Columnist: Albert Belle confirms he’s a ding-dong

Friday, June 14, 1996 | 11:59 a.m.

YEAH, I INTERVIEWED Albert Belle. I was one of the lucky ones. I lived to tell about it.

My subsequent meetings with the Cleveland Indians slugger, however, proved our first encounter to be a fluke. They were closer to those of the fans he has beaned and chewed out, the photographer he hurt, the pitchers he has charged, the infielder he waylaid.

It was Opening Day Eve in 1992. There we sat. Just a college kid, getting his start in the newspaper business, and an imposing major-league superstar already known as a nasty man with an alcohol problem.

But once the questions began, my nervousness vanished. Belle went out of his way to make me feel comfortable and no subject was taboo. We talked about his alcoholism. We talked about the racial tensions he experienced in college. We talked about his evil persona.

Then, just three weeks later, I experienced the latter first hand.

Armed only with a copy of my pursuant story, I again approached Belle in the Cleveland clubhouse. I extended my right hand simply to thank him for his graciousness. I felt the fury.

I barely got my elbow straightened when Belle cut loose on me with an expletive-filled tirade in front of the entire team and what seemed to be every reporter in Northeast Ohio.

Classy.

My next tour of duty came two years later when I had the misfortune of being assigned a magazine piece on Belle. I phoned the Indians' media relations people, set up an interview and went to the assigned place at the assigned time.

I didn't get a syllable out before Mr. Congeniality attempted to embarrass me more thoroughly than he had in '92.

Told by the Indians' front office that Belle must have been confused and thought I was someone else, the interview was rescheduled for the next day. What they forgot to tell me was that Belle also rescheduled his humiliation for me as well.

Fine man.

My contact with Belle didn't end when I came to Las Vegas. He was to have made his MVP acceptance speech at The Mirage last year, but Mo Vaughn got the award. I called my old friend to get his reaction. (Tip: Next off-season, call and ask for "Belle, Albert." The Mirage operator will patch you right through.)

I found that Belle greets callers with the question "Whaddaya want, meat?" I also found that he likes to hang up on people in mid-sentence. The next time I called, I bribed him with tickets to Mike Tyson's next fight, grabbing his attention for a few moments before he hung up again.

Albert Belle's a jerk, and not because he doesn't take well to calls in his hotel room. He's just a crackpot who can swing a bat.

That's why I agree with fellow suspended Ohioan Marge Schott's recent comments: "Everything you read, when he came in he was good. He went nuts. He went berserk. Everybody knows he was good at the beginning, but he just went too far."

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