HELATH-CARE PLAN DOESN'T MEAN SPIT

I've had a cold recently. Nothing serious, just one of those slight illnesses that reacquaints you with the distasteful juices a body is capable of producing.

This manifested itself in me slowly, then suddenly. A minor tickle in the throat became a harsh rasp overnight. The sniffles set in, reminding me why men with mustaches dread cold and flu season. Each day, I'd pack a hanky.

When I finally sought some over-the-counter remedy, I chose caplets that promised to dry one out like a week in the Sahara. Aside from a mighty thirst, I now feel splendid, if vaguely feverish.

The coincidence of this cold and the baseball playoffs might seem remote. Still, I find the relationship between bodily fluids and professional sports especially apropos.

Perhaps it's me, or perhaps the camera work is tighter than before, but in watching some of the baseball games that have been played in the past few days, I've come to the conclusion players are spitting more now than ever.

In the grand scheme of things, America holds a relaxed attitude toward the on-field manners of baseball players, who are forgiven the numerous tugs and scratches they administer to assorted body parts.

Besides Madonna and Michael Jackson, very few people handle themselves that way in public, get paid good money in the process and avoid misdemeanor charges.

Thus, spitting takes a place as one of the idiosyncrasies of this grand game, as time-honored as sliding spikes-first into a particularly unlikable second baseman. In a day when some minor-league teams have instituted tobacco-free dugouts, we are still not far removed from spittoons in the clubhouse.

(Even technology has failed to alter the course of this custom. When artificial surface was introduced to the game in the 1960s, one of the greatest maintenance problems was keeping the rug clean of tobacco juice. Club owners, unnerved by seeing their green carpet turn brown paisley, issued edicts insisting that players spit only in the dirt areas ... which was mere hell for chewing outfielders.

(Eventually, club management realized that getting players to follow their selective-spitting rule was more difficult than getting tobacco residue off the field. Thus, the boys at Monsanto were put to work trying to grow a better, more stain-resistant strain of artificial grass.)

Since spitting survived that crisis, it has flourished. Perhaps there is no better exhibition of this unsavory art than the current round of major-league playoffs. The World Series, set to start over the weekend, might be the pinnacle of this calling.

As the abilities of ballplayers inevitably vary, so does their gift for spitting. Some are all-stars, some remain journeymen.

Len Dykstra of the Phillies is a man's spitter, aggressive and no-nonsense in his approach. On the other hand, Rickey Henderson of the Blue Jays is almost feminine with his technique, waiting until his lips are in full pucker before sending out a dainty stream.

Greg Olson of the Braves is rather casual as spitters go, his projectile seeming to come from no movement of oral muscle. The remnants of a sunflower seed usually is cast out.

By comparison, teammate Terry Pendleton is quite demonstrative, appearing to hack up something from deep within before launching it.

And Pete Incaviglia of the Phillies is just a mess, shotgunning his spit so that it might land anywhere within his peripheral vision. This is not something I intend to demean him for; maybe it's due to badly formed teeth. But check the bench during a World Series game; no one sits close to Pete without foul-weather gear.

I don't know what to say about John Kruk, other than it makes my jaws tired just to watch him chew all that gum.

The spitting is so pervasive that it almost provides a rhythm folks in the television production truck can work by. Cut to close-up of Steve Avery ... spit. Cut to Curt Schilling ... spit. Back to the Atlanta dugout ... and so on.

Then, there is Phillies reliever Mitch Williams, who, to his everlasting credit, has more control of his expectoration than he does his fastball. But, in a crucial moment of Wednesday's game, in front of 62,502 screaming fans in the stadium and millions watching television at home, the Wild Thing blew his nose on the mound without the benefit of a handkerchief.

Viewers on the West Coast, still digesting their suppers, must have been particularly grateful for this uncommon bit of athleticism.

With America's mind now focused on health care, with a particular emphasis on prevention, I was wondering if the Clinton administration might suggest legislation that would limit the amount of bacteria introduced to the nation's playing fields.

Think about the germs found beneath the feet of our nation's fittest citizens. The underside of an old commode might be more sanitary than a dugout floor.

A health-care provision covering baseball spitting (though it might produce some amusing congressional hearings) would probably not work out. Baseball has an anti-trust exemption and could probably swing some protection from harsh regulations.

Mr. and Mrs. Clinton could face the same obstacles as the club owners fretting over stains on the Astroturf. The players just won't stop spitting. What do you do then, hire spit police?

Rest easy, America, the national pastime is safe ... if not dry.

Ken Newton is editor of the Southeast Missourian.