CHAPTER TWO
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"To the Educated Belong the Spoils."
For four high school years, four of the best worst years of my life I looked up at that inscription. That whittled, tired old piece of wood, stuck cock-eyed to the wall, looking like someone's old wood shop project. That's probably what it was. Some kid makes it in wood shop, gets the grade and then brings it to P.E. and gets more kissie points. Some guys got the knack for school, you know. Below that crummy plaque is where my locker sat, that's where I put on my uniforms. Where I whiffed into my nostrils the familiar odor of unwashed sweat-fouled clothes; tennis shoes rank with foot fungus; and Heet, a sticky muscle balm that smelled like wintergreen with whiskey breath. Those smells hugging the locker room went right to the nerves and soothed my pre-game jitters.
"Ace, you wanna put that ballski in my hans an I'll stick it in the hoopski."
He was the skinniest kid I'd ever seen. We called him Crane because that was his name and if he didn't look like one of those wooden marionette dolls all elbows and knees collapsing around the torso, then he wasn't the geeky and awkward-looking kid that I knew. On another night, on another basketball team after his goofy skinny bones had packed on the beef, he would be known as "The Enforcer." The seed would be planted by a carelessly whipped elbow in a scrimmage and plenty of Bandini would be piled on by tough talks about playing time determined by who wants it the most. A couple games into that season he would be matched up against an energetic kid playing tight defense, hugging him like round on ball. Crane would go up for a board. The kid would go up after him. Crane would come down with the ball and fire his elbow. The kid would come down, his mouth smashed, blood gushing down his jersey. Boos would tirade from one side of the gym. From the other would come a stunned gasp. Painted on Crane's kisser would be a picture of confusion and hurt. Off the bench would come the coach, not with a caring gesture or word but a cascade of mortification and humiliation, screaming at Crane, "You should know better."
But that night was not yet penciled in on anybody's date book. In this game he was our center against a team that loomed over us and outclassed us at every position.
"An wha you gonna do with it but get it royally stuffed down your ugly throatski."
Our fingers put the finishing flourishes on our laces making sure the loops hung evenly over the sides and we took the floor jostling shoulders and casting insults at each other.
By the half, twenty points separated us, their twenty. Catching twenty points at that level of play is like hitting two halfcourt shots in a row, possible, but not too likely. No tears were falling out of our eyes because we felt so outgunned we were just playing to get out alive.
We passed the talk around as we towelled the sweat off.
"Didja sees the hookski the guy throws in from mid- keyski. Swear his wholes royal arm's above the rimski."
"Number 23, geez can he launch. He took that ballski and ..."
The coach's clipboard slammed off the metal lockers and banged to the concrete. "Squirrel-brain, if you'd paid more attention to positioning instead of standing around watching your man jump, you wouldn't look like you're digging a hole every time the ball is shot."
No one laughed at squirrel-brain. No one got the chance. The coach wheeled and fired a barrage at another player. And then another. On down the line till he turned to all of us, our heads hanging low. "I've told you since the season began, if all you want to do is play basketball, then you can play at the park on weekends. You won't play for me. I demand 110%. Everytime you step onto that court you owe your body, heart, and mind to the game. Game, hell. Gentlemen, everytime you step onto that court you do battle. Your're at war. And I expect you to play with the pride of the uniform. And gentlemen, twenty points is not pride, it's a disgrace."
He paused to build up steam, "You may think you're here to learn basketball but you're here to learn to be a warrior and the warriors of past battles are shamed by your performance. The Indians had a war cry that we're going to adopt. As they battled they screamed, 'It's a good day to die.' And tonight I want to hear it from you. Say it."
We mumbled.
And he hollered.
We said it again with feeling and continued to chant it as we left the locker room and lined up outside before entering the gym to take our pre-half warm-ups. When the coach was out of earshot someone croaked out, "It's a good day to hide."
Up and down the line the quip jumped and it sprouted volume and brawled off the tongue like a great loud drinking song. The kid behind me slapped his palms together like a miser before gold. The knees on the guy in front of me pistoned back and forth. I looked down and I almost split a gut when I saw my feet were doing a tap on the concrete.
The inside of the gym was filled with spectators. To us they looked like colored balloons and from them plenty of noise pounded out of the bleachers. The balls slapped off the shining floor as we did our layup drills and broke order to shoot around. "It's a good day to hide", we told each other and dropped 20 footers into the hoop.
A feeling began to burn inside and engulf me as I watched my teammates move and jive. I knew better teams. We were playing one. But I couldn't conceive of looking in the key and not finding Crane or looking to the wings and seeing unfamiliar hands reaching for the ball or hearing from the bench voices I didn't recognize. The faces and the colors of our uniforms belonged together and if I or any member of the team had been anywhere else, then the pieces would not fit, the scene would be like a jigsaw puzzle cut all wrong.
As we stood sneaker to sneaker with the other team for the second half tip, it was apparent that though our spirits had been buoyed, our legs had stretched not a whit and we still gave up several inches at each position. It was enough to take the soaring into a nosedive. But then as the toss was thrown up one of us yelled, "It's a good day to sky." To our pupil-popping amazement we came down with the ball in our grubby little hands.
I raced with the ball upcourt past the midcourt line, hit the top of the key, picked up my dribble, lunged at the basket, screamed, "It's a good day to fly," and scooped the ball up towards the hoop. Their tall forwards were still in transition to defense and were off balance enough to miss picking me up on my way to the basket. The ball circled the rim and dropped through the net for two points.
Howls and backslapping took their turns. We ran to our end of the court followed by our opponents. They set their offense up and made two quick passes to their wings. On the next pass, our guard swept past his man and hawked the ball. As he ran uncontested down the court for a lay-up, he let loose with a schoolyard expression for thievery, "It's a good day to swipe."
We were bouncing beams off each other, not just because the lead was trimmed but because we were like reflecting lasers intense with focused light. It was like a sixth sense, directing our passes, giving us the exact touch to the ball, quickening our feet beyond anticipation towards symbiosis.
The coach, however, was still in Fort Apache and he was about to call for reinforcements. I was yanked first and as I took my place on the bench the kid next to me leaned over and said "It looks like a good day to retire."
Aaron Arrowstrate was my replacement, a kid who kept his uniform clean and his shirt tucked in and insisted on taking the lead when the team ran laps. Now you would of thought just as the coach did think that a guy like Arrowstrate would play it straight down the line, end to end. His insertion in the game was meant to be like a shot of lead poured into the tennies. But Arrowstrate had talents heretofore untapped.
Arrowstrate came in as a guard and the offensive pattern called for him to direct his pass across to the opposite guard, to work the ball into the pivot man straddling the key, or to make a quick cut and move towards the hoop. Aaron got the ball and made a nice move on his man leaving him at the top of the key. As he drove towards the basket, the player guarding our pivot man left him and moved to cut off Arrowstrate's approach. Aaron continued to drive towards the outstretched body blocking the baseline. From our seats on the bench it wasn't difficult to determine Aaron's next move. It was either to be an attempted shot over his taller opponent, in which case we expected to see the ball bounce off his face, or a charging foul as he stumbled headlong towards the basket and into the man. But Aaron's previously undisplayed talents were on the move. Smoothly and deftly, as if he was about to force a shot without any fake, he pulled up from his drive into a shooting position. The opposite team's tall man closed in for what we all thought to be the kill. Instantly, the ball was whipped behind Aaron's back and passed to our free forward who went in for an easy unchallenged two points. A perfect behind-the-back, no-look pass is so seldom seen in high school gyms that it was no wonder the crowd and the bench went wild with excitement.
And so it went. As if the game was a showcase for our talents. Our center, Crane, couldn't miss. He kept reminding us, "There's a Crane in the lane, there's a Crane in the lane." We fed him the ball and he turned it into two points.
We pulled within sight of the lead and then close enough to smell victory. But in the end, victory was not ours. Perhaps our opponents finally rose to the occasion, or the collective abilities of our team met their own limits. At any rate, we quit playing somewhere close to the lead, somewhere close to the realization that we could actually win. We quit playing and put our gears into "just execute".
The locker room was sullen as if the previous climb had been someone else's dream and we had stayed oppressed inside the metal-lined room and never played the second half. The coach had words for us.
"If you had stayed within the game plan.
"If you had played with discipline.
"If you had taken pride in your performance."
I didn't believe what I thought I detected, a sign of relief on his face and in his voice. The preaching continued for some time making it clear that we were never again to let the roundball ring off the rafters, "You listen and you listen good. You can't be better than the game plan. I'm here to pound that lesson into your thick skulls. And if you don't or won't understand, then you won't be playing next year on a team or the year after that or ever again. So you remember and you remember well."
I never forgot. I never forgot through all the successive game plans and team coaches.
It was my last year in high school and I was running laps after baseball practice, not for my health or because I liked running laps, but because I was being punished.
Coach Fairly met us on each pass shouting what to him was encouragement. "Baseball is like life. Succeed at baseball and you succeed at life."
"Bull roar." I heard Coos, my cohort in crime, hiss through his teeth as he puffed behind me. "Baseball is baseball." I detested the pounding of the laps, but Coos must have been in hell. While my feet went happy after fly balls in the open field and stormed onto the diamond whenever a back-up fielder was needed, he went to any length not to run. As he explained it, a human is only endowed with a certain amount of energy, some more than others, but nevertheless a constant amount that could be expended. He was conserving and viewed any exercise that robbed him of his energy as attempted murder.
We heard, "Gut it out. Quitters never win," as we circled again.
The next time it was, "Show me some character now."
Finished, and trying to restore my lost ability to move, I bent over and felt the hot emptiness heave against my stomach.
"Gloverman, you're like a knuckleball," the coach was hanging over me. It would serve him right if I heaved all over his black athletic coach-shoes. "It's an elusive pitch. No one knows where a knuckler will go. Not the batter, not the catcher, not even the pitcher. It's a pitch that needs to be controlled. I hope for your sake you meet someone that can control you, or you'll never amount to anything more than some wild pitch."
Coos finished his laps and we made the walk across the practice diamonds towards the showers.
"You're getting me in an abnormal amount of trouble-eroo."
"Me? You were the royal numbnut that came up with the shadow trickeroo."
"Sure Ace, blame it on me. All I did was notice that you cast a royal shadow across the side of the dugout."
"Notice? You practically microphoned it to the whole studentolas and then made sure the cheerleaders sat in line with the shadowola."
"Oh and you were royally innocent."
"And then you insist that I tuck in my shirteroo, insisting in a royally loud voice."
"Yeh, but I didn't insist that you drop your pants."
"Behind the dugout though."
"Nor did I insist that you use a batola and ball to extend your otherwise puny ..."
"How do you know I was using a bat at all. You were so royally busy watching the cheerleaders watch the shadow."
"You should of seen their faces."
"I wish I could of."
"And Miss Prissmeyer."
"I bet that was a royal treat to see."
Our over-worked legs seemed to lighten.
The next day we found that our laps had not been deemed sufficient restitution for Miss Prissmeyer's offended sensibilities. We were called into Fairly's office before practice.
"You two are pulling against the team and you know we can't get over the hill if you continue to pull against us. I shouldn't have to tell you this." Mainly because we'd heard it before. "You remember I warned you two after your last little escapade."
It took a purse-lipped effort for me to refrain from correcting the coach, our last trick was not a small anything. Coos and I had stumbled across baseball pants, no doubt some coaches, that must have been at least 60" in the waist. They were monsters. Several well-placed pillows in the front and particularly in the rear took up the slack. Across the front of a couple of old jerseys we had lying around, we painted the names of our opponents. And in the back we wrote Bob Butt and Bill Butt respectively, the Butt brothers. Then, before the game we donned our new uniforms and surreptitiously sneaked our way out of the locker room. While everyone else made ready for the game, we took the field to entertain the early arrivals by our display of fielding practice. We pondered and plodded over the infield swinging our enormous rear ends and misplaying the ball across the grass. We thought it all in good fun and the student body was visibly delighted. However, the coach had berated us for a lack of character. "To desecrate your opponents is to disparage yourselves because every contest must have worthy adversaries." Or something like that. We were sufficiently contrite and promised not to dress up again. Which was a promise made easy to maintain because our coach-size uniforms were confiscated.
Fairly was still rambling. "On top of everything else you had to perform in front of Miss Prismeyer. It took all my persuasive powers to convince her to let me handle the situation. She wanted you brought up before the administration and bounced off the team, your playing days over, your letter forfeited. I have appeased her by assuring that you both will be dealt with severely."
He stood up over his desk for emphasis. And we awaited our fate.
"I want to be fair about this. You two will suit up but not play in our next game."
Practice became a time to act loosy goosy since we weren't going to be called on for the game. I wandered over to my replacement in the infield.
"This is your chance, are you ready."
"I don't know, I don't want to be choking."
We'd been on the same or opposite sides of the foul lines since we were in elementary school. He'd always played behind one player or another. Some of his coaches didn't even learn his name, no doubt perplexed as to why he didn't take the hint. Guys like him tended to muck up the flow of things. We all knew that if everyone who couldn't quite cut it continued to insist on playing, baseball teams would come to a grinding halt. They'd be uncoachable. Coaches can only say things five or six times before they're patience degenerates into red-faced shouting. But guys like him needed extra instructions. He'd stuck with it and it looked like his waiting was about to pay off. I was looking forward to seeing him shoot a ball over to first or get a good solid hit and stand on base while we all shouted his name. This was contrary to the way I was suppose to be disposed and it left me somewhat befuddled. I should have been feeling low and mean since I wasn't playing, that was the idea of sitting out the game. It just wasn't right not to be hungering to take the field because it indicated a player who wasn't psyched up to give his best effort. Who could say errors might not be attributed as much to attitude as to the bounce in the dirt? Still, I couldn't help but follow my impulse to help him bask in the new light. "You should be biting the big one 'cause let's face it you've never been on a baseball diamond before, at least not since the bases have been switched around. You know we run to third first now."
"Yeh. I guess you're right. I probably can't play any worse than you."
"I take it all back. You're one big royal boot."
The practice went slow for him. His first ground ball was handled cleanly but his throw was high. On the next try he bobbled the ball.
"Time." I ran onto the field.
"Gloverman, that's at least one lap."
"Coach, I've got his glove," I held up my glove to convince him. "I'll be off the field in a flash."
I slithered in close to him and put a ball in his face. "Badeball." And then my glove. "Badeball gob. You cadch badeball. Drow to base. Evwybody gwab you and hug you. Cheerleaders watch you walk. Coaches lub you. Teams carry you on shoulders. You miss da ball again and I come out here and beat you up." For emphasis, I slapped my glove about his head and shoulders.
"One lap, Gloverman, and counting."
As he loosened up, he began to find the play with his glove and first base with the ball. He took his cuts and got plenty of wood on the ball, sending some blistering line drives into the outfield. He looked tuned.
A couple of days prior to the game, the local paper came out with a big story on the team. In the article it was asserted that the game was going to be watched by pro scouts and college recruiters looking for ballplayers to fill their rosters and it was incidentally noted that at least one valued coaching position was open for the right candidate. The scribe went on to proclaim that for the first time in its history, the town was on the sport's map.
The next practice started with a team meeting. It was expected the coach would start in with his usual pep talk, I let my attention drift until it was abruptly anchored back down. "A baseball team is like a train and we've all got to pull together to get over the grade. We can't have team members pulling against the rest of the train and still expect to get over the hump. We are one unit. This means that I can't let any player or players take precedence over the interest of the team as a whole. I have said this from the beginning of the season and you all know where I stand. Coos and Gloverman's absence in the lineup jeopradizes the goals that the hard work of the rest of the team has put within reach and this is unfair to the team. I want to be fair about this so I've decided in the interest of everybody concerned, to let Coos pitch and Gloverman start at shortstop."
Amidst the general enthusiasm that greeted the news, I caught a glimpse of my would-be replacement's face. It was an image that lingered.
Before the game, in our hand-over-hand huddle, Fairly pronounced with dramatic intensity, "Desire. You've got to want it more than the next team," and then "desire" was repeated by all of us, though not with universal conviction. I was as loose as an old leather glove and about as removed from the jittered enthusiasm of the other starters as the mitt from the cow. My would-be substitute sat at the end of the bench where I customarily found a place but I avoided him by sitting close to the coach. While the rest of the team paced and pounded their palms, my back rested against the chain link, my cap tipped low over my forehead as if the mind could shut it all out by closing the eyes. The team was so hyped up that they took no notice of me. If I wasn't being dragged onto the field or being reminded to take the on-deck circle, I never would have left the bench. As for the score, except the times I crossed the plate, I didn't have a clue as to the count. Ironically, my bat doubled twice, homered, and singled, and the ball seemed to slow and crawl into my glove as it neared me. I was not filled with pride. Instead, I felt as though I was spiking my friend on the bench with every clean pick-up of the ball.
My attitude was all twisted and I supposed so transparent that I expected to be booed by the grandstands when I came to the plate or to be grabbed by the shoulders and shaken. So certain I was of the evidence contained within my stare that I dared not exchange looks with any of my teammates. I believed as much as the next guy that a game goes to the players who want it the most. I didn't give one scratch what my performance was or even what the outcome of the game was. Win, lose, tie, I cared as much as the ump's broom. Yet I was pouncing on ground balls and ripping up the pitches at the plate without wanting it at all and it left me dazed and confused as if I had been involved in some sudden and unexplained accident. Later, I would find that there were times when I played ball with all my thoughts and energies, indeed my existence, focused solely on my play. At those times I have had my best games, equalled only by those games in which my focus evaporated completely like the lines of a batter's box rubbed out after a couple of hitters. Maybe the coach was right and the rest of the team pulled me over the grade. As I looked down the bench I wanted to believe we were all riding together. Maybe we were. Some just had different berths.
I was invited to an instructional baseball camp. The pro scout spoke of the big leagues and how I'd be up there in no time, and how I had the tools, the speed and quickness that can't be taught and how with a little education and development I'd be a hot prospect and he wouldn't be surprised if in twenty or thirty years he'd be telling his grandkids that he was the scout who discovered me. I decided to go anyway. A chance to shag fly balls and drive deep shots to fielders in a last fling with baseball was like being responsible for the immediate evacuation of the girl's locker room, a job to be taken with earnest. I could postpone the summer work of lifting and toting and fixing cars for a little while.
Before the end of the school year a map and a date to report came through the mail. The Greyhound ambled into the camp's town. The place of arrival didn't look all that different from my place of departure and the spot on the map labelled "Veteran's Stadium" didn't begin to describe the glamour of the location. The baseball diamond was flanked by a set of weathered bleachers on one side and a clump of weeds on the other, reserved for the visiting guests. The infield was hard without a cushioning layer of loose dirt. The outfield was green in the places where the weeds formed an oasis in a desert of terminally ill grass. It would come to be a field of play whose colors cast a tone that reached far past its lowly borders.
Waiting for their assignments in the afternoon bake were those who had learned their lessons well. The perfectly formed lines and the attentive faces waiting for direction indicated that not for nothing were these the top graduates from their teams. Later when the pattern set in, the team would clump like hairballs into three groups but until then we would all stand equal along the foul line.
The old man was an old codger who looked as if he'd be more at home in a bingo parlor than a baseball diamond. His eyes set so deep in years I couldn't tell where his gaze was tracking but he seemed to be scanning each of us in a search for an intangible. He lead us through the cumpulsory exercises and I began to remember the part of baseball practice that made janitor work look fun. By the time the lap around the playing field ended the warm-up part of the practice, I was ready to run out the field gates and right back onto the bus. I demonstrated my disregard for the routine by running a cool last.
When the ball finally kicked into the glove it awakened me to its demand for attention which I readily brought forth out of hiding. This time the game was just for me. No coach to keep well-fed with pleasing behavior. No teammates to support. No future games for which to stake out a place in the mind and surround with focus. Just the white ball to follow. And I set after it like a dog after a mechanical rabbit. I wasn't planning on being around any longer than the length of a normal two week summer vacation so I was determined to pick up as many shots as I could. I rotated into the batting cage before I felt I'd caught my limit.
"You know anything about hitting a curve ball?" He was a scrawny kid without athletic muscle but I withheld my judgement on his ability, knowing that strength and prowess comes in varying descriptions and isn't always easy to recognize when it's unadorned. However, as I watched him take his swings it became apparent that my initial impression was correct. He lacked the quick aggressive wrists which a guy his size needed and instead of hitting the white ropes, his connects, when he had them, were feeble bloopers off the side of the bat or grounders not hot enough to go through the infield. And on a breaking pitch, he was in another area code. He gave me a shrug as he exited the cage.
The results of my turn at the plate were not too dissimilar. The first few pitches were thrown with a different ball than I was accustomed to seeing, one much smaller and livelier. With each succeeding pitch, the ball matured both physically and emotionally until it finally got big enough to hit. I thought I was a star shining from Cooperstown when I finally put wood on it.
Then a curve was thrown. I instantly saw the way I looked on the silver screen of my eyes. My swing was like one of the Globetrotter's player-shills who grabs for the ball and embraces air with both arms. I couldn't help laughing at the picture of my impotent bat wrapped around my body. Standing near where an on-deck circle might be was the coach. In place of the scowl I expected to see for my breech of decorum, was a look that greeted me as if I was Babe Roof's great grandson arrived to save his team from a wet cellar. Whatever the intention of the look, the effect was to tighten my intensity with the thoughts that I didn't want this man to think I wasn't a real ballplayer. I hit the ball alright but when the next guy up took one powerful swing and sent the ball out beyond the left field fence into the waist-high weeds and I was sent to retrieve it, I was beating myself as well as the bushes. I had not taken the bus ride to grit my teeth with every play and near-play, no matter what the results. I was there to play ball not to draw box scores.
My fellow rookie batting cage cohort was right behind me searching for the ball. He shook his head, "How can they let a guy like that play? We take dozens of cuts and don't even put a grass stain on the ball. One swing and he loses it. Where's the fiscal responsibility in a guy like that? I'll be sorry to see the guy go but I'm afraid it's inevitable, the club just can't afford him." He was wise for a rookie. He knew that there was a greater power than the bat. He continued, "Mark my words, there's always room on a team for utility men and out here we're demonstrating our versatility."
A uniform would never quite fit right on him. It would always be a little baggy in the seat or short in the sleeves. In his ridiculous ball player pose he looked like nothing to emulate and everything to like. He scurried and dug after the ball in his determined way with his eyes white-wide and his mouth wavy-tight. My movements took on greater significance as if I could pattern for him. Others had the lessons down. They were the top of the class, the portion who would bubble up to their rightful position. But he was the one to watch.
One of the steady bats was a guy no one could stand to be around when he was eating. Maybe because when his mouth was overflowing he always seemed to come up with something to say. "We got it good here fellas." His lips were holding in a closet full of escaping twinkies covered in clear syrup. "There's teams that run their players like little military men. They're told when to get up, when to eat, when to play, where to sleep, they have to ask permission to take a piss. They're told what's right and what's wrong. They all dress alike, they all field alike, they all hit alike, and they all think alike. If they don't play according to the book, then they don't play at all. Advancement is strictly by the numbers. But unless you're willing to take pitches and to sacrifice you won't find yourself with too good of numbers because you won't be in the lineup. No one hits away unless it's for the good of the team. That's what the team wants and that's what they get."
We figured we weren't locked into a farm system dictated by the needs of those at the top of the order. After all, we knew plenty of examples of guys who hit away, plenty of guys who took big cuts every time at bat. They might fan some of the time and leave guys stranded on base and then leave those same guys behind as they moved up the ladder but that was just part of the game. So maybe the team capitalized on their performance by shrewd marketing, well they were entitled, they let the guy rise. I looked around reassured we were nothing like those other teams who insist in holding back and molding their teams.
Although advancement was far from my mind, the twinkie man was already on the move. As he was packing he was telling everyone, "You better get used to it. From now on someone's gonna always be moving one way or another. It's a natural process. Some of us moving towards the light, others standing in the reflection, and the rest dying in the shadows."
Those of us who stayed didn't particularly appreciate him verbalizing what we all knew. Reminders were everywhere. Rusty had been to the bigs. He'd even thrown a couple of innings. He'd worked his way up, only to work his way back down. He was the team's player-coach in charge of the pitchers. Every practice, he'd be out there trying to match arms with boys three quarters his age.
But it wasn't Rusty's presence that made me double pump the ball looking for the right base. It was someone who wasn't that much of a player. It was probably in the bounce of the ball from the first practice session and he knew where that bounce would lead even if he couldn't always react to it. But he stuck with it. When a team gets far enough behind in a game it'll usually cave in and if outing after outing brings about defeat after defeat, it's a game bird who doesn't stick his head under its wing. But he never let up. We'd wait till everyone was gone for the day and then retrace our fielding steps. He, trying desperately to ingrain a pattern of movement and me, greedily sucking up ground balls and squeezing the juice out of them. I was no match for his enthusiasm. I wore out first and finally dragged him to dinner.
Every night we'd run through our standard routine. "I'm too tired to eat."
And he'd say, "Can you still see? Good, then you can watch me eat."
When he finally got sent permanently to the showers, I felt like rotting stink. If I'd been scratching for a place, I might not have thought twice about his departure. One less contender. If that had been my purpose from the outset, maybe I wouldn't have hung out with him to begin with, preferring to gravitate towards the better members of the team. Maybe I wouldn't even have got close enough to hear his voice cheer from the bench. But I had and as I looked at the guys in the field I wondered why it was that there was no room for him to share a position. I'd have been feeling quilty myself if I wasn't so busy filling up on pitched balls.
The batting cage opened itself up to me as a place for flights of improvised swings. I let the ball pluck out its song off the bat in whatever time it wanted. I opened my stance way up or stood pigeon-toed with my legs close together and almost fell over. I pulled the ball into the dugout sending the coaches scrambling for safety or dribbled the ball back to the box off my fists. I felt I'd stumbled into a baseball symphony and I was determined to bellow my part with as much gusto and lung power as I could bring to it.
Most of the time I was so tuned into the cage that I took no notice of what was going on around me. But once I looked up when I was taking my swings and saw the old man nipping at the heels of a group of grazing players. The image of the good shepherd and his flock crawled under my skin and I did my best to send a fusilage into their midst.
The old man conducted clinics on hitting explaining the results of variations of stance and swing. These orchestrations were accompanied by wandering attention, half-closed eyes, everything but outright snoring. Next to me, I heard a guy say to a teammate, "I don't care why, I just want to do it." And the teammate responded, "Yeh, we know why, so we can make it to the top and get out of listening to this." When it came our turn to take a stance at the plate, I detected little change in the composition of their swings from what had already been imprinted. As the ball skipped into the outfield grass, the hitter would sing out, "It works, I'm sure not going to fix it," or waiting around the cage someone would hum under his breath, "If I think about it, I can't do it. You've either got the rhythm of the thing or you don't." After a time the chorus around the cage was in agreement, "What's he trying to do showing us this stuff, confuse us?"
These were guys who couldn't afford to confuse their tomorrows with the stories of an old man. Stories about players of yesterday and how they used their swing to decimate a defense. He was preaching to the choir's empty seats. The players had no yesterdays only tomorrows. They sat bored out of their gourds, except Rusty, who had no tomorrows just yesterdays, and me who had neither.
To my surprise the first of the season began to strut in and I hadn't climbed back aboard the bus back home. I didn't care to consider the reasons why. The old man hadn't lent me any time in instruction. I was reasonably certain he knew I was one of his players because I'd catch him out of the corner of my eye standing back watching. What he saw in me I can't guess, but seldom did he do more than drift his gaze my way. It was like I was some kind of bird he was watching and afraid of spooking. Maybe that's why he kept me because I didn't demand any of his time. Not that I was complaining. I didn't want anyone getting between me and my baseball. Although in truth I wasn't oblivious to his suggestions. When he told us all one of his stories about how some old player used the bunt as an offensive weapon instead of just a last resort to advance the runner, I spent the next practice laying them down. He'd put it in my mind that maybe I hadn't fully examined some aspect of the game. Likewise, I found his fielding tips were good points of departure for my explorations.
If the others on the team were like bloodhounds on a leash, I was like the lone coyote on the trail. Our noses were to the ground and our tails up, but after that the similarity ended. They were going to find their prey and howl for their master's approval. I was going to find it and rip it to shreds. All the more for me to question the coach's decision to leave me among his faithful pack. Teams, and especially coaches, don't particularly care for untethered noses sniffing around because one never knows when they may break off the chase. So while I continued to make sure I had bus fare in my pocket, I found myself sitting on the bench as part of the team. Getting butt calouses was never a pleasureable experience for me. Since I hadn't come to camp to watch, I would not have remained there if the first games had not been so wildly engaging.
We were all keyed up for our opener and when we found ourselves ahead going into the late innings, the mood in the dugout turned savage for victory. Rusty was called in late to try to get the save and after getting two straight strike outs, got hit bad for two runs which cost us the game. In the dugout, there was some grumbling but not directed at anyone in particular until Bull began to bellow.
Bullox was a big, young, brash player who I had managed to stay clear of. He was livid, I suppose mainly because it was his homerun and double that had given us the lead.
"Nice pitches old man. You cost us the game. Why don't you do us all a favor and retire?"
Rusty had the pitcher's unflappableness. Not easily fazed by criticism and no doubt unprepared for a personal attack, he remained aloof and silent. Ironically, Rusty's coolness fueled Bullox's passion and he slammed the pitcher against the dugout wall. Most of us were scrambling to get out of the way, caught by surprise, and not about to get too close.
The old man somehow managed to wedge himself between the two and with an emotionally frantic voice was screaming, "Bull, Bull, take a bat. Bull, use a bat," and then when Bull paused quizzically, "He's only twice your age and half your weight. Don't take any chance. Use a bat."
Bull eased back off, "He lost the game for us and he doesn't give a damn."
The old man was in his face and barely audible to the rest of us gaping spectators, "You've got all the skills and you've got a major league uniform already tailored with your name on the back and that's a shame. A shame that you can't grow into it."
"Yeh, and its a shame I have to play with you losers. You've been on the bottom so long you think the score is the E column, the more E's the better."
I thought then that all authority rested with the coach, that all personnel decisions were his exclusive perogative. It didn't occur to me that a player with certain potential might be a property whose investment was carefully guarded, whose value would be considered much greater than any manager, whose displeasure might be carefully monitored and the source of that displeasure carefully removed.
The remainder of the team had left for the day and Rusty was helping the coach gather up the equipment. I was on the end of the bench trying to repair the rawhide lacing in my glove when I heard Rusty say, "Maybe it is time for me to hang it up."
"Don"t let Bull get to you. It's one thing to walk onto the field when the teeth are sharp and the feet are swift, but quite another when each step carries with it all the other games and all the other steps, when the echoes of the distance travelled rings in the ears and soul."
"It's not him, it's me. I'm too old. It's not fair to the team and to the farm system."
"Don't worry about the farm system, they get what they need. They get their Bulls with the special gifts, they get the ones who hang on to the bottom rungs or only wish they could, and they get the remainder who play out the game somewhere else in the hierarchy. No, don't worry, if we had too many Bulls, they'd clog the system and if we didn't have enough non-players clamouring to put on a uniform, then the manager's and front offices and even the Bull's wouldn't be able to make their bush league players endure what they endure. Either way, things would change. And they haven't since you started playing the game and they haven't since I started playing the game. We get what we deserve. You want my advice, you play till you have to be carried off the field. Maybe short relief ain't your ballgame, we'll try you in long relief." They both must have been pondering the possibilities contained within the suggestion because nothing was spoken for quite awhile.
I was growing conscious of my eavesdropping but my ignorance of this part of the game began to nag at me. What was he talking about, "we get what we deserve"? And too many Bulls? How would a system be clogged if it had too many great players? He made it sound as if the farm system was designed for failure as well as success and I knew that couldn't be.
I decided the old man warranted a little further study so I could figure out what he was trying to say. This meant accepting my position on the bench and sitting close by him during a game, a location somewhat perilous because he had the habit of playing the game verbally in the dugout and it was much more rigorous than what went on in the field. Histories, famous and infamous, as well as personal, were replayed and studied for comparison. For instance, if we were ahead by one with first base open, a man on second and one out, he might turn to a player and ask if he should create a double play situation and in so doing, put the go-ahead run on base.
The player might answer, "Yeh, that sounds good to me. Go for two."
The old man would counter, "McGraw always said, 'never put the winning run on 'cause that's the one that beats you.'"
Then the player might say, "Okay, take it one at a time. Get the batter."
The old man would come back with, "Mack always said, "Never give third to the tieing run unless you want to play extra innings."
When the player had finally made his choice the advice might be heeded as much, I came to believe, for the player's self-evaluation as for the soundness of the argument.
Not everyone was a willing participant in the exercise. On one of the occasions I heard a problem posed to Bullox and the reply was curt, "It's your job to figure what to do next. My job is to hit the stupid ball. You do what you're suppose to and I'll do what I'm suppose to and I don't see how what some old baggy-pants fart has to do with this game. So no more stories for me." The agreement on several of the other faces said that he was not alone in his point of view.
I felt my status to be like a non-entity since he had taken so little notice of me so I felt immune to his 'what ifs'. Anyway, I always figured you just do what you're told.
I must have jumped a mile the first time I heard, "Gloverman, what would you do if you were up at the plate?"
"I'd hope for a walk," was my instinctive comeback.
The old man gave the sign to take.
Salsa, at the plate for our team, looked out towards third for the sign. The third base coach relayed the sign from the old man into Salsa. He took the first pitch for a strike. The next for a ball. And another for a strike. Salsa did what he was told. That's why he was in the league although there were very few Salsa's on any of the other teams. Plenty of Salsa's had the talent that catapaulted them into the higher leagues where they didn't have to go through instruction. Baseball wisdom said that if they didn't have it, they could never get it. Salsa's old man had played ball so it had been determined that he could be developed. Blood seems to be the exception to baseball wisdom.
"You still hopin', Gloverman?"
"I'm hoping Salsa doesn't kill me."
The old man changed the sign and Salsa grounded out.
But this time it wasn't Salsa's lesson.
"You learn anything, Gloverman?"
"Wishes don't always come true." I learned I had better watch what I say.
Salsa took the incident fairly well considering what I'd seen earlier in the year. He had come into the dugout after reaching wildly for a third strike and bounced his bat off the chain link and let his helmet fly.
"What's up Salsa, you never strike out before?" the old man queried.
"That joker, he only throw junk, man."
The pitcher on the mound was different than the other pitchers we faced. Young pitchers throw fire. The hotter the flame the more chance of making it to the bigs. But this guy would go hot and cold and didn't rely only on scaring the bejeebers out of the batter.
"He give me nothin' to hit, man."
"Well just a minute, let me call time and talk to the ump. What would you like and I'll make him throw it to you? What did he get that last strike with?"
"I dun no."
"Think about it and tell me when you remember."
Salsa grumbled to himself, sat down, and took the field after our last batter without a word to anyone. After the half of the inning was over, he returned from the field and passed the coach and reported the pitch that got him swinging.
"Good pitch. What did he throw before that to get you to believe that he wasn't going to throw what he did?"
"I dun remember every pitch."
"I'm not asking for every pitch just the pitch before the last one."
He looked pensive for a moment and then told him what he thought was the pitch.
"Outside curve, I think."
"And before that to set you up for the outside curve?"
I don't know if it was all that thinking or what, but Salsa hit for a double next time up.
I sat on the bench half the season not liking it a bit but passing the time by answering his quizzes.
Then the second baseman sprained his ankle turning a double play.
"You ever play second base, Gloverman?"
"I think I could find it. The one in the middle isn't it?"
My debut was less than spectacular. I struck out the first two times up and was nervous enough in the field to bobble an easy ground ball. Before my third time at the plate the old man passed me at the bat rack where I was handling a bat with great vengeance.
The ump called from the plate, "Let's have a batter."
"Give us a minute while we get the equipment straight, will ya?"
Never mind that I wasn't a catcher with a body full of gear. It gave us an extra couple of minutes. For the last two innings our batters had been under strict orders to take the first pitch. Someone had noticed that the pitcher had trouble getting ahead and was apt to give our guys the base on balls. We were all being cautioned not to swing. I expected the same advice from the old man.
"Hit the first pitch, no matter where it is. Get a piece of it." I must have looked bewildered. "If anyone asks, you missed the sign. In baseball, it's better to be stupid than inept."
The pitch came in fat and happy and the bones bounced in my arms as the ball flew into left field. If I hadn't been stupid, I'd still be waiting on that first hit. It's a curious thing about some of the things we do, until we do them, they can't be done. And then they become commonplace. Sport's barriers are that way; four minute miles, record 100's, vaults, jumps, and first hits. It seems we can do very little without having done it already. I had to know I could hit the pitching. And once I did, the knowledge etched its path in my brain.
Late in the season I got hold of one and it cleared the left-center fence. Unfortunately, it wasn't official because rain started drooling down from the heavens in the top of the third and by the bottom of the same inning the game was called. I was last to pack and leave the dugout trying to savor my long ball and disappointed because the game wasn't on record.
The old man was standing in the corner of the dugout eyeing the rain as it came down. He watched the downpour sodden his lineup card posted on the fence. "Looks like the rain isn't impressed by our order." We looked on as the water smeared, then ran the ink of the card. He continued, "Kind of funny how all that preparation and all those long hits just wash away leaving us thinking how important our game is to require such elemental interference." I had no idea what he was blabbing on about so I said nothing in reply.
I had finished the year playing for the old man and reported the next season. Within two weeks of returning to camp, the old man had found a position for me on a team in a higher league. The local paper had carried a prominent feature on me and I brought it along as I sought out the coach to bid farewell. He was alone in the dugout, his cap askew atop his frail spindly frame. I thanked him for improving my game and after a few words I was ready to slip out of the dugout. "I don't know where this move will take me," it was difficult to hide my enthusiasm despite my genuine feelings of loss.
He wasn't looking directly at me so it seemed his words were coming round about, "It ain't always the where. Sometimes it's just how you stood in there to take your cuts."
I wasn't quite catching what he was telling me so I reacted based on where I thought his pitch should be coming across the plate. I figured he was telling me the bases were the same distance apart in every ballpark which would have been an appropriate, if uncharacteristically lightweight, observation from him. It was kind of funny, he was finally giving me batting tips and I didn't hear them correctly. Maybe because I wasn't trained to pick up a lesson that wasn't fixed to getting someone out or getting on board a base. Maybe the old man thought I'd worn the same uniform as he long enough for me to know how he'd fill out a lineup card. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the questions he had asked. For whatever reasons, it was sometime later, past the time when the lesson could be heeded, that I clearly heard his words.
My reply revealed how far off the mark I was, "Yeh and you hang in there too."
The old man died the year I made the big leaques.