Fear Strikes Out

by Jim Piersall

  “This doctor I was telling you about.”

  “You didn’t tell me about any doctor.”

  “You weren’t listening, Jimmy. This is a guy who can give you something to make you sleep.”

  “What kind of a doctor is he?” I asked, suspiciously.

  “Just an ordinary doctor. Mary knows him.”

  “Who is he?” I asked her.

  “A good man,” she said. “I’m going to make an appointment for you to see him before you go South.”

  “I don’t need a doctor,” I said sullenly. But I wanted to get rid of the headaches and, after a while, I agreed to go.

  Mary made an appointment for the next afternoon. I stayed home all day, prowling around the house, playing with Eileen, trying to read the papers, killing time any way I could. When Mary said, “O.K., let’s go,” I helped her into a coat, put one on myself and went out to the car.

  It took us only a few minutes to get to the doctor’s. He saw me right away, and, while Mary sat in the waiting room, I walked into the office. As soon as I got inside, I snapped, “This wasn’t my idea. My wife wanted me to see you.”

  “That’s all right,” he commented. “Just sit down.”

  “I won’t be here long. I’ll stand. Just give me something that’ll make me sleep.”

  “I’d like to ask you one or two questions—then I’ll give you something.”

  While I walked back and forth in front of him, he began talking, but I hardly listened. Instead, I kept repeating, “O.K., O.K., just give me the sleeping pills.” Finally, unable to stand his voice any longer, I turned and walked out. I picked up my coat and said to Mary, “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

  A few nights before it was time to leave for Sarasota—I had steadily insisted that I wasn’t going—Mary drove the car up beside me as I was walking along Capouse Avenue, about three blocks from the house. As usual I had spent the day in the movies.

  “It’s after ten, Jimmy,” she said, calmly, as she leaned out. “Time to come home.”

  The thermometer was flirting with zero, but I dripped with perspiration as I crunched through the snow. Cold as it was, I had my coat unbuttoned and the collar of my shirt open. My head buzzed with the pressure of pain and my eyes smarted. I was staring at the ground as I walked along, but now I looked up. Then, without a word, I climbed into the car and Mary drove us home. My dad was waiting for me when we got there.

  “Hello, son.”

  His harsh voice was pitched low, and he had an odd smile on his face.

  “What are you doing here?” I managed to ask. I couldn’t say any more. My throat was tight and my shoulders were quivering and my eyes were smarting more than ever. I sank down on the divan, cradled my pounding head in my arms and cried like a baby.

  After a while, I heard Dad say, “All set to go South?”

  “I’m not going,” I sobbed. “They don’t want me.”

  “Sure they want you. Say, Jimmy, you know who was asking for you yesterday? Bill Tracy. He read that you were invited to that rookie school, and he can’t wait to see how you do.”

  “I won’t be there.”

  “Jimmy—”

  My dad’s voice was very soft now, softer than I ever remembered it.

  “Yeah?”

  “Tracy’d like to see you.”

  Tracy wants to see me? Good old Tracy. Such a decent, fair, straight-shooting guy! He knows me and understands me like nobody else does—even Mary. He’s the only person I know I can trust. He’s my friend. He’ll tell me what to do.

  “I’d like to see him, too,” I said.

  “Fine. We’ll go to Waterbury in the morning.”

  Bill met us at the railroad station and drove us over to East Main Street so I could say hello to Mom. We dropped my father off, and then went back to Tracy’s house, where we talked for a while. He told me that no one was trying to get rid of me—that the Red Sox needed me as shortstop and were giving me a chance to play one position that was almost sure to be open right away.

  “Just because Boudreau announced that he wouldn’t bring you into the majors now if you look like a promising shortstop doesn’t mean that he really won’t,” Bill explained. “If you look that good, you’ll stay right with the team. He can’t get rid of you, because he doesn’t have another shortstop. Stephens’s hip is still doubtful. There isn’t anyone else.”

  “I know, but look at the way I got pushed around last year.”

  “You didn’t get pushed around, Jim,” he said. “You pushed yourself around. It all started when you asked O’Neill to send you down.”

  It didn’t sound right to me, but Bill seemed to know what he was talking about. He failed to convince me that the Red Sox really wanted me, but I did agree to report to the special training camp just to see what would happen. I took a late afternoon train back to Scranton. It was January 13. I had less than forty-eight hours to get to Sarasota.

  I got home late, then paced the floor for a couple of hours before I went to bed. I don’t want to go to Sarasota. I’ll get pushed around some more there. The Red Sox don’t like me and they don’t want me. But I’ll go—I promised Tracy I would, and I can’t let Tracy down. Besides, I want to prove to him how wrong he is. He thinks Boudreau will keep me with the Red Sox. Of course, he’s wrong. Boudreau will make me fool around in the infield awhile and then send me back to Louisville, or maybe Birmingham, and that’s the last I’ll ever see of the Red Sox. Bill Tracy’s a smart guy, but he doesn’t know all the answers. I’ll go. I told him I’d go. But I’ll fool him and Boudreau and everyone else. I’ll go down there without my fielder’s glove! That’ll stop everyone. You can’t work out without a glove. I didn’t tell Tracy I’d work out. I just promised him I’d report to the ball club in time to make the special training school. When they see that I don’t have my glove, they’ll know I mean business. Yes, sir, I’ll leave my glove home.

  I felt better. The headache was still bad, but I could lie down and rest, if not sleep. It was now after three o’clock in the morning. Mary had stayed up to see me after I got in from Scranton, but she had long since gone to sleep. Eileen seemed to be all right. There wasn’t a peep out of her. I couldn’t have stood it if she had waked up and cried.

  After a miserable night, I got up and took an ice-cold shower. Then after she had given me some breakfast, Mary said, “Come on. Let’s go down to the airlines’ office and get your ticket. You have to be in Sarasota by tomorrow.”

  She had one hand on my shoulder. I reached up and touched it and, for a minute, I felt relaxed.

  “How do you feel, honey?” I asked her.

  “Fine.”

  “You know, I’ve been so upset myself, I forgot all about you for a little while. Take care of yourself?”

  “I will, Jimmy.”

  “We don’t want anything to happen this time.”

  “Don’t worry. Nothing will. It’ll be just like when we had Eileen. Nice and routine.”

  “I will worry.”

  “You’ve got enough on your mind, honey,” she said. “You just go down there to Florida and show all those people that you’re a big-league ballplayer, and don’t think about me. I’ll be all right.”

  “Mary—”

  “What?”

  “I’m not a big-league ballplayer—not if they try to make a shortstop out of me.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never tried to play shortstop. Jimmy, honey, the Red Sox know what they’re doing. They wouldn’t try to shift you if they didn’t think you could do it.”

  I didn’t say anything. What’s the use of starting another argument? Mary doesn’t understand, and she never will understand. I’ll just go along with her, and even act as if I agree. What’s the difference? I won’t have my glove with me, so I can’t possibly practice. But she doesn’t know that. She never will know. If she asks me about it later, I’ll tell her I lost it.

  Mary helped me pack the old foot locker—the same one I had first taken to Br
adenton—and we sent it on ahead by air express when we went down to pick up my plane ticket. After we arrived back at the house, she said, “Now get out your two-suiter and we’ll pack it.”

  “I’ll pack it,” I told her.

  “You go and take it easy, honey. You’ve got a tough trip ahead.”

  “I’ll pack it, I said,” I blazed.

  Mary, her eyes wide, backed away a few steps.

  “All right, Jimmy. Pack it if you want. I just thought I could help you.”

  “I don’t need any help,” I said, sullenly.

  If Mary packs it, she’ll be sure I take the glove and if I take the glove I won’t have any excuse not to work out. I’ve got to leave the glove behind. I’ll hide it in my bureau drawer. She won’t think to look for it there. I’ll dump everything else into the suitcase and get it closed and locked before she comes back into the room. She’ll never know the difference.

  I pulled the two-suiter off the closet shelf, spread it open on the bed and threw my clothes into it. I worked fast, and the job didn’t take long. I snapped the clasp shut, turned the key in the little lock, then put the key in my pocket. I breathed a long sigh. Mary hadn’t come into the room at all. Good. Very good. No glove, no workout. Now I’m just going to Sarasota for the ride.

  My plane was scheduled to leave at nine-thirty P.M., and, as Mary had pointed out, it would not be an easy trip. I’d either be flying or hanging around airports all night, since I’d have to make two changes, one in New York, the other in Tampa. Shortly after dinner, Mary, George and I got into George’s car, drove in town to pick up Tony and Bob Howley and then went out to the Scranton-Wilkes-Barre airport.

  I felt good. My head only ached a little and I wasn’t too nervous. The conversation was pretty general, and I took part in it. I won’t have to talk to anybody once the plane starts. I don’t want to talk to anybody—not ever again. I hope I don’t meet anyone I know. Meanwhile, I might as well be nice to everyone here.

  When the flight was called, I shook hands with the Howleys and George, kissed Mary and started for the plane. I took only a few steps, then remembered something. Turning back, I beckoned to Mary, and she stepped towards me. When we met, I put my arms around her, kissed her again and murmured, “Take care of yourself, honey.”

  She smiled, a warm, happy smile, then replied, softly, “Don’t worry, I will.”

  The new baby was due in six weeks.

  I climbed aboard the plane, nodded an acknowledgment to the stewardess’s greeting and walked the length of the aisle, taking a rear seat beside the window. I fastened the safety belt, pulled my hat down over my face, leaned my head against the window and half closed my eyes. I made no attempt to go to sleep, because it is only a short plane ride from Scranton to New York and I had the whole night in front of me.

  At LaGuardia, I had about an hour’s wait for the Tampa plane, which was scheduled to take off a little after midnight. I prowled back and forth on the long straight corridor that leads to the plane gates, hoping to tire myself out enough so that I’d be able to sleep on the long ride south. My head was buzzing again. I hadn’t had a real night’s sleep in weeks, and the last thirty hours had been a nightmare. By the time the Tampa flight was called, I was ready to drop. I picked up my grip and stumbled aboard the plane, falling into the first window seat I came to. I fastened the belt and cradled my head into the corner formed by the casement and the back of the seat and I must have gone to sleep before the plane took off. When I woke up, we were taxiing along the ground in Tampa. My seat belt was still fastened.

  The airstrip gleamed in the morning sun, and my winter clothes felt itchy and heavy as I stepped off the plane. In spite of the long sleep, I was jumpy and uncomfortable, and the band of pain was tight across my forehead. I washed up and had a cup of coffee, but the headache persisted. By now I had about three quarters of an hour to kill before the Sarasota plane would be ready. I went into a far corner of the waiting room and sat down, turning my head so that no one could get a clear view of me.

  Oh, God, why won’t the Red Sox leave me alone? I want to be a big-league ballplayer and I’m good enough to be a big-league ballplayer if they’d let me. What did I ever do to make them treat me this way? If they don’t want me to play the outfield for them, why don’t they trade me? Nobody in the whole outfit has any use for me. Why? What started all this? And why do they have to go through such a complicated arrangement to make me quit? Why do they have to go through this farce of announcing that I was going to be a shortstop? They know I’ll never make it, so why doesn’t somebody just pull me aside and say, “Look, Jimmy, you don’t belong here with us. We’re going to let you go”?

  Well, maybe they’ll do it now. I can’t practice without a glove. Lucky Mary didn’t pack my two-suiter. She’d have put the glove into it, and I wouldn’t have had any excuse not to work out. I’d have had to hang around Sarasota. This way, I can tell them I have no glove, then turn around and go home. That’ll be better for me. Why wait for the Red Sox to tell me to go? I’ll leave of my own accord.

  The Sarasota plane was called. Mechanically, I stood up and, keeping my head down, walked towards the gate. There might be other ballplayers here. I don’t want any of them to see me. If someone recognizes me, he’ll come over and talk to me and I don’t want to talk to anyone. Head down, hat pulled over my eyes, I went up the steps and into the plane. I left the suitcase in the luggage compartment and walked the length of the plane. Thank goodness, there’s nobody in that last window seat. I strapped myself in and looked out into the bright sunlight.

  The motors turned over, and the plane shook with the vibration, then taxied out to the runway. I didn’t dare look away from the window. There was no one sitting beside me, but I didn’t know who might be across the aisle. There must be ballplayers aboard. Please, God, don’t let any of them see me.

  It’s barely half an hour by air from Tampa to the Sarasota-Bradenton airport, with a stop at St. Petersburg in between. When we arrived at Sarasota, I sat still until all the passengers who were going there were off the plane. Then I stood up and, without looking up, moved through the plane. After getting my grip, I carefully walked down the steps, moved through the waiting room and got into a rear seat of the Sarasota limousine. I kept my head down the whole time. When it was necessary to look to see where I was going, I raised only my eyes.

  Now I mustn’t be seen. This is the last leg of the trip. The next stop will be the hotel. I mustn’t talk. I mustn’t be recognized. I mustn’t let anyone know I’m here—not in the limousine. I mustn’t look up. I may catch the eye of someone who knows me, and I can’t stand that.

  I was dimly aware of a clattering headache, much worse than usual, and my hands were clammy with sweat. There were butterflies in my stomach and the tension seemed unbearable as we approached the Sarasota-Terrace Hotel. The blood was pounding through my veins and my nerves seemed to whine aloud for release.

  Why am I so nervous? I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’ll check in and go upstairs to my room. I won’t talk to anyone except maybe my roommate. I’ll have a roommate, of course. Maybe he won’t be in yet. Then pretty soon, I’ll get a call, maybe from Boudreau or one of the coaches, and they’ll tell me what time to report to Payne Field. I hope it’s this afternoon, so I can get this all over with. I’ll be given a uniform, and I’ll get into it. The boys will be pretty quiet this first day, so nobody will notice that I’m not talking to anyone. After a while, we’ll go out on the field. Then Boudreau will say, “O.K., Piersall, you go to shortstop.” And I’ll say, “But I don’t have a glove. How can I go to shortstop?” And he’ll say, “No glove? Then you can’t work, can you?” And I’ll say, “No, I can’t work.” And he’ll say, “Well, you might as well go home then.” And I’ll say, “I might as well.” And he’ll say, “We really don’t want you anyhow. This business of shifting you to shortstop was just to let you know we don’t want you around.” And I’ll say, “Thanks for being honest.” And th
at will be that.

  Now we were in front of the hotel, and I was backing out of the limousine, crablike, so that I wouldn’t be recognized by anyone who might be sitting in the hotel patio. I stood aside, facing the big car, while the driver dug my two-suiter out of the trunk. My heart was beating a frantic tattoo on my ribs and my head was splitting and my eyes were smarting, and the winter suit hung heavy on my saturated shoulders. My muscles ached and my mouth was dry and my throat burned and my whole body was being pulled every which way by a thousand frenetic nerve ends restlessly straining and tugging and tumbling all over each other.

  I paid the driver, picked up my suitcase and turned towards the hotel. I moved slowly, like a man on a treadmill, and headed for the front door.

  Head down—head down—there are people on the patio. Some of them have to be ballplayers. They’ll see you and recognize you and say something. Don’t answer them. Head down—

  Without looking in either direction, without even raising my eyes, I crossed the patio and stepped over the threshold. Then I began walking across the lobby....

  WHEN YOU LOOK OUT the window of the violent room in the Westborough State Hospital, your eye first catches sight of a huge water tower, which is set high on a hill and dominates everything around it. The tower is close by the hospital and perhaps a mile in from the Worcester Turnpike, one of the main highways leading south and west from Boston. I drive over that road often in the wintertime, and whenever I pass the water tower, I say a prayer. I pray for Mary and I pray for the children and I pray for all the people who still must see the water tower only from that other angle and, most of all, I pray that it will never again happen to me.

  How many prayers have I whispered as I looked out the windows of the violent room! How many times have I repeated the Rosary in the shadows of that tower! How often have I fixed my mind on prayers to God and St. Joseph and St. Anthony while I fixed my eyes on the tower outside! St. Joseph, patron saint of the family unit, is my favorite. St. Anthony, my name saint, is patron saint for the recovery of lost objects—and I had been on the very edge of losing everything.