A Life of Inches

by Douglas Esper

  It appears, as I approach my father, that he’s showing my starting catcher a sliding motion to help set his feet quicker. Each millisecond that a catcher has the ball in his hands, rather than throwing it toward second, can determine whether the runner steals a base or gets gunned down. Neither of my catchers has found much success this year, and as my father pointed out, it has cost us.

  Woodie’s style of coaching matches his style of play, full speed ahead and aggressive. If Speedy and my father can curb the effects of his aggressive play enough, then my team might gain an edge and a chance at walking away as champs.

  I motion for a player to toss me a ball. “You’re not teaching these guys any bad habits, are you, Dad?”

  Not having any clue how either he or I will react, I’m prepared for anything yet projecting nothing to muddy the situation.

  My father chuckles and waves us over, which lightens the mood. “Don’t you managers teach fundamentals anymore? No wonder the Indians stink year after year.”

  “Well Dad, if I hit the Majors, you can call me anytime to bitch about a lack of fundamentals, okay? Today though, as a proud Minor League coach, I take offense to being compared to the abysmal Tribe.”

  My father telegraphs a punch to my gut that almost causes me to jump out of my cleats. “I’m proud of you, son.”

  As he speaks, his eyes are surveying the field full of stretching players.

  “Dad,” I say, keeping emotions at bay. “Don’t get me all choked up in front of my guys.”

  “Please, don’t cry. You’re a leader of men. I don’t want you embarrassing me and your mother before the game even starts.”

  Just as fast as the wave of emotion rose, it crashes away without a sound. I regain control and focus. “How’s Mom?”

  “She’s good.” My dad says, catching a ball and then bouncing it toward my starting catcher. “She got up early to find a church this morning.”

  I nod.

  Speedy chimes in. “Well, it’s good to know someone is praying for this rag-tag outfit. Mr. Kelly, do you mind if I sit in on this catcher session? I’d love to know what you’re teaching my guys.”

  “You bet,” my father begins, shooting me a wink. “Son, don’t you have a team to manage? This group is in good hands with Steve and me.”

  I want to stay and talk, or better yet pull my father into an office to talk in private, but as usual the man is right. I have a game to win. Making my way around the workout, I offer encouragement and pointers to my players and coaching staff. My spirits are soaring by the time our practice finishes up. As my players gather in the visiting team’s locker room, surrounded by the sharp minty aroma of Ben Gay, no one is more stunned than I as I begin an unplanned speech.

  “Men. I’ve been around the game of baseball for a long time, and God willing, I’ll be around for a long time after today. I’ve watched the game, played the game, and now coached the game surrounded by some of the best people I know. The respect I have for you guys in here is just as high as it is for anyone else I’ve ever stepped onto the field with. Ever. You’ve all heard the rumors swirling around about the possibilities that lie ahead for me, so I’m not going to sit here with you, the guys I respect, and sugarcoat anything. If the Cleveland Indians see fit to offer me their coaching job, I’m gonna take it, but to be honest, at this moment, all I care about is right here and now. So I want to be damn sure that whoever follows me out onto the field is ready to fight for every single inch of game that stands between us and victory.”

  The energy in the room buzzes.

  I survey the eager, committed expressions of my team. “Well, I’ve had enough of this talking and posturing crap, so I’ll make this simple. Who’s coming with me?”

  The locker room erupts into a screaming, yelling mob scene as my players jump up and rush toward the field as the Erie Express, with one goal in mind. That is, of course, to eclipse the Hollywood Stars.

  All right, Woodie, here we come.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A Few Hours Later

  Woodie’s about to lose his temper. Tied 3-3 in the seventh, I can’t believe he’s risking getting thrown out over something petty, like a close call at second. He must feel the same gut-churning pressure I am to make something happen before it’s too late.

  I nod. “Guys, this is about to get interesting.”

  Woodie starts kicking dirt around the infield and waving his arms like a flailing bird caught in a tornado.

  With a runner on first and only one out, Woodie was going to have his second baseman lay down a bunt to advance the runner. That much was easy to predict, thus I had my infield move in at the last possible moment to cover the bunt attempt. This also was no surprise to the other team, so the Stars started their runner on first movement. Our pitcher’s windup takes forever, so stealing on him doesn’t take a burner on the bases, but in this case, we caught a break. While squaring to bunt, the batter hesitated for just an instant, and he wasn’t quite set as the pitch blew past him and into the catcher’s mitt without making any contact.

  Our catcher hopped up, eyes alert, and then he did something that swelled my heart with pride, joy, and hope. Risking a few precious milliseconds, he shifted his feet a few inches to set his balance, and gunned the ball across the infield. Unlike his usual throws, this one was right on target. A cloud of dust kicked up from the second baseman’s mitt as the ball slammed into it, just in time to tag the oncoming base runner’s leg.

  Woodie yells as he crosses the diamond to argue with the broad shouldered man in blue who just called his player out. “Are you kidding me? He slid right under your blind eyes and this man’s arm, and was safe.”

  The ump puffs out his chest, apparently content to antagonize Woodie rather than calm him down. “Ramon tagged him. It was a perfect throw. Just walk back to your dugout and admire a good play when you see it.”

  Enraged, Woodie throws up his arms, as the memories of the many times I have seen this tirade before come flooding back.

  Glancing over to the standing room only crowd, I see my father still clapping and cheering for the catcher he helped coach this morning. We exchange a wink as a large helping of bundled emotions drops like a large stone down through my chest.

  Focusing my attention back toward the circus sideshow at second base, I know my oldest friend finds pushing his luck comfortable, and I also know that if I let this continue he’ll end up watching the rest of the game from a TV set in the underbelly of the stadium.

  Woodie’s angry voice rises so loud that his complaining can be heard three rows deep around the stadium. “My grandmother could’ve made a better call, ump. And she’s been dead for twenty years.”

  “This is getting ugly,” I say to my dugout. “I’m going to go straighten this out.”

  I head toward the war being waged on national television over a simple judgment call at second.

  Before I get there, however, the words continue to rage out of Woodie. “Do you have a date tonight, is that it? Why else would you be in such a hurry to make whatever call you can to get out of here on time?”

  The ump appears taken aback that Woodie would tread this ground. He points a finger at Woodie’s chest. “Now you listen. I’ve been an ump for fifteen years and–”

  Woodie interrupts, “Fifteen years, huh, and in that whole time you never once thought about getting glasses?”

  The hefty ump pulls up at the waistband of his pants and straightens. Attempting an expression to convey toughness, the ump just looks constipated to me. “One more word and I toss you. The only reason I haven’t yet is because it’s the last game, and I don’t want to help decide it.”

  Woodie says, “You sure? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting, it looks like you have money on the other team.”

  Hustling, though it feels like I’m fighting through three feet of lake effect snow, I grab Woodie and pull him back. I motion for Higgins, our immature shortstop, to get between the ump and Woodie.

  “That’s
it,” the ump starts.

  Damn, I’m too late.

  Woodie jabbers on. “By the way, Jim Joyce just called and said thanks for helping people forget his historically lousy call.”

  The ump raises his hand to throw Woodie out.

  I inject myself into a conversation that all logic suggests I stay out of. “Wait, please don’t toss him.”

  Unsure why opposing managers would be sticking up for one another, the ump falls quiet and forgets about throwing Woodie out for the moment.

  I use that window to make a quick point and hope it works. “We don’t want the game decided like this. I know Woodie said some inappropriate things, but it’s nothing personal. It’s just a stressful and exciting day for all of us. Just let him apologize, and let’s get back to the game, okay?”

  Woodie stops struggling in my arms, dumbfounded.

  The ump asks, “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, sir. Let us finish this game,” I say, releasing my grip on my friend. “Besides, now that Woodie has had a chance to think about it, I bet he agrees that my guy was safe by a mile.”

  Woodie’s double-take makes this trip out on the field worth it. His eyes are so wide he looks like a cartoon character who realizes he’s just run passed the edge of a cliff and currently stands on nothing but air. I release him, so he can straighten his jersey before apologizing.

  The Ump urges, “Well, you got something to say, Lucky-man?”

  Shaking his head in good-humored disbelief, Woodie kicks a little dirt, and chuckles. “I don’t think there’s any more to say, Ump. It’s obvious to everyone here that the runner was safe. Only an idiot would argue that.”

  Back when I was a player and I faced a stressful situation like this, I would follow in my father’s footsteps and run my hands through my hair to help calm myself down, but my hair decided to split in my mid-twenties.

  The Ump points toward the dugouts. “Both of you go sit down and let’s play ball.”

  We turn to follow orders. Woodie and I both hide smirks under our caps.

  Woodie asks, “When did you teach your catcher the old Kelly shuffle?”

  “Pops did.”

  “He’s here?”

  I turn and nod in the direction of my dad.

  Woodie spots him then waves to my dad. “Thanks, Ryan. That meant a lot to me. I…I lost it back there. I guess all this anxiety has gotten to me, big time. I’m amazed how well you’re handling everything. I’m a freakin’ wreck.”

  “Handling it well, hell, I think I’ve popped a couple veins this week. Woodie, you coach a good game.”

  Before we part across the field to our respective dugouts, I toss Woodie our lucky Indians pendant. Catching it and nodding, Woodie turns toward his team.

  As I give my dad a nod of appreciation, a kid runs past him, knocking into his leg and grabbing onto the back of the dugout. To my delight, the kid sports a brand-new Erie Express hat. I tip my hat to the boy, who surveys the field in awe.

  Watching my father and the boy, a powerful sense of déjà vu washes over me, and I flash back to my first trip to the ballpark. My father snuck me down from the upper deck to sit just behind the dugout, to watch Nolan Ryan throw a few pitches up close. Looking back, I still remember being shocked at how big and strong the players on the field looked.

  With a wink and a nod, I trot down the stairs and focus again on winning this game.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Two Innings Later

  In the eighth inning, I sent my three, four, and five hitters to the plate, and just like that the inning was over.

  I point to the other end of our hushed dugout. “Speedy, get Saule up and have him stand in the on-deck circle.”

  Now in the ninth, we're down 4-3 and I require a few Tums to combat the war being waged in my stomach.

  Looking at his clipboard, Speedy asks, “What about Landry?”

  Landry is due up after Gardenhier, the batter at the plate right now, and he would be the logical choice to head to the on-deck circle. I would love the ability to send Saule up to hit, but he shattered his wrist sliding home during the second game of the series.

  “Make sure Landry is ready to bat, but get Saule up now. I want to give Gardenhier a little protection at the plate. If they aren’t paying attention, over in the other dugout, they might think Saule can play and pitch to Gardenhier, rather than around him. Trust me, Woodie is doing all he can just to stay calm at this point. He isn’t worried about anything besides what pitch comes next.”

  I hope.

  “You sly dog.”

  So far, I’ve stuck to my word to play as aggressive as possible. About the only trick we haven’t tried includes making a potato into a baseball, but we still have time if desperation sets in.

  As Saule gets up and starts swinging in the on-deck circle, Gardenhier digs in at home plate. Across the field, Woodie sends his third base coach a signal. On second base, I have a good runner, but not the fastest guy on the team.

  I say, “Signal out to second. If there’s an opportunity to run, tell him to take it. If we can tie the game, I’d bet on our bullpen every time.”

  Speedy slides his index finger down his forearm to start the steal signal.

  As the first pitch screams toward the batter, I wipe sweat from my forehead. Strike one.

  Pitch two is also a fastball, but it sails high and Gardenhier takes the bait. He swings under the pitch, and clips the ball just enough to send it straight back toward the backstop. If the ball was one inch lower, we pull ahead. Instead, the batter goes down 0 balls and 2 strikes, and Gardenhier must play it a little more conservative.

  I imagine Tony Drizzle up in the press box calling the game and adding to the suspense for those listening to the radio back home. “Ladies and gentlemen, it all comes down to this. Two teams fighting for the ultimate prize in this game seven of the International League’s World Series. Each team has won three previous games, and I don’t see any way to predict just how this one might end. Erie has shown that they can play little ball with speed and great defense, but they also showed a lot of heart during an exciting suicide squeeze to finish off a four-run ninth inning rally in game six, Friday night. While Hollywood relied on their pitching all season, they have made a statement here in this series with some towering home runs and clutch two-out hitting. Both managers have had their work cut out for them. As we mentioned, they go way back to their high school days, when they played for back-to-back state championships. The pitcher comes set, and here’s the pitch…”

  One moment, I’m swelling with pride, enjoying the monster jump the runner at second got in his steal attempt, but the next moment victory against Woodie comes into major doubt. Out of character, Woodie called a pitch out, just like I would’ve done, and he has my runner dead to rights.

  Somehow guessing what’s happening, Gardenhier comes to my rescue. He extends his hands and leans far to his left to bunt the ball. His jerky, awkward swing provides just enough wood on the ball to give the runner a chance to advance to third.

  The ball hops down the third base line, flirting with foul territory. Caught off guard, the Stars’ pitcher rushes off the mound, but the ball kicks right past him.

  Gardenhier chugs down to first, but as a power hitting DH, his speed on the base path leaves a lot to be desired. The crowd explodes, while our dugout bench clears. My players jump to the top step, screaming on their teammates. Fielding the ball, their pitcher transfers the ball with insane speed, and turns to toss out Gardenhier.

  Striving to play as aggressively as I asked him to, the runner at third has rounded the base, attempting to tie the game right here and now. With my heart in my throat, I encourage my guy as emphatically as I can.

  I grip the rail hard enough to break knuckles, surrounded by the men who have battled for me all year. The Stars catcher isn’t in position yet to field the ball headed back to the plate because he had chased the bunt down the line. The crowd’s cheer is deafening, terrifying, and aw
esome.

  The throw, the slide, the tag, are all obscured in a large cloud of sand kicked up by the runner and the catcher moving into position. All at once, the loud roar ends in anticipation for the ump’s call.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Game Over

  “The Indians would be crazy not to pick you, man.”

  Though I know Speedy means what he says, I can’t help but feel like I was out coached in that last at bat.

  “Speedy, ahem, Steve, thanks for everything this season. Whatever they say or don’t say, I think it’s time for you to get a chance as a head man.”

  We walk in a daze, unbelieving what just happened on the field. To say that we came within an inch of a championship doesn’t give us enough credit.

  I unbutton my jersey. “Can you gather the guys when they’re done cleaning up? I’d like to thank them before the press conference.”

  My dream of a head manager’s job seems to have been postponed for now, but how upset can I be, now that it appears I have a chance at reconciliation with my father?

  Shaking hands with Steve, I enter the bathroom with my mind racing a thousand miles an hour. I’m so deep in thought that when I hear a female voice reverberating off the tiled surfaces, I jump halfway up the wall.

  The voice says, “It’s all right, honey. I’ll be right here. Just go to the bathroom like Mommy showed you.”

  I relax a little, thankful I haven’t walked into the wrong gender’s bathroom. It appears that one of my players brought along his wife and child, and made sure they used our private team bathroom to avoid the lines. Smart move, sure, but I’d love to be alone for a few minutes.

  I can’t believe Woodie almost threw the game away with his tantrums. I hadn’t seen him that upset in years, but then again, he’s the guy drowning in champagne right now, while I’m talking to myself in the bathroom.