Senior Year

by Dan Shaughnessy

  The California high schoolers looked good but didn't strike me as far superior to the ballplayers I'd been watching in Massachusetts. They actually looked a little tired. While Newton North was still a week from its season opener, Santa Monica was playing its twenty-fourth game. The Viking players weren't running to their positions at the start of innings—something Sam always did after a coach at one of his baseball camps told him it would make him easier to notice.

  Walking back to my hotel in midgame, I struck up a conversation with an elderly man who was wearing an American Legion windbreaker. He was sitting in a big old sedan, parked a respectful three hundred feet from home plate, and he told me he was the grandfather of Santa Monica's cleanup hitter. I'd just seen his grandson whiff on three pitches. He said the boy was a senior and had offers to play baseball at a number of California colleges. For me, this somewhat debunked the alleged mastery of Californian high school baseball players. In the immortal words of Harvard's head coach, I hadn't seen anything special. Then again, we all know a couple of at-bats don't tell you much of anything about any ballplayer.

  While in California, I had dinner with Ron Shelton, the former Baltimore Oriole minor leaguer who wrote Bull Durham, the best baseball movie ever made (the New York Times said it was "about success in failure"). Ron said he was working on a new baseball flick about a Yankee pitcher who has to go to the Mexican League to rediscover his mojo. We talked about baseball traditions and the sanctity of the streak. Shelton captured this beautifully in his epic hardball film, reminding us that baseball is about rituals and respecting streaks. If you think wearing women's underwear will make you a better pitcher, it will make you a better pitcher. Like many hitters, Sam Shaughnessy refuses to wash his uniform while he's enjoying any kind of hitting streak. On an 0-4 day, he'll bring a not-so-dirty uniform to the pantry and stuff it into the washer himself, but when he gets a hit, no detergent can touch the fabric. It can get pretty grimy in humid midsummer, and more than once we've draped Sam's uniform jersey and pants over porch furniture to let fresh air pass through the lucky fibers.

  At the end of the month, I got an e-mail from Ilana Miller, a young woman who'd worked for the Red Sox in 2003 when she was a student at the University of Pennsylvania. Ivy-educated, Jewish, and a legitimate young baseball scout, she reminded me of a female Theo Epstein. In her message, she informed me that she'd taken a job as an administrative assistant in the scouting and player development department of the San Diego Padres (where Theo cut his teeth). In closing, she wrote, "I actually saw your son's name in lists of draft-eligible players, but it looks like he's committed to go to school."

  The Padres had him on a list. They knew he was going to college. Sam loved that one.

  April

  The cows always know.

  Growing up in rural Massachusetts, every small child learns that when you see cows lying down in the pasture, rain will follow. I like to think it's because the cows are smart and don't want to trudge through mud.

  There were a lot of cows grazing in the grassy fields of Groton and Dunstable in 1971. My backyard featured a mesmerizing view of Gibbet Hill, a grassy slope carved by glaciers and peppered with beautiful Black Angus. Outlined against a blue sky, dotted with livestock, the green hill was a soothing still life framed by the window of our TV room. Not into cow tipping, we steered clear of the Angus when we picnicked in the landing atop the fire tower at the peak of the hill. From that perch, you could see the Prudential Tower in Boston, forty miles to the southeast. The imposing Pru might as well have been the Eiffel Tower for all we cared. In those early years after we got our licenses, none of us dared drive in Boston. We'd dump the car in a parking lot off Route 128 and take the MBTA Riverside car into Fenway Park.

  Joanie McGovern, my high school prom date, was a farmer's daughter. Joanie's dad, George McGovern (always a punch line given that this was one year before the 1972 presidential election), had a large dairy farm in the middle of tiny Dunstable. Five of Mr. McGovern's seven children were girls, which makes you somewhat unlucky when you are in the farm business. Those farm girls were tough and hearty, though. Our high school softball team seemed to have a disproportionately high number of players from Dunstable and our primitive data held that the girls from the fields were stronger, harder workers, and therefore better ballplayers. None of them threw like girls, that's for sure.

  Joanie's house was seven miles from the middle of Groton, and at 8 A.M. on game days we'd wait for the Dunstable kids to get off the bus and we'd ask about the cows. Horizontal or vertical? Were we going to play baseball later in the day? Or was it going to rain?

  Just as I have never seen a taxi in Groton, I'm pretty sure it's been a while since we've had cows in Newton, so we rely on more scientific forecasting in this new century. The Doppler Gang was pretty sure it was going to rain on Friday, April 7, 2006, Newton North's opening day. This was frustrating for me since I'd angled to be home for just about all of Sam's scheduled games. Starting with the Super Bowl in Detroit and ending with the start of the Red Sox season in Texas, I was gone for forty out of sixty-seven nights. It was my plan. I'd covered the Super Bowl, spring training, the World Baseball Classic, and Red Sox Opening Day just so I could be on hand for the games that really mattered—games played by the Newton North Tigers at Howard Ferguson Field.

  There were several things I liked about the North squad in 2006. First of all, they had two sets of brothers, and in my experience watching high school sports, the more sets of brothers, the better the team. North had senior captain lefty hurler J. T. Ross and his kid brother Kyle, a sophomore who played three sports fearlessly and was bound for greatness at North. The Tigers also featured Ryan and Mike Walsh, strong, tough kids who could motivate one another as only brothers can. The Tigers squad boasted seven seniors—members of the athletic class who'd already delivered a Super Bowl and a State Champion basketball team. Even better, the roster included nine members of the North Little League where we spent so many weeknights and weekends manning the concession booth and hoping none of the parents would misbehave. One of the seniors on the 2006 North varsity was a kid who perhaps was not good enough to play varsity baseball but was given a uniform because his mom died when he was in high school, and a year later his best friend succumbed to a heart attack. Joe Siciliano knew that you could not cut that boy from the team.

  Finally, there was the presence of Ben, a Newton North student afflicted with Down syndrome. Ben was team manager. He took care of the bats and other equipment needs while providing moral support and reminding all of us that even when you go 0-4, you should count your blessings. I loved watching Ben interact with the varsity players. Lots of hugs and pats on the back. Occasionally, he would blurt out, "Come on, Sam, why are you striking out?" but there was always a gentle coach or teammate to remind Ben that only supportive chat is encouraged from folks on your own bench.

  North was scheduled to open with Wellesley. The good news for Newton was that Big Nate Freiman was no longer playing for Wellesley. Big Nate was a six foot six pitcher/catcher/slugger who was the best player in our state in his final two years of high school. Sam had worked out with him at the fall clinics at Harvard, and they faced one another in the 2005 season opener when Sam was a junior and Nate was being watched by about fifteen big league scouts. Big Nate threw a one-hitter that day, Sam went 0-3, and it was snowing at the end of the game. Typical season opener in New England. In the end, Big Nate wasn't drafted, but only because all the big league teams knew he was going to Duke.

  I was impressed with Nate's folks. They'd had big league scouts coming over to their house and Big Nate pretty much could have gone to any college he wanted, but they rarely mentioned anything about his accomplishments or the hoopla surrounding their talented boy. In the spring of 2006, I got an email from Nate's dad in which he asked about Sam and told me Nate had hurt his elbow and hadn't been able to pitch much for Duke. Len Freiman complimented the Duke coach and medical staff and mentioned that Nate had be
en able to "finally play against BC last weekend." That was the extent of his description of Nate's performance. I had to go online to learn that Nate was hitting .390 as a freshman in the ACC and had hit three home runs in three games against Boston College. Amazing. Maybe the kid was so good because the parents didn't make a big deal out of his talent.

  Watching the season opener in the cold drizzle, I was oddly comfortable nestled into the top-left corner of the aluminum bleachers on the third base side. There couldn't have been more than fifteen or twenty people on hand when the game started. Didn't matter. I'd paid the price and done the time. I'd gone to Los Angeles, Fort Myers, San Diego, Dallas, and a few other warm spots just so I could be in my spot in the top row of those cold metal stands. This was the beginning of the end for Sam and for me. This was where I wanted to be. And in a year, I wouldn't belong there anymore.

  Newton led 4–0 in the fourth when we all went home because of rain. Welcome to New England high school baseball.

  Sam and I went to see Florida State play at Boston College over the weekend. BC hitters had personalized theme music played when they came to the plate. We heard a lot of Snoop Dogg and other white-guys-trying-to-be-black theme songs, and I asked Sam what he would select when he got to BC.

  "'September' by Earth, Wind & Fire," he said.

  Not very intimidating, but very retro.

  In the car on the way home, I did the dad thing. More reminders: no drinking. Don't blow it. It's not worth the risk. Don't get caught at some stupid party. I told him the story of the 1986 Celtics, a team of talented, rowdy ballplayers who loved basketball and beer. But Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Dennis Johnson, Bill Walton, and friends swore off alcohol during the playoffs in 1986 and demolished every team in their path. I suggested that Sam use his captaincy to create a similar team pact.

  A couple of days later, Newton beat Wellesley in the "do-over" opener and we went to the Golden Star after the game. I was impressed that Sam wasn't moaning about his error and his hitless performance. He seemed to be getting a better idea of the team concept and the responsibilities of being captain. I had a couple of mai tais while I reminded Sam about not drinking. It struck me that this would be the last year we went to the Chinese restaurant with our kids still wearing their uniforms. It made me a little melancholy—almost enough to order a third mai tai.

  The next day was the Red Sox home opener, so I was in the press box at Fenway Park when Newton thrashed Brookline 13–0, a game that was called after only seven innings in accordance with the Bay State League's slaughter rule. Sam's "uncle," Ed Kleven, served as my eyes and ears while I worked at Fenway. Not related by blood, Uncle Eddie has been part of our family since long before Sam was born. Ed grew up in Haverhill, Massachusetts, went to Tufts, and made a career as a rock and roll manager/promoter and later as an agent to athletes and television/ radio personalities. He was living in Brookline, next door to the inimitable Peter Gammons, when I first met him in the 1970s. At that time, he represented a dozen or more big league ballplayers. Earlier in his life, he'd been road manager for the Kings-men ("Louie, Louie") and Dionne Warwick. He'd negotiated with Howard Hughes and George Steinbrenner. Eddie had never married, and he became unofficial uncle to all of our children. If we'd known the Church would have been okay with a Jewish godfather, he'd have stood up at several of our baptisms. Instead, he settled on his status as third parent to our children—ever a go-to guy in an emergency situation. He'd been watching Sam play baseball for a dozen years when I called him from Fenway to learn that Sam got a couple of hits in the rout of Brookline.

  The next day I came home from my office at about 2 P.M. and Sam was lying on the coach, watching the Yankees on television. Senior-itis was in full bloom. The local paper, the Waltham News-Tribune, was still sitting in front of our house when I pulled up at the curb, and again I was reminded how little Sam and I had in common. He knew there was a story about him in the paper. He knew there was a game account of the Brookline rout. But he couldn't even get his ass off the couch to check out the stories in the paper. Back in the day, if I thought there was a chance of seeing an account of myself playing baseball in the Public Spirit pages, I would have been outside the newspaper office at midnight, waiting for the first edition. Then again, I was a guy who'd written Throw Up for Glory.

  Things bottomed out for our hotshot son a couple of days later when the Tigers beat Xaverian 7–4 on a Saturday morning, the first day of April vacation.

  Sam hitting bottom on the day of a big win. Would that be ironic?

  Xaverian is a private Catholic high school, with good players from all over eastern Massachusetts. They won the state championship when Sam was a sophomore. The Boston Herald highlighted this game as "one to watch" in its preseason roundup, and the star scholastic reporter Danny Ventura was in the stands to see James Greeley dazzle the X-Men over six innings while Newton pounded out fourteen hits for a third straight victory.

  But there was no seat at the table for Sam in this feast. He went 0-2 with a couple of walks. He looked lazy chasing an errant pickoff throw. He also threw his helmet after popping up with two men aboard, and he didn't seem engaged on the bench when his teammates were standing and cheering during Newton's rallies. He was pouting. When the game was over, I noticed he was sent out to drag the infield with one of the underclassmen. Not a typical chore for a senior captain.

  After the game, Marilou and I went to lunch with Kate and her boyfriend. This was Kate's junior year at Boston University, and she'd retired from the college softball team and was spending part of her spring semester as coach of the freshman softball team at Newton North. She has great respect for the game and understands the plight of those less gifted, those who sometimes linger on the end of the bench. Kate was a first-team Bay State League All-Star at North, but the BU coaches never gave her a chance after she made the team as a walk-on for the first two seasons of her college life. She was allowed only one at-bat in two years, about a hundred games (grounded to the infield). In her exit interview, she told the coach she'd never do that to a player—there's always a spot to get kids in, even at the Division I level with a team of scholarship athletes. Now she was putting that pledge into play with the thirteen Newton North girls who were not good enough to make the varsity or junior varsity as freshmen. I loved watching Kate cajole her Bad News Bear cubs. Hers was a roster peppered with players from the Lake area—Italian girls with giant walls of hair and names like Pelligrini and DeNucci. They lost their opener 17–2.

  Kate's status as a coach put her inside the loop at the North athletic department, and as she arrived at lunch she informed me that there was a scene involving Sam and Coach Siciliano earlier that day, before the Xaverian game. Sam had arrived five minutes before he was to report, then went about his business eating a sausage and cheese bagel from Dunkin' Donuts while Sis was addressing the team. He got into a jam with a teammate over something stupid involving the other guy's equipment. This came on the heels of Sam's week of half-assed practices, low-lighted when he neglected to slide during a scrimmage, which forced the entire team to do sliding drills. Sis snapped. He took Sam to the side and screamed at him. Assistant Coach Tom Donnellan steered the rest of the team away from the scene.

  Sis told Sam he was a lousy teammate. He told him he was no longer a captain. At the end, he told Sam not to talk about it with any of his teammates. Just shut up and play. Naturally, Sam did the opposite and tried to galvanize his teammates against their coach. More ugly conversations.

  Hearing Kate relay all this made me sick to my stomach. I left my half-eaten omelet on the table and went home to find Sam.

  He was lying on the couch, watching the Red Sox. I told him to turn off the TV, then asked him to explain himself. He asked what I had heard, but I wasn't giving it up. This was bad. I'd done my best to show him the way, but he'd turned into the kind of entitled, spoiled athlete that I'd regularly ripped.

  After much argument and attempts to portray himself as a victim, I got Sam
to admit, "Okay, I ate a bagel and I didn't slide! I'm a terrible person!"

  I wasn't having it. This was ridiculous. Embarrassed, I called Coach Siciliano. He said to come on over.

  The drive was pretty quiet.

  "This is it, Sam," I said. "You apologize and ask Coach what you need to do to make things right. Stop playing the victim. You want to blow this whole thing now? Go ahead. People your age are fighting wars and I'm going with you to see your high school coach? Not anymore. You decide. Next year at BC, they won't be talking to your dad. They'll throw your ass off the team. And you can go get a job. I'm not bankrolling this venture anymore if my kid is going to be the asshole."

  It was the first time I'd been to Coach Siciliano's house. I asked if he wanted me to stay or if he wanted to work things out with Sam alone. He asked me to stay. The three of us sat at his kitchen table, Sam in the middle, chair angled to face his coach.

  I didn't plan on saying much but figured for starters Sam should apologize. I started to say, "Sam has something he wants to say to you," but didn't get the whole sentence out.

  "No," said the coach, still wearing a Newton ball cap, black team turtleneck, and warm-up jacket. "I don't want apologies. I want Sam to explain why he's been acting this way this week. I want him to tell me if I've been getting his best effort at practice. I want to know why it's so hard for him to be a captain. I want to know why he can't be more supportive of his teammates. I want to know why he didn't move his feet on that throw to first today. I want to know why he doesn't wear his cup to practice when everybody else does. Why he wears sweats when everybody else wears baseball pants. Why he wears a BC sweatshirt when everybody else is wearing Newton North jackets. And I don't want him to tell me it's just Sam being Sam. Tom Donnellan and I went to breakfast at the Knotty Pine at seven A.M. today, and I told Tom I was planning to talk to Sam about all this after today's game. Then he shows up and he's eating when I'm talking and then he gets into it with Walsh. What's going on, Sam? You have to ask yourself why you are doing this."