Baseball is a game of pauses, of leisurely interludes that frame the action.

It is, for that reason, also the most social of games. That goes not only for those in the stands, shooting the breeze between pitches, but those on the field, where fraternization is almost built into the framework.

Catchers chat with umpires and batters. First basemen chat with base runners. Managers and pitching coaches go out to talk to pitchers. And when the reliever is brought in, outfielders gather together for a friendly confab, while the base umps chat up nearby players (if the base coach hasn't gotten to them first).

That doesn't even count the around-the-batting-cage banter between opposing teams, or the constant discourse that takes place in the bullpen and on the bench, which tends to be eclectic, raucous, obscene, politically incorrect, pithy and trivial — often all at once.

It also doesn't include eavesdropping, the specialty of former third baseman Matt Williams. When a runner reached third and attempted to talk with the base coach, Williams would conspicuously invade the conversation, standing as close as possible and literally sticking his neck into the conference.

"He wasn't even listening for anything," claimed Mariners infielder Dave Hansen, a victim of Williams' nosiness while with the Dodgers. "He was just kind of interrupting their conversation. Adrian [Beltre] does that sometimes. We yelled at [Williams] all the time. That probably encouraged him."

In the old days, baseball's aural history also included bench-jockeying, the dying art of the well-timed insult. The barbs were aimed either at a violator of the sport's intricate rules of etiquette, or at the carefully researched weak point of the opponent, which could range from his looks to some well-publicized off-field peccadillo.

"It's part of the game," said Mariners bench coach Ron Hassey, a catcher in the 1970s, '80s and '90s. "You've got to have fun out there, keep guys loose and relaxed so they can perform. But it can get very vicious and unruly."

Bench-jockeying still exists, but Mariners coach Don Baylor says it's rare enough that its execution causes notice. Not like in his era, when the ragging was relentless, and the likes of Frank Robinson, Tom Seaver, Billy Martin, Earl Weaver and Reggie Jackson were masters at getting under the skin of the opposition.

"Reggie — oh, God. Guys would be ready to fight today, he'd get on you so freaking bad," Baylor said in fond recollection of his former Angels teammate. "You took it, or you gave it back to him, or you went out and proved it on the field. We always used to say, 'Nothing personal.' "

It can get personal, in a convivial way, at first base, which Steve Garvey once described aptly as "a very social position." Just ask Cincinnati's Sean Casey, aka "The Mayor," who has a well-earned reputation as the most garrulous meet-and-greet practitioner in the sport.

Casey has even contemplated publishing a book called, "Conversations at the Corner." Once, he pretended not to hear Reds coaches yelling at him to play behind Mark McGwire, because he was so thrilled to be yakking at the bag with the great slugger.

"He's like that guy in 'Seinfeld,' the close-talker," Texas' Phil Nevin told the San Diego Union-Tribune. "You think Casey's going to lick your face."

The Cubs' Henry Rodriguez once became so absorbed in a conversation with Casey that he got picked off first base. In baseball's more nefarious eras, first basemen used to try to lure runners into inattention through conversation, but that rarely happens anymore.

"You'd probably wear one in your next at-bat [a brushback pitch] if you did something like that," said Mariners first baseman Richie Sexson.

Sometimes, however, the base runner's distraction is out of the first baseman's control. When Bob Watson was playing first base for Atlanta, he once became engrossed with Mets pitcher Jon Matlack about the best places to buy clothes in New York. On a wild pitch, Matlack ignored the first-base coach's screams to run, because he wanted to hear Watson's recommendation.

"You've got buddies, you talk about different stuff," Sexson said. "But it's never anything crazy, or memorable, that you won't be able to forget the rest of your life. Just small talk."

Still, the darndest things can be discussed at first base — "choppy, intermittent conversation punctuated by throws to the plate," in Roy Smalley's memorable description from 1984.

Milwaukee first baseman Tim Unroe once surprised base runner Tony Gwynn by complimenting him on his cologne. The Mariners' Scott Spiezio likes to discuss up-and-coming rock bands. Infielder Doug Flynn used his first-base arrival one day to finalize plans for a blind date being set up by his former teammate, Pete Rose. Flynn ended up marrying the woman. Eddie Murray, believe it or not, was so gabby he was famed for being able to talk and run at the same time.

Spiezio still shakes his head about his interaction with Barry Bonds when the Giants slugger was at the absolute height of his powers in the 2002 World Series. In Game 2, after the Angels built an early 5-0 lead, manager Mike Scioscia instructed his pitcher, Kevin Appier, to challenge Bonds, an extremely rare occurrence that year.

Bonds wound up walking anyway, and when he reached first, he said to Spiezio, the Angels' first baseman, "They're afraid to pitch to me."

"Actually, Barry, he wasn't supposed to walk you," Spiezio said.

"He had no choice," Bonds replied. "If he throws anything over the plate, it's a home run."

Says Spiezio now: "He wasn't joking around. It was just amazing to hear another player have that much confidence. Everything over the plate was a home run. You think, he's got to be one of the most zoned-in players in the history of the game right now."

Former Phillies first baseman Rico Brogna once coaxed Bonds into trying to steal second against Curt Schilling. After hearing Bonds tell his first-base coach that Schilling was too quick to the plate to steal on, Brogna told him, "C'mon, Barry, you're a 30-30 guy. You can do it. Give it a try."

Bonds was thrown out, and according to Brogna's account to the Boston Herald, "He just kind of smiled back at me. You issue a challenge like that to a great player, he's going to take it."

The interaction at home plate can be multifaceted, with the catcher serving as social director from his spot behind the plate. It puts him in proximity to the umpire, the batter, the pitcher and both benches, and the mask over his mouth is often no deterrent to spirited discourse. No one took fuller advantage than Hall of Famer Gary Carter, who was the armored equivalent of Sean Casey.

"I remember a hitter telling Gary Carter to shut up," veteran umpire Ed Montague said last week at Safeco Field.

Thurman Munson was another loquacious backstop, using his rap to both ingratiate and annoy. Former Mariner Scott Bradley would keep a constant dialogue going with the home-plate umpire, the two sharing their recent life history in the course of nine innings.

Veteran Pat Borders, cut loose by the Mariners on Friday, tries to be judicious with his small talk.

"I try not to bother the hitters up there," he said. "I think it's disrespectful for me to try to manipulate them, or take their mind off something while they're up there. I certainly wouldn't want a catcher doing that to me; I wouldn't allow it."

Sometimes, however, it's the batter trying to do the manipulating, the all-time champion being Rickey Henderson.

"He was constantly saying something to you, to himself, or that third person he always talked to," Borders said.

Henderson would try to deke the catcher by muttering repeatedly about his need to, say, stay back on the curveball.

"I'd say, 'All right, you want a curveball — here it is,' " Borders said. "He's looking fastball, because he thinks you're going to go the other way."

When it comes to chatty umpires, the all-time king is probably Ron Luciano, who wrote the book, "The Umpire Strikes Back," and later became a broadcaster.

"He'd go out and high-five the players when they made a good play," recalled Montague, a former partner. "I remember working a game with Luciano. I looked way out in center field, and Ron's out there talking to the outfielders. I mean, it was during the game!"

While working the plate, Luciano viewed each new batter as an oratorical opportunity. Future Hall of Famer Carl Yastrzemski once preemptively told Luciano as he stepped into the batter's box, "I'm fine, and my family's fine. I can't recommend a good restaurant right now, so let's shut up."

Veteran catchers and umpires often reach a level of rapport and trust that allows them to trade frank assessments about the game in progress and the players. Hassey said he even felt comfortable enough to tell some umpires the pitch was a ball, not a strike. And Borders once witnessed his pitcher, during a mound visit, ask the umpire what pitch he would throw in that situation.

"The umpire told him, and we did it," Borders reports. "Struck the batter out, too."

Perhaps the richest source of baseball conversation, however, takes place on the mound, the highest point on the baseball field and its social peak as well. Any number of folks, from the catcher to the infielders to the manager to the pitching coach, can choose at any time to trot on over for a chat, like two neighbors hanging over the fence.

Of course, it's usually far more businesslike than that, with important mechanical and strategical information being exchanged in dignified fashion. Or not. Dodgers pitcher Tom Candiotti was amazed once when Mike Piazza went to the mound and conducted the entire discussion using his Beavis voice from "Beavis and Butt-head."

Then there's Leo Mazzone, the heralded Atlanta pitching coach, who often had little to do when Greg Maddux was in his heyday with the Braves. During one hot stretch, Maddux reminded Mazzone he hadn't visited the mound for two months. Maddux invited Mazzone to come out in the sixth.

"So I did," Mazzone told Morris News Service, "and when I got there, I said, 'How are you doing?' He said, 'I'm fine, you can go now.' "

Mariners pitcher Eddie Guardado vividly remembers the time he was summoned to a game by then-Twins manager Tom Kelly to face Rafael Palmeiro in a tense moment. Kelly slammed the ball into Guardado's glove and told him, forcefully, "Get this [expletive] out!"

Guardado was suitably fired up, but he sheepishly provides the postscript: "First pitch, double off the baggy [at the Metrodome]. I didn't even want to look at TK."

Mariners pitching coach Bryan Price tried a unique form of motivation as a Class AA pitching coach, when a talented-but-erratic M's prospect named Ivan Montane was struggling in a game — not an unfamiliar occurrence.

"I remember going out and asking him how he was doing," Price said. "He said he was fine. I said, 'Well, you know what, Ivan? I'm not fine. You're two more bad outings from me being back in A ball. You're pitching me back to A ball.' "

Tigers pitching coach Bob Cluck is a proponent of using the light touch with pitchers, who are often struggling at the time of interaction.

"They don't need a, 'Come on, you've got to get this ball down!' They need something in a soft tone, and assurance that things are going to be OK," Cluck said. "We all need that."

During a stint with Houston, Cluck racked his brains for the right thing to say to former Astros pitcher Mark Portugal after he gave up three home runs on three successive pitches against the Reds — each one setting off a pyrotechnics display at Riverfront Stadium. Houston manager Art Howe directed Cluck to go to the mound, so he came up with this mood lightener:

"Hey, Porchie, the guy with the cannon called. He said, 'Slow down, I can't reload that fast.' "

Concluded Cluck: "He laughed. It loosened him up, and he went on to win the game. Sometimes, one of the big things a pitching coach does is slow somebody down."

That was the goal of Mariners manager Lou Piniella when he went out to talk to rookie Bob Wolcott in Game 1 of the 1995 American League Championship Series against Cleveland. Wolcott opened the game by loading the bases with no outs, and by his own recollection last month, "My head was spinning at 100 rpm."

Here's how catcher Dan Wilson remembers Piniella's pep talk to Wolcott:

"One of two things can happen, son: You're going to get out of this inning, and we're going to continue to win. Or you're not going to get out of this inning, and you're going to go home to Oregon, do some fishing, and have a nice offseason."

Wolcott got out of the inning, and won the game. That was one of the friendlier mound visits for Piniella, who could be exceedingly intimidating, especially earlier in his career, "when he hated pitchers even more," joked three-time Mariner Jeff Nelson.

"You never stared in the dugout with Lou," Nelson added, "because you didn't want to see what the hell he was doing when you walked guys."

Mound visits rarely are as irreverent as the famous scene from "Bull Durham," when the players confer on the mound. Crash Davis tells the coach that teammate Nuke LaLoosh is "scared because his eyelids are jammed and his old man's here. We need a live rooster to take the curse off Jose's glove, and nobody seems to know what to get Millie or Jimmy for their wedding present."

But some odd stuff happens. When Price got in a jam while pitching in the minors, his pitching coach, Dave Schuler, strolled out and told him, "You ever try to count the number of light towers? It's hard, because you spin all the way around, and you're never sure where you started."

"Then he walked off the mound," Price recalled. "That was it. There was no baseball. I'm guessing it was an effort to get my mind off the peril I got myself into, and break the tension. And it worked."

At the very least, it gave Price something to talk about. And in the social world of baseball, that's no small matter.

Larry Stone: 206-464-3146 or lstone@seattletimes.com