds.  Instead of becoming an unsung hero, Berryhill became simply unsung.

We always appreciated Berryhill for his (largely overestimated) power potential and (largely overestimated) funny last name.  He was quite lithe for a catcher, at attribute that caused his youth to be overestimated as well.  Every detail about Berryhill, it seems, was generously inflated during his playing days, then summarily forgotten when he moved on.  Today he exists as more of an individual image than a fleshed out memory; a single frame in a 1992 slideshow. 

In 2007, Berryhill was named manager of the Texas Rangers’ low-A team, the Bakersfield Blaze.  Today, he guides the Ogden Raptors, the Dodgers’ rookie ball squad.  Berryhill continues to live the game as he has since his departure from the Braves; fighting for chances on baseball’s peripherals.  Wherever he ends up, Berryhill’s Braves years remain with us, his story at once over-appreciated and under-remembered.  Don’t stop the Chop.