Dinesh and Rinku accepted that they were the low men on the totem pole. Humility was never their issue. They had been playing baseball for only several months, which probably seemed absurd and too easy to a lot of the other athletes. And unlike when they were at USC, Rinku and Dinesh were now in direct competition with these players. There were only so many jobs to go around, and the competition was brutal. Throughout spring training, there are a series of cuts where players are not-so-gently notified by a sticker or ticket in their locker that it’s time to pack their bags. When a known cut is coming up, players’ fuses are shorter than usual. And in such close quarters, it’s easy for tempers to flare. That anyone might lose a roster spot because of two clowns who’d won a reality TV show in India—well, it didn’t exactly make the guys popular.
But just like they had at USC, Dinesh and Rinku ignored the politics, put their heads down, and went to work. First, they earned everyone’s respect because of how hard they trained, and then they won them over with their true enthusiasm. They inspired the other rookies to push themselves and even the most jaded vets to remember the preciousness of this opportunity to play ball. As the years pass and the inevitable politics of any work environment take hold, it’s easy to forget that the 110 people in the Pirates organization are some of the luckiest in the world. They get to play baseball outdoors for a living, and many are paid handsomely for it. Rinku and Dinesh reminded everyone of the privilege of just being there.
The two became well liked by everyone, from General Manager Neal Huntington straight down to the receptionist. Trevor Goodby, who runs Pirate City, called them “a dream.”
“They are the nicest guys ever,” the equipment manager, Pat Hagerty, told me. “If every kid on our team worked as hard as Rinku and Dinesh, we would never lose a game. They never get in trouble.”
As I kept tabs on the boys, I was proud to hear how well they were fitting in. Not that I was surprised. They were that moldable clay that any organization would kill for. The Pirates returned the favor and then some by supporting Rinku and Dinesh in immeasurable ways. They helped them to assimilate into the team and shepherded them through the thorny immigration process. But the organization also went beyond the boundaries of baseball and organized school for anyone who wanted to further his education. Rinku and Dinesh took high school classes and visited sick kids in hospitals, which made them feel incredibly valuable.
After a couple of days in Bradenton, it was time for me to return to LA. It felt kind of funny being alone, but I ignored the big, empty house and psyched myself up to move on and return to normal. No sooner had I put down my bag than I called up some friends to hang out that night. We made a plan to meet up at Skybar, and I thought, All right. Game on.
Located in the Mondrian hotel on Hollywood Boulevard, the übercool outdoor bar with the most amazing views—not only of the city but also of the hottest chicks—is the place to be and be seen. Models and starlets stood against the ivy-covered walls or lounged on large ottomans around the illuminated pool while the DJ spun hip-hop records. As my buddies and I took a banquette, it felt like a usual night in the life of the old J.B., which I was more than ready to jump right back into.
Except that I was distracted all night—and not by pretty girls. I wasn’t on my game. I chalked it up to having devoted two years to Million Dollar Arm. During that time, I had become seriously rusty. Yeah, that was it. Like a pitcher back from the off-season, I just needed to start throwing and get back that muscle memory.
As I went up to a hot blonde and gave her my classic opener, “Hey, I’m J.B., what’s your name?” a small voice gnawed at me. Really, you are still doing this? But I dismissed it as quickly as it popped into my head, especially when she gave all the right signs.
The night went by the book. We went home together, had some fun, and, later, after she’d drifted off, I went downstairs to watch SportsCenter. I don’t remember her leaving later that night or even saying good-bye, although I am sure she did.
I never had trouble being by myself before, but suddenly I was aware of all the empty space in the mansion. As the weeks wore on slowly, I couldn’t shake a feeling of loss. There were reminders of Rinku and Dinesh everywhere. The bedspreads in their rooms, the DVDs of movies they had watched a hundred times, and the Bisquick mix in the cupboard all brought up memories. Even sitting on the stupid couch, which had three permanent butt prints from the spots that we always took while watching TV, made me sad. I couldn’t believe it: I missed those guys.
It seemed like every little thing in that house made me wonder what Rinku and Dinesh were doing at that very moment in Florida. What movies were they watching? Did they master any new pitches? I kept tabs on them from California. Their life off the field in Bradenton was uneventful. The guys didn’t have a car, so they rarely left the training facility. Every couple of weeks, they took a trip to Wal-Mart, and once they went fishing. Dinesh caught a catfish.
Meanwhile, I retreated back into work. I read contracts, wrote emails, and made calls through lunch and into the evening, ordering in whatever for dinner, and kept at it until I passed out for a couple hours—only to wake up, jump up, and start it all again the next day. I was pounding for my clients, booking as many appearances as I could so that I could be on the road. I also worked my contacts in India as I started to get the ball rolling on a second Million Dollar Arm contest.
I was less successful in getting back into the swing of the single life. What I had chalked up to rustiness that first night out on the town turned out to be some kind of permanent injury. I couldn’t seem to get excited about anything or anyone. I knew I couldn’t work all the time, but I wasn’t sure what else to do. The bar scene wasn’t happening for me, so I decided to call a girl in Texas whom I used to fly in for interstate booty calls on a semiregular basis. Just the right amount of familiar but far away, maybe she was the exact thing I needed to get out of this funk.
As I dialed her number, I thought about one night when the guys and I were sitting around the house watching a movie, and out of nowhere Rinku turned to me to ask, “Sir, why are you not married?
“Sir, you need to get married,” he continued, “or soon you will be too old.”
Although I was forty and my hair was turning gray, I didn’t consider myself too old for anything. But as far as marriage was concerned, I wanted no part of it anyway. Marriage was a scam. My parents had been married for fifty years and my grandparents for seventy, which was great for them, but I never saw that as an example for me, since I wasn’t willing to make the necessary sacrifices. I didn’t want to share my place with anyone, and I especially didn’t want to share my money with anyone. It seemed ridiculous to sign up for something where, if you fell out of love, you had to fork over half your stuff. Plus, most people who wanted to get married also wanted kids. The concept of having children was even more out of my comfort zone than marriage.
Family was extremely important to Dinesh and Rinku. To them, my saying that I wasn’t interested in either of those things was like saying I had no interest in food or water. We turned our differences of opinion into a running joke, with them pointing out women everywhere we went as possible bridal candidates for me.
My Texas friend’s phone had rung only a few times when I hung up. I finally fessed up to myself that the old J.B.—the one who remained fiercely attached to his freedom at the cost of everything else—was not who I wanted to be. I didn’t know who I wanted to be, but it wasn’t this guy.
* * *
I might have been lost, but at least I knew Rinku and Dinesh weren’t, and I took comfort in that. When spring training wrapped, they joined their first baseball team in the Rookie League. The Pittsburgh organization was committed to finding international talent, and the Gulf Coast League Pirates’ roster had players from all over the world: the Dominican Republic, South Africa, Colombia, Australia, and more. It was like the United Nations of baseball. For the first time since they arrived in America, Rinku and Dinesh were no l
onger the only outsiders. With many of their teammates a long way from home, they banded together—unlike a lot of minor-league teams, where it’s every man for himself.
During their first season, everything Dinesh and Rinku did on the field made history. On July 4, 2009, in a home game against the Gulf Coast League Yankees, they became the first Indian-born players to play professional baseball in America. Both felt an enormous weight of responsibility when they heard the public address announcer say their names for the first time. Their manager and teammates had put their trust in them, and they didn’t want to let them down. They didn’t need to worry. Rinku pitched the seventh inning. He threw a wild pitch to one batter, allowing a run to score. But he bounced back to strike out the batter, induce a ground out, and then a pop out to end the threat without further damage. Dinesh pitched a scoreless eighth inning.
On July 13, in the second game of a doubleheader against the Tigers, Rinku became the first Indian to win a pro game in America, although he didn’t realize it at the time. Rinku was so focused on getting outs and helping his team, it was only later that someone informed him he’d gotten the win. Dinesh notched his first victory not long after that.
These strikeouts and wins weren’t against a bunch of bozos, either. Every player Dinesh and Rinku were competing against was the best high school player in his county, the best player on his college team, or a guy who had been scouted overseas and then brought to America. Everyone they pitched to had been playing baseball religiously for his entire life and excelling that whole time. And now here were two relative novices getting these guys to swing and miss. It was awesome.
For a long time, Rinku and Dinesh had very little sense of whether or not they were actually any good at competitive baseball because of their limited experience with game situations. But once they both got wins under their belts, they realized they were real baseball players. They had done it. Both of them. As I watched them grow into confident athletes and men, I felt a surprising pang of pride—as if I had raised them, which, of course, I hadn’t. They had a real home and real families, who loved them very much.
They received the heroes’ homecoming they’d earned when in November 2009, after Rinku and Dinesh finished their first season in the minor leagues, I took them both back to India. A year and a half since the end of the contest, this was their first time going home. By this time, Rinku was twenty-one, and Dinesh, twenty.
It was great to see the guys again, although I was quickly reminded of what a handful those two jokers could be. At the airport, I got so mad when I saw how much they brought with them. They had three carts of the most random assortment of stuff I had ever seen. Most of it was due to Rinku’s and Dinesh’s incredible generosity. They had brought back gifts for everyone (including about a thousand Pirates hats). There were computers and DVDs for their families. But there was also a ton of junk, like old cleats, socks, useless rosters—stuff that most players would have thrown directly in the garbage. When I asked them why they brought it with them, Dinesh said, “Where were we going to leave it?”
“In your locker, like everyone else,” I answered before shelling out the $1,000 incurred in extra baggage fees.
I had forgotten that in India you don’t just set your stuff someplace and leave, because if you do, it definitely won’t be there when you get back. There was a lot I had forgotten about India, including the different speed of time.
Upon our arrival, we got Rinku and Dinesh cell phones, which took hours only to produce the most absurd results. Rinku’s phone was what you might call an Indian special. The thing, which must have weighed ten pounds, actually had a pullout antenna and a screen that was perpetually filled with static. It looked like a Sony Watchman TV circa 1980.
On the bumpy ride from the city of Varanasi in the guys’ home state of Uttar Pradesh to our first stop of Dinesh’s village, Khanpur, I asked him, “Do your parents have anything planned?”
“My brother said some friends maybe will meet us,” Dinesh said.
That turned out to be the understatement of the year. As we approached a turnabout about four kilometers from Dinesh’s house, we were met by about five hundred screaming friends and villagers. I don’t know what I had expected, but the pandemonium exceeded anything the three of us imagined.
The welcoming committee from Dinesh’s village loaded us on top of a truck, which, in typical Indian fashion, was twenty people beyond recommended capacity. Then they pelted us with the same colored powders I had been attacked with during the Holi festival on the day of the Million Dollar Arm finals. At the entrance of the village, a marching band struck up and escorted us in. The caravan grew bigger and bigger as people yelled to inquisitive passersby, “This is Dinesh! He’s returning from the United States!” Whoever it was that asked the question dropped what he was doing and joined our gang, so that by the time we reached our destination, the crowd had swelled to over two thousand people. (PS: there are only about 1,500 people in Dinesh’s village, so people traveled for this.)
Amid the din of the marching band and cheers, loud even by Indian standards, the procession passed the village elders waiting to place a floral necklace over each of our heads. In return, we touched all of their feet in a sign of respect and said, “Namaste.” We were adorned with turbans, blessed with prayers, and entertained by a dance put on by a bunch of kids from the local school.
By the time we arrived at Dinesh’s uncle’s house for dinner, the three of us were officially overwhelmed. His grandmother, uncle, and mother were equally overwhelmed to see Dinesh.
Although his uncle’s house was humble, it was clear that Dinesh had been able to make some noticeable improvements to his family’s living situation. He proudly showed me the area where they were building an outhouse and a cesspool, both of which are rarities in Indian villages.
On a large table outside, Dinesh’s mother laid out an enormous feast that she must have spent days preparing. In addition to making Dinesh all his favorite dishes, the family bent over backward to make me feel welcome by driving a ten-mile radius from their village in search of Diet Coke. Thank God, they did find a few cans, because Dinesh’s mother made a goat dish that was the spiciest thing I have ever eaten in my entire life. The word “spicy” doesn’t even do it justice. My lips, tongue, and even my nose were all on fire for hours. The physical pain was worth it, though, since the dish was one of the best I had in India.
That wasn’t the only obstacle I encountered in enjoying my meal. As soon as the sun set, a pack of bats started circling above us, eating the flies buzzing around the food. Every time a bat swooped in to nab one of the flies, I ducked as if Dracula himself were coming for me. Everyone else around the table, calmly eating, looked at me curiously. It was a fitting role reversal from the time I took Rinku and Dinesh to Denny’s and presented them with a sacred animal as a snack. Now I was the one freaked out by stuff they found completely normal.
I was able to compose myself for long enough to ask Dinesh’s mother and uncle how they felt about his journey over the last year and a half.
“Is it hard for you to understand what Dinesh and Rinku are trying to accomplish?” I asked through a translator.
Dinesh’s mom offered a response typical of mothers around the globe: “I am a little concerned because it looks like he is going to hurt his arm from throwing so hard,” she said.
“If you could sum up what your wish for Dinesh in life was before the contest, what would it have been and has it changed?” I asked.
After the translation, his mother and uncle vigorously shook their heads no.
“Our wish is always the same,” his uncle said, “for Dinesh to be happy and healthy. Even if he is on the other side of the world in America, if he is those things, that is good enough for us.”
Similar sentiments were echoed by Rinku’s family the next day. We were in their new three-story house, which, by village standards, was as nice as the mansion we’d lived in while in LA. His mom had a bright indoor kitchen
. There was indoor plumbing throughout the house, and everybody had his own bedroom. Even though the village was getting only rolling electricity, Rinku’s room had an electrical outlet with his own little refrigerator plugged into it. And up on the shelf in his brother’s room, I saw Rinku’s trophy from Million Dollar Arm.
Rinku had first learned about the house a few months earlier during a phone conversation with one of his brothers, who had sent him a photo of the nine-bedroom house. Rinku approved and told his brother that when he got back home, they should think about visiting the house and potentially buying it for their parents.
But his brother was playing a trick. The house in the picture was where the family now lived! They had secretly been building it since Rinku won the money from Million Dollar Arm. At that point in the conversation, Rinku found out that his parents had been listening the whole time on speakerphone.
When we arrived at the new house, Rinku choked up. He was not the kind of kid who would ever cry, but the emotions in his expression were pretty close. The money from Million Dollar Arm hadn’t seemed real to him until that moment when his family poured out of their home to put their arms around him.
Rinku was so happy to be back with his family. He had brought his laptop, and he sat next to his mother, showing her videos of him pitching. His mother had no idea what she was watching. It was almost as if a guy from rural Alabama had landed a lucrative contract playing Quidditch. “I can’t believe they are paying you money to throw a ball,” she said. Still, Rinku was excited to be able to share his achievements with her.
It was great for me to see the Singhs again, too. I had so much respect for that family. On very limited resources, Rinku’s dad and mom raised seven successful kids—two sons are in the military, another used his skill as a runner to land a government job with the railroad, and their daughters married professionals. I sat down with Mr. Singh for a heart-to-heart. As someone who is interested in the ways of successful people, I had to ask him how he did it.
Million Dollar Arm Page 14
