CHAPTER SIX
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"We don't take no bullshit up here. You want to play ball for us, you got to give what's due. It ain't free. You're gonna pay to play up here."
Like a kid standing barefoot on hot pavement I nervously shifted my weight from hip to hip while peeking at the photos that were crowing from the manager's wall. He was tickling palms with millionares; millionares and billionares; millionares, billionares and people who really had money.
Broadnuckel kicked open the door ... without knocking. "I want my locker moved, man, I won't dress next to Fleetleg. I want my locker moved."
"Okay, Broadnuckel, I'll move your goddamn locker. Use it for today will ya and I'll get someone on it."
"Shit, man. That's the best you can do? Don't forget the lineup either. I don't want him behind me." He slammed the door on his way out.
Intimidation was pushing its way into my clothes wearing out the elbows and knees and making it difficult to breathe. Wink stood next to me, gnawing on his fingernails. He had a legitimate claim to his position since the team had lost their first baseman in an expansion draft. Nonetheless, he was in terrible nervous misery, chipping away at his nails.
"Well what the hell are you two doing besides standing there chewing on your paws with your heads up your ass? What are you waiting to hear? Welcome to the fucking bigs. There, you happy? Now get out of here."
Wink's big shoulders sagged into his chest as he slunk out of the room and I watched him with fond amusement as he wriggled through the other players with a slouch designed to be inconspicuous. Wink was like the snap of the eye that puts it in focus, that said there was more than what met the senses. In the midst of the scratching and clawing he made you do a double-take. "Wink, we're here. It don't get no better than this. This is the bigs and we're here." I felt like beating my chest and bellowing.
Wink looked ready to be pinched awake, "I hope I can hit the pitching good enough to make a contribution."
"Just make sure you look like you belong and the rest will fall in place."
"Listen Rap, if you see a hitch in my swing, you'll tell me, won't you?"
"Don't worry, I'll be there if you need me."
Working the details of buttoning and buckling with unwavering and undue attention were the other rookies who had been summoned. The rooks would gladly trade any and all of their experiences up to that point to make it in the bigs. What went before had little or no meaning. Prior records may tell a story but the story might be pointless. Some guys can get fat on weak pitching in lower leagues but up in the bigs all the arms are strong. Some never swing the bat any harder than necessary to get their base hit but they always get their base hit, no matter in what league or against what pitching. Some rooks only get here for a taste. Some were called up just so the veterans could get a good look at their young determined faces and quick gloves. Few, if any, would make it to get their picture on a baseball card. Most of them looked like they were a long way from where they had started and they were fully aware of the distance. But some had that look in their eye. The same look the vets carry with them. No matter how affable or genial they are off the field, no matter if their gait is rapid-fire like it was loaded with springs or slow and rubbery, there's a spot in their eyes that tells you they'd spread your rib cage and walk right over your heart to get to where they're going.
The game up here was played for keeps. The more you got, the more you kept. Cars, women, property, anything that money attracted was purchased. And weird stuff too. Weird cars, weird women, all forms of the weird and the exotic. The locker room was like a great boiler room filled with gauges that connected to nothing functional but gauged nonetheless. One of the most prominent dials was for statistics because the more stats that a player had compiled the more big time valuables it was assumed he had loaded in his basket. But like in a great grocery give-away, a player had only a limited time to fill his cart.
A vet peeking under my cap at my wrinkled old face wouldn't exactly feel the age spots forming on his glove hand. He'd walk away puzzled as to what he was gawking at, it sure wasn't the face of a rookie. It must not have even looked like the face of a ball player by what followed.
The head groundskeeper was the father of one of the players I knew from the minors. After practice I dressed in my civies and located him on the field.
"You better realize that this is a first rate organization. Everything is A number 1 from the catered spread after the game to the first class plane seats. No expense is spared in the interest of quality." He let the infield sift between his fingers. "This red clay has come across four states to take its place on my field."
I surveyed the dirt with intensity to show him that I recognized quality when I walked over it.
"You don't get it like this in the minors. And for good reason, we can't have the minor leagues living in comfort. There'd be no incentive to get up here." He took a good look at me, "And there'd be no incentive to stay once you made it. The way things work is for the best, for everyone."
"Yeh, all those cardboard lunches we ate don't mean much now that I'm up here. Of course I sure don't want to go back to eating them. Not when I can eat the good stuff up here."
"My boy just called me and said those box lunches are even worse this year."
"I've had some bad meals in the minors and seen some bad times," I continued, prepared to lay it on thick. "One of the teams played on a diamond that had a puddle directly behind second base. And it wasn't a small puddle, more like a reservoir. I never found out how deep it was but our second baseman wouldn't play without a lifeguard seated along the foul line."
His expression didn't change so I had no indication how I was effecting him but rather than dig an even deeper hole I let him take the conversation where he wanted, "There's no water hazard in our infield but I took most everything else this ground gave me. I was put on earth with the ability to adapt the environment and I change it to suit our needs. I can make the pitcher look like he's firing down from a castle wall or if we've got a team built for speed, I can make the turf slippery fast. Of course if you're gonna be at short, I'll have to start making arrangements to bring in the sand trucks." Balancing on one foot, he regarded the blades of grass with his toe, "The stuff that used to grow around here had to be pushed out you know. Every year I try a different hybrid." He sighed over the grass like it was his wayward child. The tough stuff ain't got enough color. I find the right color and it dies." He flapped his arm at a pigeon picking at his grass. "Get out of here you damn bird. You should have seen it here the first year we built this stadium. We were covered in bird shit. The land use to be some kind of migrating bird habitat. They flocked around here that first year. They must have been as surprised to see us as we were to see them. But don't worry, you won't find any around anymore. Their long gone. Just these damn pigeons," he kicked his foot to try to startle the unperturbed bird 20 yards away, "I said get the hell away. God, I'm gonna get a dome and we'll see how you like it."
Another voice exploded the air and kicked us in the seat of the pants. "We're cleaning up our goddamn stinking image, do you bastards understand? I want those uniforms clean and this place looking sharp." The voice was accustomed to giving orders. "You. Put on a cap and get with the program." I realized I was the "you" without the cap. One of the crew dug out a hat and tossed it to me. They were obviously anticipating sharing a joke at the boss's expense. I wasn't about to give away the punch line so I grabbed a rake and began to move the dirt around. The voice that had boomed out at us deferred little to the proximity of the man he brought with him and no more to us in the field than I would have to the rake I pushed. So I didn't have to raise my ear to listen in. His tone turned fatherly. Not fatherly between father and son, more like between father and someone else's son.
"We're under a lot of pressure and although I'd like to renew our contract, I just don't see how I can."
"Don't tell me another liquor distributor has come in and lowballed me."
"No. My problem is 'downtown'. We've got a couple of councilmen who are getting mileage out of the little difficulties we experienced last year."
The groundsman was in my ear, "You seen his private box yet."
I shook no.
"It's there above the third baseline." I looked up at what I took to be a plush suite although no signs of opulence were visible from the outside.
The man from the liquor interest asked, "So, what do they want? A little feed to stop their squeal?"
"These guys aren't big hogs, their little piglets. And that makes them too unsophisticated to realize what they need to get into a serious political race. Their withholding our license and without a license this stadium's going to be a mighty thirsty place." He let the situation sop up a pause that was designed to wet down the thoughts of the liquor man. "I've been told by more reasonable voices, that if I could come up with a bond that would insure against a repeat of the scuffle we had last year with the city's finest and if we made sure no one under age was served, then most of the objections in the way of our license could be quieted."
"Then let's come up with the bond and get them off our back."
The voice added a layer of bemoanment. "The amount is a little more than either of us or even both of us together want to put up." A little ray of hope was allowed to part the gloom, "It's the kind of money only a large corporation like your employers has access to."
"Don't you make a nice piece of change off the concession?"
"Can't deny it, but it's not my primary product and if it disappears, then it disappears. Look, the absence of your product in my park could set a damaging precedent for the other parks around the country. I would think your company's interest would not be served by letting this happen." The speaker knew that it was the interests not mentioned that were most persuading.
The company man raised his lowered head, "Alright,
I'll make the pitch and I'll be convincing." He let out a long sigh. "Sometimes I wonder who I'm really working for."
"Who signs your checks?"
"Yeh, and pays for the company car. And the company vacation house. And the company scholarship for the kid. And the company bonuses that pay for practically everything else. You're right, I doubt if any other company could afford me."
I could see the twinkle clear across the diamond, "My boy," he guffawed and it effectively disquised what he was telling the liquor man, "you couldn't afford another company."
They both left the field as if they had a hold of the earth by the short hairs. Before they disappeared, the older man cast his eyes back towards the grounds. I caught the full force of his glance and I did not want to duel with what he knew or with what he could do.
The wound where the look had penetrated had not healed even after several baseball-filled practice sessions so when the manager called me into his office I was connecting the summons with the stare. Digs was regarding a folio on his desk and he started in talking without an upward look and I wasn't sure he was even aimed at me, "A good manager does two things well, he knows how to realistically appraise talent, and he knows how to give orders. I'm a good manager and I'm going to make you our shortstop. Not just a shortstop," he looked up squarely at me, "but a star." He had a big smile on his face. "By the time I'm through, the name 'Gloverman' is going to be plastered all over every baseball tabloid on the rack." I wasn't infected by his enthusiasm. No matter what he wanted to think, I knew my baseball skill had jelled a long while back. I could certainly take a touch here or there, but if it became extended contact, I'd be dead of old age. "You're wondering why I tapped you. There's guys with more talent, look better, and are a hell of a lot younger, but kid, none of that really matters, it helps, but it don't really matter. You got something none of them got. You got a name. A pure baseball name and I'm gonna take that name into the stands and into the papers. All you got to do is exactly what I tell you. And the first thing I'm telling you is to cut the levity. This is serious shit going on up here. It's not a game to be taken lightly. There's a lot at stake here for me and for you so I want you looking like each step you take onto the field is the start of the World Series. Got it."
I nodded.
"Okay star, your light's beginning to shine."
I took the practice field stunned by the impact of the coach's proposal. He was telling me I could be a star. And he was the one who should know. This was the year he was going into the Hall. Everyone knew Digs had played on some good teams because he'd often tell us about the good old days, about how hard they'd played and with what style and power. He made us regret we hadn't at least witnessed first hand his era and in particular his game. I guess none of us were too surprised then that he was going to be a Famer.
That was why I did not heed my usual caution. Like the rest of the team I usually gave him plenty of room on the basepaths but I unthinkingly grabbed Canchardt's glove to bring it to him.
"Nobody touches my glove."
"It was next to me."
"Don't ever touch something that doesn't belong to you, understand?"
I shrugged. Canchardt was a great ball player, one of the best anyone had ever seen. He had come out of a little spot in hell where the burn marks scarred much deeper than the surface growl he gave us. He played with a ferocious hard sliding anger as if someone was trying to take away his front teeth. As I watched him from the bench, I could almost hear him hiss as he smacked the ball, "Take that you bastard."
"Why were you messin' where you don't belong?"
He was menacing me. I stood there dumb unable to respond as he continued to press me.
"C'mon Rap, I need to warm up." Wink's command was what I needed to terminate the otherwise pleasant encounter.
"I don't see why he has to be that way," I whined.
Pinball overheard, "It works for him. If you're Attila the Hun in the middle of a pillage and plunder, you don't suddenly slap your forehead and say, 'Hey, this management style just doesn't fit well on me. Let's try Dale Carnegie.'"
"It's hard not to feel sorry for him. One of the best in the league and not even able to appreciate it." I looked hard at Wink and he continued as we headed for the opposite sideline. "A guy who carries the team on his bat and he's so scared he doesn't even know we're his teammates."
I looked at the familiar worry lines on Wink's face. I concluded I had little notion of Canchardt, and my grasp on who I thought I knew was none too secure either.
We headed out to the other fielders. They were lazily lobbing the ball into the bat and lazily lobbing insults at each other.
"Hawk, with those crooked elbows and skinny knobby knees if you wore pink, you'd look just like a black pink flamingo."
The other players snickered loudly and carefully
eyed the bird-like limbs.
"Yeh, well with that pointy chin of yours you look like a fucking anteater or something." Hawk got to his knees to skim the ground with his chin.
Sliderly turned to Moshun. "What are you laughing at? The way you run, it's like you had stickers in your balls," and he ran around spray legged with his hands alternating between being raised above his head and grabbing at his crotch.
The coach came from around home plate, his face red. "Are you warming up or jerking off, Hawk?"
Hawk was quick on his knees. "Just stretching, Skip." He stretched his right leg out in front of him and brought his head down. "Ah, nothing like a good stretch."
Meanwhile, Sliderly had frozen with his hands clasped over his balls. "What the hell is wrong with you? Geez, if you've got jock itch, get something for it, there's people in the stands."
Sliderly unclasped his hands as the coach muttered to himself and turned to walk away.
Moshun was still foaming with laughter, "Geez Sliderly, you got jock itch, go get one of the people in the stands for it."
"Ha, ha." Sliderly's disposition was upset. "You know how Digs hates fooling around. He wants everything to be business-like and you had to start screwing around."
The coach had heard the laughter behind him and it was enough to set him off again. He furiously retraced his steps and when I looked beneath his cap I could see that his eyes were flaming wide. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear. You're not paid to come out here and do as you damn well please. You're paid to do a job. And none of you are worth the goddamn money we're paying you. I don't see Canchardt playing in any of your foolish games. Nor is the Enforcer anywhere near you three. And why? I'll tell you why. Because they're the kind of ball players that teams who are going to win pray for. But you're type are precisely the kind that no team needs. Now I've had enough of your jacking off. Straighten up and start earning your salary and straighten up now or I'll find ball players who understand what it means to work."
The three were transformed before my eyes. Hawk tucked in his elbows and knees and stood rigid. Sliderly was off the ground and his face showed no sign of humor. Moshun never took his eyes off the ball and he seemed seiged by an unshakable insecurity. The three stood without a trace of the characters they had been.
Adding a couple of extra horses to the play would have been a natural course but I had reigned it all in. I never even broke a smile for encouragement. I should have felt redeemed when the coach went into his tirade but I felt more like a semi-guilty sibling watching his playmate punished.
Pinball passed shaking his head in mock disapproval and went on to catch up with the coach about some matter or other. I never heard Pinball refer to the coach by his nickname, always preferring 'Coach' or 'Skip' which was strange since he was reported to have given him the nomenclature. Some years previously when the coach had arrived to take the job, he was without a nickname. Since most of the other managers around the league had pet names, some that were even fit to print in the newspapers, the players on the team thought it proper that the coach be given a handle. A number of the players were pondering the problem from inside the dugout and watching the coach as he stood on the top step leading to the field. It was a persistent nervous habit but not one anyone would take a notice of unless it was pointed to. The coach was continuously scratching all manner of places on his body.
Pinball commented, "Can't figure what we should call this guy who likes to dig so much."
"Neither can I," the voices were in despair.
"Yeh, what should we call ole Digs," Pinball asked.
"I have no idea," came the response.
Pinball again said, "Digs sure does present a problem in naming."
"Hey, that's it," one of them offered, "Digs."
"Yeh Digs," and they were all in agreement.
"How'd you ever come up with that?" Pinball asked.
When the newspaper reports started hitting the racks, they carried the names of the most promising rookies in spring training. Wink's name was included but I headed the list apart from the others in a string of sentences elaborating upon my credentials.
Pinball's name was there too which was kind of strange since he'd been with the team for a series of years. Apparently the writer hadn't gotten the message. It may not have entirely been the writer's fault. Unless he looked in the bullpen or carefully read his program he'd never take notice of Pinball. As a warm-up catcher Pinball spent little or no time in an actual game. He said if he really wanted to play, he could. "It's no big deal to strike a ball with a bat. I've seen lots of guys do it."
I was never certain how Pinball got his name. He was undoubtedly the best pinball hustler in the country. Rumor had it he made more money off hustling then he did off baseball. At the least, his bar tab never cut into his pay check. But it was what he used to say that followed on his heels. "We're all just pinballs, you know. We bounce around trying to score points. Bouncing off each other and into things accumulating as much as we can. Hoping to get our name on some kind of high score list."
Out of that rookie inventory only Wink and I made the team. Of course Pinball was there, still in the bullpen. And there were others that I watched in awe. Next to mine was the locker of the team's most valuable player. A guy who had come up a tough road and along the way had earned the name, the Enforcer.
"Anyone happen to see who's got hisself a new shampoo contract."
"Don't tell us the ol' Endorser picked up another one."
"I sure did." He palmed a bottle of something. "They tell me I've got to use this on my hair. Like I always say they can tell me what to wear, what to eat, what to put under my arms and slap on my face, and what to put on my hair but they can't tell me what to think."
"They don't have to. By the time you get through remembering to do all that rigamorole and get done worrying about your contract, you ain't got time for thinking."
The Enforcer was the team's Most Valuable Player. He wasn't the best fielder. His numbers at the plate weren't the hottest. He wasn't the best batter to have at the plate with the game on the line. But he made the most money and the more money he made the more valuable he became. The fans demanded his presence in a game. They seemed to feel cheated if he wasn't in the line-up. It was as if they weren't getting their money's worth unless they were watching where their money was going. Acoording to Pinball, the only way to watch the money trail was to follow the Endorser into the urinals because that's what he was doing with it.
Maybe Pinball was right but I liked having my locker next to his. He helped refine my taste for the niceties of being a pro. He demanded the best and accepted nothing less. When the clubhouse carpet wasn't the kind of quality that he knew was available, he protested until it was upgraded. And if the food that was laid out for us wasn't prepared with a substantial amount of care, he not only refused to eat it but made sure everyone knew why.
So I liked to follow him to the table especially since it was no use waiting for Wink.
"Wink, you sick or something? You ain't eating nothing. This spread's for us. It's part of being up here."
"My wife's got dinner waiting."
I'd tasted his wife's cooking and it was nothing to anticipate with baited palette so he wasn't fooling me. I knew he could find the appetite for the goodies in front of him and I told him so.
"She spends her time fixing it so I don't want to disappoint her. Besides I've been eating her cooking for so long, I'm use to it and I don't know how I'd adjust to anything different. What do you think Connie thinks when you come home and you're not hungry?"
"Oh, I have more when I get home. You can't have too much."
The night before opening day I lay awake in my bed trying to recall the years I'd spent playing baseball so I could better savor my perch. I was on an opening day roster of a major league team. I didn't really feel any different, didn't even play baseball better, more learned, but not really better. I tried to remember the teammates that I'd left behind, the ones still playing, the ones long since out of the game. Peculiar as it was, I couldn't focus on any except a pair of players I had thought I'd forgotten.
They were two big old farm boys both built like draft animals and not considered to be too much brighter. They were only around for a handful of games but they had each knocked the ball out of the park far enough to make the long ball hitters drop their jaws. They had a disarming innocence about them and even the veterans who referred to wide-eyed kids wanting autographs as "gimmee brats" were looking on the two farm boys with easy eyes.
One spring day when the sky looked so clear blue that a ball hit into it would continue to travel forever and the birds seemed to light on the peaks of the park with programs in their claws and caps over their eyes, we reported to the game to find that one of the big mooses hadn't made roll call. When questioned, Wheats didn't say too much other than that his brother was needed at home. The subsequent game was not one of Wheats's best, the ball was terrified of his bat.
That night I was about ready to hit the sack when my door was struck by a light knocking. My roommate was down the hall and I figured he'd forgotten his key but when I stumbled to the door, stubbing my toe against a chair leg, Wheats was standing there with an old brown suitcase held together by a leather belt.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Rap, but I thought you might help me." He stood there in the hall and I stood on one foot looking at him standing in the hall. I waited for him to clue me in. When the revelations weren't forthcoming I dragged him into the room. I sat him down to hear his story. It seemed the rows on one side of the farm were ready for harvest while the rows on the other side were ready for seed. Years of bending under the weight of grain sacks had left the muscles on their father's back leached like soil too often planted. It was decided that his brother should go back home while he continued to play. Wheats sat before me, his big hands clasped in obvious torment and his head heavy on his shoulders.
"I can't rightly let them do my work for me." His eyes stayed sunk in their sockets, averted from me.
I wasn't sure what he wanted. "Can't the two of them take care of things until the season ends?"
He painfully extracted the words, "I'm playing baseball. I should be doing my share. I should be home tending the fields."
We sat in the dry furrow of his anguish.
"You're the type of hitter big league teams get down on their knees and get out there wallets for and while you wait you'll have enough to eat up here and a roof over your head so you won't be a burden on your family."
"It's not just the money. What if I make it to play big time ball and my brother is back on the farm working? How could I look at him knowing that he raised the pig I slaughtered?"
I said nothing.
"I need to borrow the bus fare. Could you spare it?" he looked up and I knew it was not easy to ask. When he left he thrust out his big hand and it engulfed mine, "I've had fun here. Thanks Rap. Maybe I'll get to see you play sometime."
I watched him lumber down the hall.
As his memory was recalled, I told myself that it was important to play well in the bigs out of respect for their's and other's talent. To play well so that they could measure themselves with my performance. So that those who knew they were of equal or better stature could see me hit a sharp single or start a double play and say that they too were capable of handling themselves in the major leagues and so that those who were not quite up to my level could watch the play and be dignified that they had lost out to a player a caliber above them. At least that's what I told myself.
The first pitch thrown on opening day was a screwball. We lined up for the Star Spangled Banner along the foul line. The owner had his neice or daughter or a relative of some sort at the microphone prepared to give us the number. Sometimes the singer is put in centerfield, sometimes near home. On opening day the singer was put on the baseline next to the home team which placed her next to the last guy on our team. That happened to be our pitching coach. He was an old guy about a hundred years old or so who had a voice that came out of his throat as if it was going through a kazoo. Unlike many gravelly voiced men, his voice rode the air with volume. It was said that even if he was in the bullpen talking to himself, he could be heard at home plate. He had the worst singing voice ever heard. He couldn't carry a tune if it was put in a briefcase and handcuffed to his wrist.
The singer started in on the first verse and after a line or two the old coach began to pick up the words. He drove the tune off the highway towards where the bridge was out and sitting in the passenger seat was the poor girl singing the song. He was in close enough proximity to the microphone to have his voice go out into the stadium in duet with the girl's. The result was a rendition of the Star Spangled Banner that was not to be duplicated, not that anyone would want to try. So intense was the experience that the crowd was left in stunned silence only to slowly awaken from their stupor after the umpire yelled, "Play ball". The girl hustled off the field, her eyes filling with tears.
Next to me I heard said, "The cheap bastard owner. Serves him right. You get what you pay for. Should have hired a pro."
Our man on the mound, Joyles, remained expressionless throughout the game and into the victory. There wasn't a team in the league that wouldn't have traded half their rotation to have him on their staff. I'd heard him say pitching was how he made his living, nothing more and nothing less and if he could do something else as well or as lucratively, he'd be doing it. He knew what each pitch, each inning, each game, and each season was worth both to him and to management and he pitched and bargained accordingly. Never during a game did I detect a wasted twitch or and an unneeded pace.
Wink's debut was auspicious, collecting two hits in three at bats. I went one for three. My hit began the rally that eventually won the game and I wish I could have appreciated it but I was locked in a petrified catatonic state of game jitters, not playing so much as being positioned by hundreds of thousands of plays that went before.
Reporters buzzed around us like hummimg birds. If anyone had asked, I probably could have summoned enough composure to pronounce my name correctly but I would not have wagered anything of value on it. I watched the coach set up for a post-game interview outside the dugout. The sportscaster had placed himself over a sprinkler and the coach directly in front of him. Just as the camera switched on, up came the water. The sprinkler popped up sending spray up the man's pant leg and the coach bounding away and thus terminating the interview.
The next day we modelled our clean uniform stripes and insignias and took turns in front of the mirror tilting our heads beneath our caps. The photographer did his best to undue the natural damage that had happened at birth by placing us in as good a light as he could find for our group shot. Then we broke for individual pictures. When I heard "baseball card picture" climb through the azure sky, I began to suck air. Some guys know they've arrived when they take their place in their first game, others when they get their first hit, some their first home run. For me I was a major league baseball player when I could see my mug staring back at me from the face of a baseball card.
Wink's picture went fast. The shutter snapped and that was that. But mine was strung up over an ant hill. I tried pose after pose and nothing looked like anything anybody had in mind when they thought of baseball.
"Why don't I bounce you a ball, Rap?"
"I'll try anything," said the photographer.
That was the answer. With Wink on the other end of the play, the rhythym returned and the picture had substance. So when I later looked at the shot of me, I could see Wink with his glove on, his feet poised, standing across from my frozen pose.
Our first road trip was an event to anticipate. I figured I'd finally get to mingle with the veterans. On the road, teams are usually forced to hang out together to kill the time between games. I was looking forward to finding out who were the card players, the pranksters, and the carousers.
Not till we boarded were we handed our tickets. My bags had been checked for me and as we walked down the runway I told Wink, "This is style, uh Wink? This is the way to travel."
He was too busy fumbling with his ticket trying to find his seat assignment to reply.
The stewardess pointed to my seat and I stepped in next to one of the old veterans. He'd been around a number of years so I was perking up my ears at the prospect of some of his stories. But when I looked over, I saw him acknowledge my presence, then adjust his headphones. Conversation was not in the offing.
"We're gonna sweep 'em." They weren't my words but I remembered them. Our right fielder had made the prediction to a newsman as he stepped off the plane. By game time that evening if the words weren't being slobbered out of the mouth, then they were at least on the mind of every ticket holder in the stadium. I could hear the bleachers raining down their verbal abuse on right field.
"Where's your broom and dustpan?"
"Forget about a broom, you're so clogged full of it you need to be roto-rootered."
He took his place in the batter's box to shouts of "Sweep! Sweep!"
We lost that first game which brought out the rabid fans for game two.
By the third game, "Sweeps", as he began to be known, had to endure two innings of bombardment by toothbrushes and other small brooms and a career-long label as a player with a hot head who could not control his tonque. I heard Pinball tell him, "It could have been worse. You could have said we're going to cut them to pieces."
I wasn't going to make his mistake. And Digs wasn't going to let me. I locked the patter into my tongue.
"We're taking it one day at a time."
"It was a real team effort. You play hard and good things are gonna come."
"Give our guys credit, they stuck in their all the way when things weren't going our way."
And of course, "You know, I, you know, look forward to the, you know, competition, you know."
When I could roll these phrases out of my mouth like a magician with a dozen eggs spontaneously popping one after another from his lips, the coach held interview court with me as his guest.
"Rap here, will be one of the keys to our success this year. You look at any contender and they all have the same thing in common, a strong backbone. Without the strong defense up the middle, you're just another team in the center of the pack." Digs threw out his best pitch but the newsmen were waiting on a fat one.
"Coach, we understand that you felt it was necessary to bench one of your starters."
"That's right. You know my policy. If they can't learn to give me 100%, then I'm not going to put their name on the lineup card, no matter who they are."
"You could have used him tonight in the sixth. How long can a high priced piece of merchandise be kept off the shelf?"
"That's my policy, that's all I've got to say about it. I'd rather talk about Gloverman, one of the positive forces on the team."
After the interview I saw the skipper on the phone, but not talking. His lips were pursed and his cold sanquine face frowned out at the mouthpiece. There may have been agreement going out to the other side of the line, but it was clearly the by-product of a fermentation process.
The next day the aberrant player was back in the game. He evidently was a faster learner than any of us had given him credit for.
The print media mentioned that the player was back in the game but it was not their lead story. Wink brought me the morning paper before our afternoon game. "Glove Man Saves Another, Base Rap Singles Home Winner." It was just like Wink to bring in my clippings. He was always at the top of the dugout beaming at the guy crossing the plate.
"I'll meet you out on the field, Rap."
I finished buttoning up and caught a picture of myself in the mirror as I headed out onto the field. I liked the way I looked.
I looked for Wink as I sunk my cleats into the field and spotted him in conference with the manager. I waited, soaking in the afternoon. "What was that all about?"
"He wants to move me from the number three slot to the number five slot in the lineup."
"No, no, don't let them do it. Third is perfect for you." I was adamant jumping up and down trying to tell him. "You're a rookie and they have to pitch to you because of who's behind you. Why do you think you're getting so much to hit? Wait till you learn the strike zone up here, then they can experiment. Why now? You've been doing great."
"It wasn't my idea. The coach thought it would be better for the team."
"Better for the team. You mean better for Broadnuckel. He's pissed you're showing him up."
He shrugged, "If it makes things better for the team, then it's alright by me."
"C'mon Wink, it's not better for you or the team, it's better for Broadnuckel. Look, you want to get back in the number three slot, I'll tell you how. You go 0 for 3 today and pray so does Broadnuckel. Hope he doesn't come up with anyone in scoring position or if he does, he fans."
He didn't like that suggestion. He looked like a person with a sour stomach. "Rap, how can I go to the skipper and tell him I only bat third in the lineup." His complexion brightened at the prospect. "Great scouting report: 'Likes a high fastball. Has trouble with overhand curve. Oh, and he can only bat in the number three slot.'" He began to chuckle to himself. For some reason I felt as though he was making fun of me.
"You just don't get it. It's a different game up here. You have to be able to change to it. Give up a little something to get more. Believe me, it's more than a fair trade." He did not look convinced. "If they're gonna make you the fall guy for Broadnuckel's bad start at least get something out of it. Make them pay you more or something."
He was still in good spirits but he shook his head. "I know you don't mean that, Rap. You feel just the same as I do. I'd pay to play this game."
Obviously, I was not getting through to him.
After the game I continued to harp on him but he shirked it off. Broadnuckel had hit and Wink had a good shot that had carried a long way before it was caught and we'd won so he wasn't being very receptive.
"This is just what I mean. Don't be picking up your own towel. We're in the big leagues now. The team has people to do your bidding. You've got to begin to appreciate the order of things."
Wink looked out of the corner of his eye at me as if he thought I was playing a joke and the punch line was about to fall in on him, "I don't see how it hurts me to pick it up and take it to the bin."
"That's not the point. A big league team is like a pitcher in a jam. What do you go with when you're trying to throw out of a tight spot? You go with your best stuff. Well we're their best stuff. We're here because we've got something of value. Look around you, every player's glove makes a pocket like no other. Speed, power, sheer strength, maybe it's just perservance. You pretend that you just happen to be in the right place at the right time and that's why you're playing big time. But you knew enough to be at the right place at the right time." Wink had a way of listening that could be kind of disconcerting. At the very apex of your didactic argument, the very point you had worked up to, had driven home, he'd slowly turn his head and look down with only one eyebrow cocked, and whether he agreed or not, he always looked like he was saying, "What the ...?" Of course that had the effect of rewinding my spring.
"And that's why the squeeze is on the minor leaguer. You gotta keep that tourniquet tight, Even though it chokes the limb. Even though the limb is in danger of being lost. The patient gets the juice. You don't take the chance of losing the life to save the limb. Just like that pitcher in the jam. You may lose the batter, put him on base for a double play, but you're not going to lose the game."
Wink didn't challenge, he just said, "Yeh."
Of all the reputations I could have concocted for Wink, the one he got labelled with was nowhere near. It was in a game that we were winning. Wink was lumbering home with another run. The ball probably should have gone in to the infield but for whatever reason the throw came home. A series of happenstances followed. The first was Wink's bulk heavily plodding down the line adding to a powerful throw by the fielder which made the play much closer than it should have been. Next was the catcher's positioning. Out front where he belonged but up the baseline a little further than he would have liked. Then the throw came, a one-hop that drove the catcher back into the basepath. For some reason, whether oversight or under- judgement, Wink was never told to slide. Indeed, the batter had his arms stretching upward with the bat in his hands. At any rate Wink came in standing up and bowled the poor catcher over trying to find the plate. The catcher went out cold. And Wink was branded as a bully by some observers.
Then two weeks later when a popular second baseman injured his knee trying to turn a double play as Wink hit the bag, the boos began to hurl out of the stands and the mark was tatooed across his jersey. It unfortunately didn't help that the second baseman publicly told anyone who asked that he saw nothing malevelont in Wink's slide. "I'd have done the same damn thing if the situation was reversed." Nor did anyone take into consideration that the second baseman had wrenched Wink's ankle landing on top of him.
Our manager did nothing to soften Wink's image. Since intimidation is a highly prized and often rare card, the manager held onto it.
The outcome of a play may be anyone's guess and no one's intention. So the view of the circumstances leading up to the play depends on where one is sitting. The stretch of a single to a double may be seen as foolhardy, grandstanding, or an act of admirable hustle. The choice of hitting the dirt may be looked upon as good base running or malicious mischief. With his head down pointing his eyes at his feet, some, no doubt, regarded Wink as the classic inward brooding bully but I watched him step gingerly on his swollen and taped ankle and winced.
"I'm telling you, stay off it and put yourself on the disabled list," I shook the phone receiver for emphasis as I spoke into it.
His words came back over the line slower and less frantic than mine, "I don't know. If I'm not doing well, the team will know and put me where I belong."
"If it doesn't heal, you'll never do well."
"We'll see. Maybe they won't need me."
I knew he'd play. At certain times during a year a team's roster is shredded by injuries and illnesses. Even though it was early in the year, it was one of those times for us. So Wink played on his bad foot because he could bear his injury. His foot remained sore and his numbers at the plate began to slip.
I watched him limp through our games. It seemed each time his foot had almost healed, he sprained it again. The front office was certainly getting their money's worth out of his body. Sometimes I thought he was playing because he was afraid someone was going to replace him. Othertimes, because he knew no one on the team could replace him. I found it increasingly difficult to watch him strain through each step.
More than once I went deep towards second or third, came up with the ball and wanted to let it fly in the general direction of first but instead waited for my feet to plant to take aim. Official scorers seldom rule hard hit balls with a fast runner errors on the fielders.
The team was flat in the next several games. We didn't produce any runs and only a few scattered hits. We needed something to pump us up. The coach called an optional practice for the afternoon following the game. This meant I wasn't being paid extra to show up, to take cuts in the cage, shag flies, or endure fungo practice. But I had arranged a public appearance which guaranteed me a new TV. I didn't find it difficult to take advantage of the definition of optional.
"Rap, you going to be at practice tomorrow?" Wink caught me after the announcement about the practice.
"I wasn't planning on it."
"I need someone to help me work on making the stretch without using my foot."
"I'm sorry, Wink. I was planning on a paid appearance." It didn't occur to me to beg off the TV shot. "Maybe before the game we could work on your footwork."
He good naturedly wished me well with my celebrity shot.
I got another TV to add to my collection. All I had to do was stand next to a women golfer and remember the line, "I don't let down my teammates." And watch a pitch made for some revolutionary undergarment material. And I got my TV for free.
The optional practice didn't inflate our numbers. We were not just a team with the air let out of it, we were a team riddled with holes. The rumors began to circulate in the clubhouse that new patch material was on its way. But if new talent was coming in, we all knew, though no one conceded, that the used talent had to make room.
It was just like Wink to be dressed and on the field before I arrived, I thought, even though I was early for the day's game myself. Since he wasn't in sight, I knew he was out early taking extra practice. I reached for the strings on my shoes. Digs was calling for attention before I had finished the lacing.
"Listen up, Gentlemen. I've got a few announcements to make. First off, we've had a few personnel changes. I want you all to welcome Hessian whose already on the field, he'll be our new first baseman."
I felt my chest go heavy and fill with dead space. I only faintly heard him say that the team had acquired the stopper they needed in the person of a new pitcher. The trade was made with an organization that was looking for an infielder. We didn't have one to give, but another team needed an outfielder and had a good utility man they could deal. Extra players were thrown in to offset any inequities. Wink was an offset, added not because a team needed a first baseman, he would end up in the minors, but because one of the teams had given up a young power hitter. We got another first baseman to fill his position.
"Alright, let's get 'em today. Gloverman, when
you've dressed, in my office."
Shuffling to the coach's office it ran through my head that he was going to tell me I was next and the prospect did not quicken my step and only cluttered my mind further with concern for my own position and worse, revulsion for the concern. The door was shut tight but I could see and hear through it the owner and I discreetly slipped back just within range of his bellicose voice.
"Make us more competitive? Hell, I don't give a goddamn about competition. Our job is to eliminate competition. I don't want to see a good game, I want to see a win. And let me tell you if we won every game from now till the end of the season by a hundred runs, you don't think the crowds wouldn't follow? You bet your ass they would. They'd pay a week's salary to get into a game. You give the people the best, no matter what it is and they'll beat a path to your door. Contrary to what you may have been led to believe, we're not selling baseball. We're selling victory. And I intend to make that sale."
I let the owner billow out of the room and waited what I considered a proper interval before rapping my knuckles against the door.
The coach looked haggard and what he spoke were the words of a weary man. After the frying by the owner I was surprised by their lack of bite. His tone brought to mind one of those priests in a late night movie telling a wayward boy that he's going to reform school for his own good. He wanted me on his side and after what I had just heard, I was inclined to step in his direction. "I'm sorry Rap, I know Wink was your friend. That's not the way I wanted it but it doesn't always matter what I want or what you want. It's just part of the game. Not the part I like to dwell on, but the way things go."
He wasn't being the ogre I wished he'd be. Then I could be the brave knight.
"You remember what's the first thing every kid learns about base running? You can't stand and watch the play, you got to take off towards the base. And you know why? Because if you begin to think about it, to watch the way the ball flies or the grass grows, you won't run at all. You won't make it to first, you won't head towards second, you won't find third, you won't head home, you won't score, and then you won't be prepared to step into the batter's box again. And you got to want to take your swings. You have to want that next base. I expect it from you. I haven't lied to you yet, have I kid? I said you'd be the shortstop and you are. I said you'd be a star and you're on your way. I'm not lying to you now when I tell you, it's worth it. Sure you've got to give some things up, but you'll get a whole lot more back, you'll see, just stay with me."
I nodded.
I was almost through the door when he added, "You'll see, it'll all work out. For all of us."
Pinball was passing by outside the door and finished the thought, "Yeh, it always works out, just not always the way we planned."
Passing by Wink's locker was like going by a full coffin. He was already among the dead as far as the team was concerned. His name would not be mentioned except in hushed cadences. It was deemed better that way. No team wants to be in midseason and looking back, second guessing. The focus is ahead towards the goal up front and being too close to a packed bag can only serve as a grim reminder.
"He's not the first guy ever sent down. Some guys sink, some guys float, some guys bob up and down, and some guys manage to ride the current somewhere between the two," said Pinball.
Maybe those were the sentiments of most of the team but I felt unprepared for Wink's departure. A panic fluttered over me like the bus was still going and I'd missed my stop. The new first baseman lobbed the warm-ups through the infield. I took the ball with as little acknowledgement of his presence as I could get by with. I wasn't being unfriendly, I just didn't want to deal with him. I knew of him anyway. He wasn't going to hurt a team. He could cover the bag. He'd been around the league for several years and knew enough not to flinch under pressure.
The game passed.
I came home that evening feeling as though I'd been used for the game ball.
"Wink's been calling."
"How'd he sound?"
"The same as always, worried."
I began to tell her the mechanics of the trade and found myself babbling as she sat silent. Her silence, neither critical nor accepting, spurred into me.
She didn't ask why Wink was so urgently needed that he wasn't allowed time to say goodby. But I tried to explain.
She didn't ask how it came to pass that a big powerful man like Wink must jump like a child caught in the act. But I tried to explain.
She didn't ask if Wink had carried the credit for victory as well as the burden for the defeat. But I tried to explain.
I was finally stopped from explaining by Wink's phone call.
"They're letting me rest a couple of weeks and then I'm back on the field. I hope I can contribute some run production. I'm looking forward to taking the field with these guys but I'm worried."
"God Wink, you don't have to worry about making the team. You've been in the bigs. You already outclass them."
"I'm worried I won't find that level of play again. I always depended on you across the diamond.
"When I'd see that ball coming out of your glove, Rap, it was like a bead through the heart of every shortstop who ever played the game coming right out at me."
I was quiet. I let myself think he was complimenting me and I took the basking glow with me to bed that night. But it was like pitching to myself and trying to slip a change-up by the plate. So sleep, when it finally did come, was not a welcome relief.
It was the night that the dream first surfaced. Stomping and cheering was coming from the bleachers. The game was close and the ball was skipping across the field. Something said it was the ninth inning. Maybe it was the public address announcer going off in my head or a glimpse at the scoreboard or just a feeling, but it was the ninth. I was at the plate and one of my guys was on second. Then I was running to first. Howling was coming from the stands and rumbling and the sound of boards breaking and metal knocking. People were up on the third baseline and it was a terrible commotion. The runner was advancing trying to beat the play home and I was coming around second. The ball was coming back from the catcher. The bleachers had collapsed. People were moaning and in hysterics. I slid into second safe. The pitcher delivered to the next batter. Ambulances and medical personnel were there. People were in bad shape being moved out of the way and lifeless shapes stacked like cords of wood. And I took my lead off second. And the batter stroked the ball and I took off running. I knew something was wrong. Everyone knew something was wrong. But I kept running. And the ball stayed in play.
I watched the sun come up over the lines on the horizon. In the damp haze of the morning nothing was clear. I woke not rested, my face cold and my lungs afraid to take in air or I'd see it all again.
I was haunted the next game by the dream, by Wink's absence, by the manager's encouragement, "Son, you're here. You're a big leaguer." I stood on the dirt and it all rushed out at me. Yeh, I was a big leaguer and this was the big leagues.
I'd passed the groundsman on the way to the field. After a few remarks about my speed and how he'd slowed the field down he told me he was looking at that plastic grass as an alternative to his hybrids.
Above us was the owner sealed off in his air-conditioned glass booth, removed from the vulgarities of the crowd, no doubt watching the game on a TV screen and enjoying all manner of cuisine far removed from ballpark franks.
Digs was posed on the dugout steps on the phone with the owner. I don't see how he could not have felt the poking behind his back or seen the smirking faces passing by him. I'd heard a player from another team call out to one of our guys after he'd struck out, "More at-bats like that and you'll be in the Hall of Fame." The word around the league was that our manager didn't have the credentials, that his abilities and performance had grown in proportion to the time he was away from the game. The standing joke among the sportswriters was that they were hanging the Cooperstown plaque with his name on it out in the back where it could ripen in the sun and when it was properly aged they'd bring it in and hang it with the rest.
Not that the fans cared. They were too busy sucking up the brews. The owner had put the beer in a different cup and cut its volume by a third. Then he ran a continual promotion where the fans could buy one and get the second cup for half price. They couldn't pour fast enough.
I saw the Endorser on the phone also, probably talking to his agent. His agent was counseling him to stay out of the game. He said that according to the law of supply and demand, the Endorser's value would skyrocket if he sat on the bench.
Already staking out his place on the pine was Pinball. He wasn't even wearing his playing shirt beneath his windbreaker so certain was he that he wasn't getting in the game. The shade of the overhang on the dugout engulfed him and made him seem small and ghostly like he was fading into the umbra.
Canchardt was standing in the field. The ball boys wouldn't even warm him up he was so hostile to them.
On the mound was Joyles counting each pitch and wishing the season was over and his job done.
And I stood at short.
It was on the last play of the game. We were tied and in the field. Their winning run had advanced to third but there were two outs. I took a shot towards second, going deep to pick it up and then pointed myself towards first looking for Wink. He wasn't there. Instead, I caught sight of our new first baseman. He stood there in his unconcerned manner without his glove raised. I couldn't see his face, just the shadow from his cap. I hesitated too long and didn't make the play. I suppose it looked as though I'd lost the ball in the webbing of my glove. A run scored on my error. We lost by that run.
I came home from the game and in the mail was the contract from the baseball card company. It proclaimed that I had arrived.