Painting the Corners Again

by Weintraub, Bob;

  He stepped out of the batter’s box momentarily, and then got back in.

  “Inside corner,” Bentley added, apparently deciding that his first answer had been too harsh for Turner’s mild complaint. “Just nicked it.”

  Tracey was ready. He stretched, bobbed his head back and forth as the runners took their short leads, and pitched again. The ball came in hard, rising a little as it cut across the outside edge of the plate. Turner wasn’t expecting a fastball, not on that count, and knew right away that he had probably let the best pitch he’d see from Tracey go by. He had nothing to say when Bentley repeated his strike call, and had no trouble hearing the fan with the raspy voice shouting at him from behind the Giants’ dugout to take the bat off his shoulder and swing.

  Turner walked a short distance away from the plate. He needed some time to think about the situation, to try and figure out what Tracey would do with a two-strike pitch. He could waste the next couple, trying to get his old friend to bite on a curve or slider outside the strike zone. Or he might show him a fastball inside to try and set up a curve breaking over the outside corner. Turner also knew that he had to stay alert for the changeup because Tracey usually saved it until he already had two strikes in the count. He decided that he’d better protect the outside of the plate.

  When he got back in the batter’s box, he saw that Tracey was smiling at him. “No changeup this trip, Andy,” he said, as he set himself and got ready to pitch. “No changeup home runs today.”

  The taunting sound in Tracey’s voice disrupted him and took away his concentration. Turner asked the umpire for time and stepped out again. The Shawn Tracey he had known all those years with the Braves never spoke to a hitter that way, never challenged him or teased him about what pitch was or wasn’t coming next. He suddenly realized how much this personal duel meant to his former teammate. He understood, as only a player nearing the end of his career could, that Tracey still felt the sting of the home run Turner had hit to beat him four years earlier. Perhaps the pitcher felt this would be his last chance to even the score. Turner decided that the only thing he could count on was that Tracey would be true to his word and not let him see a changeup; that he wouldn’t risk getting beat on the same pitch again.

  Turner banged the dirt out of his spikes with the end of the bat and stepped in. Tracey tried to tempt him to go after a curveball that didn’t have enough break on it and stayed outside the plate. Before the next pitch, he fired the ball over to first base twice. The throws forced Rizzo to dive back each time and served notice that he’d better not get too far off the bag.

  Ball two looked like a fastball for an instant, but Turner picked up the spin of a slider and watched it drop down below his knees. With the count now even, Tracey didn’t want the pace to slow down, to give Turner more time to think. He looked in for the next sign right away, shook it off twice before nodding agreement, and went into his stretch.

  Turner readied himself in the batter’s box and concentrated on Tracey’s movements. He tried to figure out what pitch he’d be calling for in this situation if he were behind the plate, sending out the signs to Tracey as he did for so many years. As the pitcher’s right leg came toward the plate, Turner caught the look of affected strain on Tracey’s face and the slight jerking motion of his head. They were the telltale signs he had become totally familiar with in the past when he crouched behind home, waiting for Tracey to pull the string and throw the changeup he had called for. The hitter, poised to swing at a fastball that would reach him in less than a second from its moment of release, would be way out in front of the pitch, completely fooled.

  Turner couldn’t believe what Tracey was doing. He tried to adjust immediately, to start looking for the spin on the slow curve so he could time his swing and step into the pitch with as much power as possible. He wanted to be able to hit the changeup out of the park again.

  The pitch was on him, a blazing fastball on the outside part of the plate, before he realized he’d been fooled. Tracey had pulled out all the stops, knowing how Turner would react, and had set him up with the phony look on his face and the jerking head movement. He must have practiced it over the years, Turner thought later, just waiting for the next time the two of them faced each other.

  Turner swung at the last instant and barely got a piece of the ball, hitting it hard on the ground a few feet to the right of the first baseman. He cursed out loud as he dropped the bat and started down the line. Head lowered, he realized that he had failed to come through again when it counted. Moments later, when the sound of the crowd told him something had happened, he looked up to see that the ball had gotten through to the outfield. He found out afterwards, watching a replay in the clubhouse, that the first baseman had played the ball nonchalantly and wasn’t in a position to block it with his body when it took an unexpected bounce over his glove.

  Turner watched the play unfold as he ran to first. The right fielder had to go a long way toward the foul line to retrieve the ball. The runner on second base would score easily. With two outs, the runner on first who represented the tying run might try to follow him in if there was any chance he could make it. That meant the throw from the right fielder would come in to the plate. Anticipating that, the first base coach was waving his arms at Turner, shouting at him to make the turn at first and keep on going. He figured that even if the throw home was cut off, Turner would have time to reach second safely. He’d be in scoring position with the winning run.

  Moving as fast as he could, Turner saw Rizzo make the turn at third and then get held up by the Phillies’ coach who was more than halfway down the line himself. On his way to second, Turner made the kind of mental error a manager might expect from a rookie, looking over his left shoulder to see where the ball was and whether there would be any play on him at that base. At that instant, he tripped and fell to the ground, closing his eyes as he landed on his shoulder.

  Turner felt an immediate jab of pain from his left wrist, which had tried to cushion the impact. Hearing the shortstop calling for the ball, he got up and began staggering the twenty feet from there to the base. As he got close, he made a diving, headfirst slide toward second, his arms outstretched. Lying prone, he saw the shortstop’s feet leave the ground, going high in the air. Another roar from the fans rang in his ears as his hand touched the base, and he realized at once that the throw must have gone into center field.

  Turner knew the error would tie the game and he heard the frantic cry from the coach at third urging him to “Go, Andy, go, go.” Some of the dirt stirred up by his desperate slide had gotten in his eyes, forcing him to keep them closed for a second or two. But he struggled to his feet and started the third ninety-foot leg of his incredible journey. This time his destination seemed miles away, and he sensed that despite the rapid movement he tried to get from his arms and legs, he was making very slow progress.

  The coach at third was close to the foul line, waving his hands down toward the ground, giving Turner the sign to slide. Again, sucking in all the air he could, he hurled his body toward the base, head first. He wasn’t quite sure what happened when he felt a small blow on the back of his batting helmet. The umpire’s hoarse call, “He’s safe,” was followed almost immediately by a loud eruption from the stands. Still lying in the dirt, Turner could see that the ball had eluded the third baseman and rolled into the Phillies’ dugout. He learned later that the throw had hit him on the head during his slide and changed direction.

  “Runner scores,” he heard the umpire shout. The coach was on his hands and knees next to Turner’s head, telling him what a great slide it was, and saying, while he laughed, “Get up, Andy, you’re the winning run.”

  Turner picked himself up again, and without brushing any of the dirt off his uniform, trotted down the line. Most of his teammates were waiting for him, and the high fives began even before he stepped on the plate. As he turned toward the Phillies’ dugout, Turner saw Tracey, who had come off the mound earlier to back up the catcher. He stopped a
nd smiled at him.

  “You faked the shit out of me, Shawn. It was one hell of a pitch.”

  The compliment didn’t change the look of chagrin on Tracey’s face. “Goddamm little league home run,” he said, spitting out each word deliberately, and began walking off in the other direction.

  Turner enjoyed being the center of attention in the clubhouse. It had been a while since the other players had a reason to come by his locker. “Nice going, old man,” they said, and joked about his adventure on the field. The writers covering the team saw a great column in what had happened, especially in view of Turner’s close relationship in the past with Tracey. They stood around prodding him for as many quotes as they could get. Turner got laughs out of everyone in describing his many thoughts during the grueling ordeal that started and ended at home.

  When they had gone off to write their stories, Turner undressed and took a shower. The hot water stung at first but then began to relax him as he let it pound on his back and shoulders. He was alone in the shower room. He couldn’t help smiling as he again played out in detail his odyssey on the base paths. He had gone up to the plate hoping to become a hero with one swing of the bat, but instead had set in motion a series of the most unlikely events. It was an important “W” for the Phillies. He had scored the winning run, but in his heart he knew that he had really failed to deliver.

  As Turner was dressing in the almost empty clubhouse, Tim Hammonds, the first base coach, walked over to his locker. In his playing days, Hammonds had led the league in stolen bases for six consecutive seasons. Everyone knew that he would have challenged the all-time record had he not torn a cartilage when he slipped, chasing a fly ball in a very wet outfield.

  “Nice goin’, Andrew, some base runnin’. Couldn’t a done it no better myself.” He showed two gold upper teeth in front when he smiled. “Chris says stop by a minute before you leave, okay? See you tomorrow, old man, but you rest up good tonight, you hear? You gonna be our pinch runner tomorrow if we need one.” He laughed at his joke and headed toward the corridor that led to the players’ parking lot.

  The door to Conlon’s office was open and he was riding the stationary bicycle when Turner went in. “One more minute,” the manager said, raising his forefinger, and continued peddling at a speed Turner couldn’t see doing him much good. Conlon wore no shirt, but still had on his uniform pants. He had changed from spikes into a pair of sneakers that remained unlaced.

  Turner sat down on a chair in front of the desk and noticed about a half dozen cigarette butts in the ashtray. There were also four baseballs in a box that normally held a dozen. He wondered whether anyone had asked Conlon to get Turner’s autograph on them.

  Conlon finished exercising and moved to the black vinyl executive chair behind his desk. “That was one hell of a run,” he said, smiling at Turner. He immediately reached for a cigarette from the pack of Marlboros he took out of the top drawer. “I was hoping you wouldn’t have a heart attack before you got to third. I almost had one of my own when you fell down on the way to second.” Turner laughed. “You don’t get to see three errors on one play too often,” Conlon continued. “That kind of stuff is what makes managers grow old fast.” He flicked his Zippo lighter, took a heavy drag on the cigarette, and stared at Turner for several seconds before going on. “The front office calls the shots here, Andy. I don’t have to tell you that. I may disagree, but the owner’s going to listen to Dan, not me. He’s been the general manager here forever and what he says carries the most weight.”

  Conlon allowed his head to rest briefly on the back of the chair, and then sat forward again. “Dan’s been trying to trade you to one of the clubs that looks like it’ll be making a run for the pennant, but he couldn’t get anyone to go for a deal. He was looking to pick up one or two prospects in Triple A, or even Double A. Now he wants to start taking a look at some of our own kids. Wants to get an idea whether any of them will be able to help the club next year. That means making some room on the roster.”

  Turner took a deep breath. The concern he felt as soon as Conlon mentioned the front office gave way to a throbbing in his chest. Conlon’s speech wasn’t over, but Turner already knew his place on the bottom line. He told himself that he had to control his emotions, to make it as easy as he could on his old friend who had kept him on the team longer than he probably deserved. He could see that Conlon was having an obviously difficult time breaking the news.

  “I’m too old to be sent down, Chris, so I guess that means the club’s going to let me go, right?”

  Conlon dragged on the cigarette again, turned his head to the side before exhaling a cloud of smoke, and then pressed the cigarette against the inside of the ashtray several times to extinguish it. He dropped the butt in the tray and ignored the smoke that kept rising from the few shreds of tobacco that were still glowing.

  “You’re released as of right now,” he said. “Dan made the decision before the game. I think you got a chance to catch on with someone now that they don’t have to lose a player to get you. A few clubs can use someone with power down the stretch. That’s why I wanted you to hit against Tracey in the ninth. I was praying you’d catch hold of one and win the game for us. Then you’d be getting a bunch of phone calls. But hell, Andy, some of these GM’s are so dumb they may read about the game and figure you got an inside the park job. They’ll think you got power and speed.” He laughed, nervously, and Turner joined him.

  “You’re right,” Turner said. He got up and offered Conlon his hand. “I appreciate your giving me the chance today, Chris. Maybe some other club will be interested, maybe not. If it’s not the end of the line, it’s pretty close, anyway. I’ve put in my time and maybe it’s just the right note to go out on. This way, if anybody ever asks me what I did in my last at bat in the big leagues, I can tell them I whacked the ball off my old buddy, Shawn Tracey, and touched all the bases. Hell, with what I had to go through out there, I’ll even be able to say it with a straight face.”

  They laughed, shook hands and wished each other good luck. As Turner walked to the door, he remembered the look on Tracey’s face at the end of the game. He turned back to Conlon. “And if I’m lucky,” he said, “no one will remember that it was just a little league home run.”

  ALL IN THE FAMILY

  “Family is everything. It is even more important than baseball.”

  —Luis Tiant

  IT WAS JUST after 1:00 a.m. when the bus carrying the Scranton Miners pulled into the large yard across from the team’s stadium. Half the lot was taken up by a fleet of Town Taxis that rented the space for a twelve-hour period each day. The bus slowed easily at first, but gave a final lurch as it parked close to the high wire fence in a rear corner of the yard. The team had played and lost a night game in Harrisburg, swept in the three-game series by the Hurricanes, and returned to Scranton with box suppers and no stops along the way.

  Jimmy Diamond was awake for the last hour of the trip, staring mindlessly out the window at the traffic moving in the opposite direction. He couldn’t stop replaying the game in his head, berating himself for the error he made at shortstop that turned the game around and led to the team’s defeat. His misplay was followed by a walk and two consecutive doubles into the same gap between the center and left fielders. The second one, hitting off the wall on one bounce, forced Hoby Barton, the manager, to make his slow walk to the mound and remove Whitey Nordstrom, his pitcher, from the game. In the dugout, when the Hurricanes’ six-run burst had ended, Diamond went over to Nordstrom who had a towel around his neck and a scowl on his face.

  “Sorry, Whitey, all my fault.”

  “Yeah, I shoulda been outta the inning on that ball.”

  “You’re right. I fucked up. Sorry.”

  Nordstrom looked away without answering and spit on the dugout floor. Diamond turned, walked toward the other end of the shabby enclosure, and sat down next to Don Tomasetti, the catcher and team captain.

  “I saw you talking to Whitey,” Tomasett
i said, while removing his shin guards in anticipation of batting third in the new inning. “Didn’t let you off the hook, did he?”

  “That’s okay. He’s got a right to be pissed. He deserved a ‘W’ tonight and I took it away from him.”

  “You should have heard what he said when Hoby came out to get him. You weren’t his candidate for the Hall of Fame right then. But if he wants to make it into the rotation, what he showed after your error didn’t help him.”

  “It didn’t help me either,” Diamond said. “A couple more like that and Hoby will have someone else out at shortstop.”

  When the bus jerked to a stop, Diamond got up quickly and put on the jacket he pulled down from the rack above his seat. He made his way outside and over to the baggage compartment where the driver had begun unloading duffel bags onto the ground. In a phone call the night before, Diamond’s wife informed him that she wouldn’t be picking him up when the team returned to Scranton. Now he was anxious to find his bag and ask Luis Cavalho, who lived in his direction, for a ride home. He had gone to the back of the bus earlier to speak to Cavalho, but the center fielder was asleep, curled up across two seats. As Diamond watched the bags being pulled out, looking for the one with the large red plastic tag tied to the top, Jack Wheeler, the pitcher who was knocked out of the first game of the series without completing four innings, walked past him and over to the driver.

  “Hey, fat man,” Wheeler hollered, stepping up to where the driver was leaning in and reaching for another bag. “Fat man, I want to talk to you.”

  The driver pulled the duffel bag out, set it down behind the ones that were already on the ground, and turned toward Wheeler. Recognizing him, he asked, “Were you speaking to me, Mr. Wheeler?”

  “Yeah, you heard right. What’s your name, anyway?”

  “I’m Kevin. Is there a problem?”

  “You’re goddam right there’s a problem. This is the third time we come back from a road trip and the third time you jerked this fuckin’ bus to a stop and made me about bust my head on the seat in front. You better fuckin’ understand next time you do that again I’m going to jerk you around from one end of this lot to the other.”