Painting the Corners Again

by Weintraub, Bob;

  That night, however, over dinner at the Ritz-Carlton, Pete asked Paula to marry him. The setting was romantic, and she was convinced earlier in the day that she would accept his proposal, if it came. But suddenly, without knowing why, she searched for the right words to put him off a while longer. He let her do it, still holding her hand in his, but insisted on her making a decision before he returned to Philadelphia the next afternoon.

  The telephone rang at nine thirty on Sunday morning. Paula had slept very little that night, tossing and turning over what she would tell Pete when they spoke. Still undecided, she let the answering machine take the call, but picked up the receiver as soon as she heard Terry’s voice. He had two tickets for the final game and wanted to meet her for brunch in an hour. Could she go? “Of course,” she told him, and decided that she would call Pete at home later in the evening.

  Paula couldn’t believe it when Terry entered the second row of Section 33 in front of her and led her to the same two seats she and her father had shared for years. He saw the look on her face and smiled.

  “Maybe your dad never told you that he invited me to some games when you weren’t around, especially that summer you worked in the Catskills. I love these seats. When you told me that he turned in his season tickets, I asked for these whenever I came out here. They were always available. You missed out the first few times.”

  They talked only about baseball as the Red Sox fell behind 2–0 and the crowd’s tension grew. In the fifth inning, Terry excused himself and said he’d be back as soon as he could. He asked Paula to keep score for him while he was gone. When he returned and sat down again, the Twins were already batting in the sixth. He told Paula that he wanted her to listen to him for a minute.

  “I’ve made two decisions here today,” he began. “The first was to be sure I could spend a Saturday or Sunday in these seats anytime I wanted. So I just went to the ticket office and gave them a deposit for next year’s weekend games. The second is that I want to be certain my son or daughter can sit right here and learn all about baseball from either you or your father when I can’t be here myself.” He stopped talking and looked into her eyes for several moments. “Yes, that means just what you’re thinking, Paula. I’ve been in love with you since our first date. Will you marry me?”

  The tears didn’t wait for her answer, and just as quickly Paula knew that she was finally through running away. “Yes,” she whispered, taking the hand he held out to her, and leaned over to share his kiss.

  Pitcher Jim Lonborg led off the last of the sixth with a bunt single that surprised the Twins and started a loud rhythmic applause from the stands. The visiting team seemed to unravel. Yaz came through with another key hit in the five run uprising, and the Red Sox went on to win the pennant. Paula knew they had done it for Terry and her.

  LITTLE LEAGUE HOME RUN

  “I don’t want to play golf. When I hit a ball, I want someone else to go chase it.”

  —Rogers Hornsby

  WHEN SHAWN TRACEY was called in from the Giants’ bullpen to stop the Phillies’ rally in the last half of the eighth inning, Andy Turner knew the depths of depression as he sat in the home team’s dugout, watching the action on the field. The afternoon shadows had already worked their way past the pitcher’s mound toward the first base side of the park. The Saturday crowd had been shouting its support and waving white handkerchiefs while the Phillies scored twice and loaded the bases with the tying runs. Now they sat back dejectedly when the left-handed Tracey threw a third strike past Rusty Wilson, the team’s catcher, to end the threat.

  “Atta boy, Shawn, you old bastard.” Turner whispered it to himself as the veteran Giants’ pitcher stared in at home plate for a few moments, savoring his accomplishment, before walking slowly to his own team’s dugout. It was impossible for Turner not to think back to the days when the two of them were teammates. He recalled how many times he had seen that same look of satisfaction on Tracey’s face—from his own crouching position behind the plate—as another strikeout pitch tore into his mitt. And how they used to go back to the bench at the end of the inning and high five each other for making it happen.

  They had been the best battery in the league for seven years, leading the Atlanta Braves to two pennants and one world championship. Tracey had averaged just under twenty wins a season in that time, but reached a high of twenty-six the same glorious summer in which Turner was voted the Most Valuable Player in the National League. He had earned the honor by catching 148 games, hitting 37 homers and knocking in 109 runs.

  Now, six years after Atlanta traded him to the Dodgers, and four seasons since the Phillies signed him away from LA as a free agent, Turner spent most of his time on the bench. His left knee had been through two operations, the second one worse than the first, and his catching days were over. It was painful for him to squat behind the plate and there was no way he could come out of his crouch fast enough to cut down a runner stealing second.

  Chris Conlon was still looking for his first pennant in his fifth year of managing the Phillies. Once in a while he sent Turner to the bullpen to warm up the relief pitchers if he’d already had to put his backup catcher in the game. And occasionally he had him take over first base when True Dempsey, another long-time veteran, was rested in the late innings. Turner was carried on the roster as a catcher, but was really there to pinch hit when Conlon needed the long ball.

  At thirty-seven, Andy Turner wasn’t kidding himself about how much baseball he had left in him. Sixteen years was a long time in the big leagues, and no one kept you around if you couldn’t contribute. Still, despite the downward spiral in his batting average and other power numbers since the doctors first cut into his knee, he could deliver in the clutch. And he was a team-oriented player who willingly shared his experience with the young pitchers and catchers on the Phillies’ staff.

  It didn’t hurt at all that Conlon had been the pitching coach on the Braves for three years before leaving for his first major league managing job. During that time, he and Turner were very close. The Atlanta success story in those years had boosted Conlon’s reputation as a coach and put him on several other teams’ short lists for managerial openings. Conlon knew that Turner’s ability to make the right call in tight situations was the reason behind much of the pitching staff’s success, and he pushed hard to bring him to the Phillies when Turner refused to sign a new contract in LA.

  Other than the problem with his knee, Turner was in excellent shape. He carried 190 pounds on his six foot, two-inch frame, and none of it was flab. He took three weeks off at the end of every season to totally unwind, then began a daily regimen of running and swimming that brought him into spring training rejuvenated and ready to play.

  He was a handsome man who took pride in the “sexy” label he had always carried. During the season, Turner let his full mane of straight black hair grow several inches below the back of his baseball cap. His features were marred only by an inch long scar on his temple, above his right eye, the result of a violent collision at home plate during his days with the Braves. In a way he never understood and which the television cameras didn’t catch, a base runner’s spike had somehow made contact with his head. Turner’s brown eyes had a sparkle that heralded his good nature and complemented the ready smile that attracted both players and sportswriters alike.

  This season had been his worst. He felt as strong as ever, and was ready for his role in the 162 game grind when opening day came around. But his bat had not been producing enough of the hits Conlon expected from him. Now, in the middle of July, one week after the All-Star break, Turner was batting .241 and had produced just four home runs and six doubles. He watched hours of videotape from other games in which he delivered big hits, trying to see whether he was doing anything differently in the batter’s box. He took extra batting practice after a number of games, getting Conlon or one of the coaches to throw ball after ball to him while watching his arms, the movement of his feet, and his swing.

  On a cou
ple of occasions his hitting improved for a while, and he thought each time that he was on the road back to respectability. But the bubble kept bursting. One of his home runs had been a dramatic grand slam in the ninth inning to win the game. But the “new beginning,” as he thought of it then, didn’t last. He had nothing to show for his last seven trips to the plate as a pinch hitter. His frustration was at a level he’d never had to face before.

  “Your old partner can still turn it on, Andy, huh?”

  Turner hadn’t seen Conlon sit down next to him on the bench. The manager hardly ever strayed from his end of the dugout, closest to home plate. Rather, he barked out his directions or called a player over to him when he had something to say.

  Turner took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his head with his bare forearm. “Yeh, skip, not too bad for another one of us dinosaurs,” he said, and winked at Conlon.

  “How’d you like to grab a bat when we’re up?” Conlon asked, and continued speaking without waiting for an answer. “I know you haven’t seen him for a while, since he’s been over in the other league the last few years, but maybe for old time’s sake, huh?”

  Turner understood what was going on. Conlon didn’t want to embarrass him with an at bat against Tracey if Turner didn’t think he could hit his old battery-mate. If Tracey’s curve ball and slider looked too good from what he had seen of it in the eighth inning, forget it. They were down by three runs, so if the guys due up first couldn’t get a rally started, Conlon could use someone else to pinch-hit from the right side. That’s why he came over and asked instead of just hollering down the bench for Turner to get loose. Andy appreciated the gesture, and suspected that Conlon was the rare manager who would think of it.

  “I’m ready anytime,” he answered. “Can’t bust one out of here if I’m sitting on my duff.”

  Conlon made a fist with his left hand and jabbed it playfully into Turner’s right side. “Let’s see what happens,” he said, then got up and walked back toward his end of the dugout. Turner watched him, seeing the large perspiration stains that had formed on the back and around the armpits of his manager’s shirt. He couldn’t help noticing all the extra weight that the fifty-year-old Conlon was carrying on his belt line and in the seat of his pants.

  The Giants went down in order. Tracey returned to the mound in the last of the ninth and struck out the first batter he faced, a pinch hitter for the pitcher. The Phillies’ leadoff man caught the third baseman playing too deep. He bunted the ball in that direction and reached first without a throw. Tracey was visibly irritated by the lapse. He let his temper get the best of him, walking the next batter on five pitches.

  Conlon’s number-three hitter was the left-handed Ernie Rizzo. He had a batting average just over .230 against southpaw pitchers, but was the team’s second leading home run hitter. He would represent the potential tying run at the plate. Rizzo wasn’t someone the manager could hit for without inviting a lot of criticism from the press if the move didn’t pay off. Allowed to swing, he got into a quick, two strike hole, but fought off a couple of nasty pitches from Tracey before reaching for a curve and dunking it into short left center field. A run scored, making it 7–5, and the Phillies had a man on first and second with one out.

  The fans picked up the tempo of their rhythmic applause. They put their handkerchiefs back in play again as Kyle Rhodes, the cleanup hitter, moved to the plate. The team’s play-by-play radio announcer was suddenly much more animated than he had been before Rizzo’s hit. He informed his listeners for the third time that day that Rhodes was in the midst of a recent hot streak. He had batted .432 and driven in 13 runs over the course of his last ten games. Six of those came on balls that had reached the bleachers.

  Rhodes was a powerfully built right-handed hitter, very compact at three inches under six feet. His reputation around the league rested on the incredible distances some of his home runs had traveled. It was said that if anyone was ever going to hit a ball out of a certain park where it had never been done, Rhodes was the best candidate to pull it off. He had a straightaway stance and looked menacing from the pitcher’s mound as he stood with his feet close together, his knees bent far forward, and his arms and bat high in the air. He was often compared to a tightly coiled spring waiting to be released.

  Tracey came inside on the first pitch to Rhodes with a fastball, intending to move the muscular center fielder off the plate, but the ball was close enough to being a strike to get him to swing. The crowd rose at the crack of the bat as the ball took off on a long, high arc down the left field line. There was no doubt it had enough distance to clear the wall, 360 feet away. Rhodes stood at home, watching the drive begin to hook toward the foul pole. He tried to will it fair with a pushing motion of his hands toward first base. Conlon and the players on the Phillies’ bench left their seats and scampered up the first two steps of the dugout to get a better view of the ball as it flew out of the park. The home plate umpire yanked off his mask, and the umpire at third ran toward the outfield, attempting to straddle the foul line as he watched the ball begin to disappear. The hooking increased dramatically as the ball continued its flight. There was no argument from Conlon when both umpires signaled that it had gone foul before it reached the 50-foot high yellow pole in the left field corner of the park.

  Rhodes returned to the batter’s box, determined to continue his recent heroics with another clutch hit. Tracey appeared unruffled by the fact that the pitch had almost cost him, and his team, the game. In the Phillies’ dugout, Turner knew that Tracey had already decided what he would throw Rhodes on every pitch. The mistake he had almost made would not change his plan. Tracey got a second strike on a perfect slider that caught the outside edge of the plate. Then, after wasting two high fastballs, he threw another slider that had Rhodes lunging at it as it crossed the plate below his knees.

  Silence infected the grandstands in a heartbeat. The loud handclapping that had been going on from the time Rhodes strode to the plate came to a sudden halt. It was as if everyone realized at the same moment that the team’s last best chance to win the game had slipped away.

  Conlon didn’t return to his seat after leaving it to watch the long Rhodes foul. He looked down the bench at Turner and saw that his veteran player was bent over, doing some stretching exercises. When Tracey made Rhodes his third strikeout victim, Conlon called out to Murray as the left-handed hitting third baseman began moving away from the on-deck circle toward the plate. He motioned him back to the dugout, waiting until Murray got there before letting everyone know his decision.

  “Turner, you’re the hitter,” he hollered, first pointing a finger at him and then giving him the thumbs up sign as he raised his arm in the air.

  Turner made his way toward the bat rack. He decided to swing a thirty-five-inch bat instead of the one-inch shorter model he usually used. He sensed that Tracey would not be overpowering him and that he might be able to get a little more wood on a curveball or slider. He picked out one that felt good to him and started out of the dugout.

  The public-address announcer informed the fans that Turner had entered the game to bat for Murray. The onetime MVP was aware of a smattering of applause as he pushed the metal donut up the handle of the bat and began taking some practice swings to get loose. He knew that the crowd was trying to encourage him. He was also well aware that their enthusiasm for his presence at this crucial juncture of the game was diminished by the sight of his season’s statistics being flashed across the giant scoreboard in center field.

  Tracey had stopped to exchange a little small talk with Turner in the outfield as the players were doing some warm-up sprints before the game. Now he stood on the mound with his back to the plate. Turner wondered whether the pitcher was thinking back to the last time they faced each other. He was with the Dodgers then and Tracey was in his last year with the Braves, before going to Detroit; but he had become the number-four pitcher in Atlanta’s starting rotation, winning only about the same number of games he lost. Turner w
ent two for three against him that day, striking out once. But his second hit was a two-run homer in the seventh inning that knocked Tracey out of the game and provided the winning margin. He’d remembered that Tracey had a way of tipping off his changeup every so often if you were very familiar with his delivery and were watching him closely. The home run had come on that pitch.

  “Let’s go, Turner,” he heard Dee Bentley, the home plate umpire, holler.

  Turner realized that he had been completely absorbed in thinking about his last game against Tracey, even as he stood there trying to loosen the muscles in his back and shoulders by swinging the bat in a circle high above his head. He let the donut drop back onto the ground in the on-deck circle. The patch of grass was painted fire engine red, with the Phillies’ logo inside in white. Tracey eyed him intently as Turner dug a little hole with his spikes at the plate and then planted his back foot in the position he needed for his mostly open stance.

  “I still owe you for the last time, Andy,” Tracey said, speaking just loud enough for his old friend to hear.

  Turner smiled. He’d been right about what Tracey was thinking. “I don’t remember, Shawn. What happened?”

  “Bullshit,” the pitcher said, putting his left foot on the rubber and looking in for the sign.

  Turner waved his bat a couple of times and began concentrating on Tracey’s pitching hand. As soon as the ball was on its way, he picked up the spin and knew it was a curve. He watched it break inside and didn’t swing, certain that it missed the strike zone.

  “Stee-rike,” Bentley called, turning to the right and pumping his fist.

  “Inside, ump,” Turner said, disagreeing, without protesting too strongly or turning around.

  “You hit ’em, I call ’em, Turner. That’s the system.”