One of the unidentified voices on the conference call explains how he foresees things proceeding. “Listen, we don’t want this to be any sort of distraction to you this week. We want you to focus on what you need to focus on, and we’ll announce the decision when the dust settles. Does that sound fair?”
Though the man can’t see me, he must know my nerves are on overload by the way he’s speaking. On the other end of my phone, a small army of baseball personnel for the Cleveland Indians has gathered to discuss the possibility of me becoming the next head manager of the team. I’m alone in a hotel room in Los Angeles, half asleep, and knowing that the real fun starts as soon as I get off the phone. My current team, the Erie Express, has battled its way into the Triple-A Minor League World Series. The first pitch flies at 1:05 p.m., rain or shine.
“S-sure,” I stumble, “sounds great, and I appreciate you thinking of me and my situation during this, err...process.”
Dallas Huntley, now the team president of the Cleveland Indians has done the bulk of the talking thus far. “Well, just like the paper is reporting, we’ve narrowed our field down to two main candidates, and that selection process has left us in a unique position. On the one hand, we have one of our own coaches, from our farm system, waiting in the wings to take over. He’s well known here in Cleveland, as a former Indian, and has proven himself to be one of the up-and-comers in the game. On the other hand, we have you, also a well-liked prospect who has more experience and a great eye for pitching talent. Sure, we need someone who can kick-start our pitching program, but do we want to bring that person in as a head coach or a pitching coach? That’s the problem we face, but let’s not forget that if we don’t grab you while we can, our rivals in Detroit will no doubt scoop you up. So, not only would we get a great new manager, but we would stick it to them as well. That is a factor that can’t be quantified on paper, my friend.”
A surprise to no one at all, the other candidate, Woodie, currently manages the Indians’ Triple-A affiliate. He has spent just two seasons at the helm of The Hollywood Stars, and already my arch nemesis has them playing at a championship level. It’ll be hard to argue against hiring either of us, so my goal remains to coach my team to victory and hope that that proves enough.
I set down the binder I’ve been studying, full of the opposing team’s stats. “I appreciate you being open and honest with me at each step. I understand the position you’re in. Don’t think for a second I’m unaware of the choice you’re facing. Woodie and I go way back. I’ve seen his work ethic and determination up close more times than I care to recall. He’d be an excellent coach, mentor, and manager for your club. And that is why I’ll ask him to be my bench coach as soon as you guys come to your senses and offer me the job.”
Even I am shocked by my boldness.
“Ooh. This guy has got moxie. I like it.” exclaims someone else in the room, but the sudden outburst of all the others clouds the phone, making it hard to determine who spoke.
Mr. Huntley asks for quiet. “We’ve heard the same info about you from Woodie already. I think it’s great that you two have such deep respect for each other. We’re all very excited to see what happens during the international League World Series this week.”
We exchange pleasantries and hang up, so the preparations for today’s game can begin in earnest. The Express have batting practice soon, but the next hour I have all to myself. I limp into the therapy office to relax, but before I even sit down Jez, my team’s rehab therapist starts pestering me.
Jez peers down at his watch. “I hope there’s a good story behind your late arrival, mate.”
He’s a big ogre of a man who grew up over the pond in the UK, thus his accent sometimes makes it hard to communicate. What he lacks in Yankee attitude, however, he makes up for by being the best masseuse, ever. That makes him a friend to the whole team.
I sit down on one of his tables, grunting in the process. “The way my leg cramped up an hour ago, you’re lucky I made it at all.”
Over the past few seasons, he’s become my personal trainer and head cheerleader in my quest to become a better human being. While coaching one of the best teams in the minor leagues, I’ve rededicated myself to being a healthy person as well. Each day I’m working out just like I did in my youth. Jez oversees my regimen, including a daily massage for my abused legs and arms. My eating habits have also improved, though, that isn’t saying much considering the abuse I forced down my throat for years.
Jez tosses a baseball in his hands, which isn’t that odd considering we’re at a ballpark, but it looks like it’s covered in something other than cowhide.
He catches my gaze and smirks before tossing the ball onto a stack of towels. “You excited to be playing baseball on Dave Bresnahan day?”
The name Jez mentioned rings a bell, but I can’t recall where I’ve heard it before. “Uh, sure Jez, sure.”
He gives me a disapproving look. “It amazes me how little you little scrotes bother to study the history of the sport you expect to pay your bills.”
Jez didn’t grow up as a fan of baseball and he loves to remind us all of this fact. For generations his family has managed stables, breeding and training horses to run in the Grand National, the Kentucky Derby of England. He got his start in physical therapy by working day and night with athletic horses, so I guess on some level, I should feel ashamed that his baseball knowledge vastly surpasses mine.
“Well, Jez, isn’t that what you’re here for, to help me stay healthy so I can be an effective coach rather than a crab ass? How about you stop rubbing my nose in it and tell me whatever it is you know about Dave Breezingham.”
Rolling his eyes, Jez beckons me over to the massage table. “Let’s take care of your leg first and I’ll tell you all about Dave Bresnahan, and why he has his own day. Then we can discuss your shoulder and why you should listen to me for once.”
“Look Jez, the woman I love is out west, raising my son, who I’ve met only a couple of times under strict supervision because of my behavior. My father hasn’t spoken to me for years after he punched my lights out. My best friend is out-coaching me with less experience. Not to mention, the trainer I hired spends all of his days pestering me about old baseball stories and nonsense rather than helping my team win. You want to talk about pain and stress? Then let’s start there. As for my body, it’s as ready as I am to lead these men between the foul poles and onto victory, all right.”
I inject my voice with all the confidence I can muster, hoping he will let sleeping dogs lie.
Jez pats my leg a few times. “Hand me my baseball, would you?”
I grab for the baseball, but as my hand wraps around it I pull back in shock. I let out a surprised gasp and my eyes dart to Jez for an explanation. His face displays a smile full of large teeth, not all of them straight.
“Now are you ready to hear about Dave Bresnahan?” he asks, rubbing my leg. “In my opinion, Dave’s tale ranks as one of the single funniest stories in the hundred and fifty-plus years that baseball has been around. When the game was first invented, it was played to pass away the downtime during the Civil War. The act of a man trying to hit a ball thrown at high speeds with a thin wooden stick should be evidence enough that the game was meant to be an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon, not a league of muscled men scowling and too serious for their own good.”
I smirk.
Jez digs into my leg, attacking my sore muscles. “Anyway, back in the early '80s, Dave Bresnahan was a minor league catcher playing in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. He was a young guy, but his heart had already told him that professional baseball was not his future. You see, Dave wasn’t even the starting catcher on his Double-A team. He knew he had little chance to climb higher in the organization. Knowing that he wasn’t going to be playing baseball much longer, Dave came up with a scheme to play one of the best gags ever pulled off in a game.”
Jez’s relaxing baritone, coupled with his massage, lifts me into a transcendent state of meditatio
n.
He continues, “One day he peeled a spud, you know, a potato until it was round like a baseball, and even painted red stitch lines on it. Then, during a game he was catching, he threw it down the left-field line, pretending a pickoff attempt with the runner at third base. The throw was tossed high and wide on purpose to trick the runner into thinking he could advance home with no chance of interference. Before the base runner could step on home plate, however, Dave Bresnahan tagged him out with the real baseball, which was still in his possession.”
I furrow my brow and grin. “Are you serious?”
I can’t remember ever hearing a story in baseball where someone got away with a gag as funny as this. The anger and frustration bubbling inside me just a few moments ago fades into background noise as my spirits lift.
I prop myself up on my elbows. “What happened? Did the runner get called out?”
“Well, initially yes. The ump was as confused as the rest of the crowd and players, so he called out the runner. That is, until they went to investigate what Dave had thrown in front of a stadium full of witnesses. When it was determined it was a spud, the runner was declared safe. The next day, Dave Bresnahan was let go by his team and never played ball again.”
Looking at the potato baseball with a new appreciation, I toss it in the air a couple of times.
“Pretty bloody funny eh?” Jez asks, patting my leg to signal he’s done.
“Hell ya. If you gotta go, you might as well go out with a bang, but I hope he had something lined up for life after baseball. It would be a shame to give up on the game, only to find nothing but failure elsewhere. Heck, I planned on playing until they dragged me away...” I trail off as the combination of this long season and the importance of this game sinks in. Then after a moment’s pause, I add, “In the end, I dragged myself away with false promises and pain pills.”
I toss the potato baseball back at Jez.
He catches it. “Ryan, go out there and thrash ‘em.”
“Jez, tonight no one can stand in the way of our victory. I don’t care what crazy stances they use, I don’t care if they steal signals, and I even don’t care if they cork their bats. We are ready.”
Still buzzing over the potato baseball story, I turn back. “So, Jez I don’t know if you would know, but whatever happened to Dave Bresnahan after he was cut? Did he find a life after baseball?”
Jez chuckles, shakes his head, and answers my question while preparing the next person for a rubdown. “You know, there are lots of great and honorable things in life that don’t require a ball to be hit. Dave found a great career forming a realty company out in Arizona. He told me that story himself when he sold me my house. Seems like a great guy who is just as happy, if not happier, than any of you career baseball blokes are. And he doesn’t spend half of his life stuck on a broken-down old bus, rank with body odor, driving from small town to small town just to pretend that what he’s doing is important. Ryan, sooner or later you’ll learn that there are bigger things in life than games.”
Without a pause, I wink. “Not likely.”
Though, as I walk toward the field, I can’t stop thinking of how much I miss Molly, and how much I wish I knew my son. I feel like I’ve moved my small stones, and that I’m inching toward the big ones.
Detouring to my office, I grab my cellphone, and before I can second guess myself, I press the call button.
It rings until the voicemail kicks in.
I was hoping to talk man to man, but the message can’t wait any longer. “Dad, I have a lot that I want to say and even more that I need to apologize for. Maybe we can talk after the series? I hope all is swell. I love you, dad.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Five Days Later
Wiping residual drool from my face, I prop my left arm on the baseball strategy book I fell asleep reading. The series, now tied at two games apiece, has left me searching for any edge I can get.
It’s one thing to look at a locker room full of young players and convince them to take things day-to-day, at bat-to-at bat, and even pitch-to-pitch, but after a few whirlwind days of the press, the TV, the larger-than-life crowds it all becomes a bit much for everyone. The pressure keeps mounting, so my team needs me to lead them now more than ever.
Feeling the repercussions for falling asleep in the most uncomfortable chair this hotel has to offer, I stretch my sore back, and head toward the kitchenette. Surveying my hotel room, I’m pleased to welcome yet another day without a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of pills, or even empty beer cans littering the floor. My body is back to 100 percent natural, even if it only feels about 30 percent ready to start the day.
The hotel here in California has become my office away from home as various books, ballgame tapes, and random papers with my scribbling litter every surface of the place. I even opened up the microwave yesterday and found a note about our third baseman’s habit of playing too far off the line in certain situations.
The phone rings.
Maybe it’s the Indians and they’ve decided to just give me the job. I’ve grinded through injuries, addictions, heartbreaks, and have had my share of bad luck, but in the end, I am still fighting and, I think, that says a lot about me.
I clear my throat. “Hello?”
“Son, I have good news and bad news.” My father sighs.
Stunned speechless, I drop the phone. I swipe at the small cell phone as it falls to the ground, managing to knock over a lamp and invent a new dance move in the process. Picking up the phone, I verify the line is still connected.
“Dad, are you okay?”
“What? I’m fine, but you sir have major problems to deal with.”
My mind verges on the edge of hysteria. “Well, maybe you could tell me so I can breathe again.”
“It’s your catcher, son,” my father responds in his all-too-calm, voice. “He can’t throw out a base stealer to save his life. Please, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”
Relief floods. “Well, Dad, I had noticed, but I think at this point we’re going to play the final games with who we’ve got on our roster. Thank you, though, for almost sending me into cardiac arrest, over here.”
My father adds a touch of authority to his tone. “I just watched that last game again and realized that all three stolen bases cost you runs. That just can’t happen.”
I’m managing a team in a championship series and yet still getting coached. “Didn’t you say something about good news?”
He coughs...or stalls? “Well, the good news is, before game seven, I can show your catcher a few tricks of the trade that just might save your bacon. That is, if you want my help.”
“You...you’re coming here?” I ask, looking at the phone, astonished.
“Yes, sir. Your mom and I are flying in Saturday, which’ll give us plenty of time before game seven on Sunday to fix your little problem.”
I force myself to stop picking up the apartment; they aren’t here in town yet. “If there is a game seven.”
“Well son, it’s up to you to make that happen, right?”
I can picture his eyebrows rising to emphasize his question.
“Dad—”
“Not now, son. Your mother snuck behind my back and donated my favorite chair. My search for a replacement may take all afternoon, and I assume you have a thing or two to prepare.”
We hang up and retreat back inside ourselves as the shock of what just happened sets in. Feeling a wide smile spread across my sunburned cheeks, I stand with a purpose. I speak to my empty hotel room. “My father wants a game seven. Then a game seven there shall be.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Four Days Later
I stroll across the outfield grass toward my bench coach and former teammate Speedy Steve.
He shakes my hand and nods toward right field. “Damn, your dad looks great. I haven’t seen him since, well, since you blew out your shoulder.”
I nod an affirmative and swing my arms to get the blood flowing. My b
ody feels good, though the pressure in my locked jaw may crack teeth before the end of warm-ups. “Listen Speedy, I know I overstepped my bounds with this, but I appreciate you allowing me to have my father on the field.”
He pounds his glove. “Hey man, no worries. I know what it means for you to have him here. If it’s true that he can help, then we’re going to be the better for it. Besides, I figure if I keep doing good deeds for the team you might stop calling me Speedy in front of the guys.”
I shake my head, and wiggle my index finger. “Come on, after all these years, hasn’t it grown on you?”
He gives me a sideways glance, and then motions toward my father, stretching in the outfield. “What did he have to say? I mean, what changed his mind to talk to you?”
I shrug my shoulders. “So far nothing. When I arrived he was already out here working with the catchers.”
Speedy looks around to make sure no one stands within earshot. “Look, I don’t want to be the guy to jinx us, but I’m feeling some good vibes.”
In baseball, wishing someone good luck can be a reason to throw down, but having good feelings before a game seven is like a cardinal sin. To have a lifetime baseball man like Speedy, and a superstitious one at that, make that outlandish comment has my attention.
I grab my bench coach close, by putting one long arm around his broad shoulder. “During the game, I want you to pitch me every last trick you have in the book. I want to catch them off-guard by being as aggressive as Woodie. Tonight, we will be the team twinkling, while the Hollywood Stars are left in the dark.”
Speedy pumps his fist, exposing a regrettable tattoo of a long-gone woman’s name running crooked up his forearm. “Now to figure out how to fit hundreds of ideas into just nine innings.”
Patting Speedy on the shoulder, I breathe in the unseasonably cool California air as we head toward our catchers and my father. There has been a freak snowstorm belting the Rockies, but all reports say, besides some chilly winds, the skies should be clear. I hope we don’t require the services of our knuckleballer. When it gets cold his pitches release even more erratic than normal.
A Life of Inches Page 16
