He almost didn't become a major league player. He took two beanings to the face in the minor leagues, one broke his nose, the other shattered his jaw. The second required reconstructive surgery and according to his brothers account when he first saw him at the hospital. "I couldn't see any form of his lips," he said. "Marci was passed out on Tim's lap, and there was a suction tube in his mouth so he wouldn't choke when he was sleeping. I bawled for an hour. I thought he'd look like the Elephant Man, that he'd never look normal. . . "
In the lower minors Tim used to do stuff that you never saw in Anaheim. "Guys laugh now because I don't cuss or get mad, but I can remember snapping and throwing all sorts of stuff and using terrible language in Class-A and double-A ball," Salmon said.
"But I finally realized you have to conserve your energy for your next at-bat, that sometimes you can get so frustrated you'll take yourself out of your game. I saw how guys would waste at-bats because they were still so ticked off about their last at-bat."
That is when Salmon started doing his routine that Disarcina referred to as "Timmy World." He would stick to a very regimented schedule of allowing blocks of time for everything from warm ups to fan interaction but really cut off from the other players in anything not involved with preparing for a game.
Now that his career is being on the television end instead of the players side you get to see and talk to a little more relaxed Tim Salmon. He can smile more, even when stuck taking pictures with our resident burger flipper.
Excerpts from Mike DiGiovanna's article in the LA Times