by Bill Moody
I knew when. Like all of my wrong turns, it had started with my gambling jones.
1998
Ten years before we had to jump off that streetcar, I’m in Scottsdale, Arizona at the Giants’ park and sitting in the bullpen enjoying the crap out of the last game of spring training before we headed north. On my way to the Show. Better, I am about to win a shitload of money for the game we was currently engaged in against the fucking Dodgers. Well, at least get even with my bookie and that was a boatload. Plus, there was a hottie in the stands who kept showing me she’d forgot to wear her panties that day. Shining me two smiles: one horizontal and one vertical.
Two outs down and one more inning after this one and we’d would nail down the win over those assholes and I was feeling it. Only one man—catcher Mike Piazza—had reached base on a walk. Piazza had just stolen second and then third and that pissed all of us off. Catchers weren’t supposed to steal.
The bullpen phone rang and it was Dusty. I could see him where he stood on the dugout steps and he was tapping his right arm. Dick Pole, our bullpen coach picked up the phone.
“Halliday!” he said. “Pete! Get warm.”
Shit. I’d been nipping on a half-pint of Southern Comfort since the top of the second, knowing I wasn’t going to play today. Why the fuck did Piazza have to steal third?
I knew why Baker wanted me.
See, I have a unique talent. As a relief pitcher, I’m so-so. I mean, I’m good enough to make a major league club. Got enough arm I can mop up, burn an inning or two with my junk, but what I really was was a one-out specialist.
My pick-off move. With variations. At one time, I had probably the best pick-off move in baseball. Well, in the National League. Well, to be more precise, in our division. Well, one of the best, anyway. On our club, for sure. Possibly.
I knew what Dusty wanted me to do. Get Piazza, get us out of the inning. He didn’t even want me to pitch to the Dodger’s second baseman Jody Reed who was standing there waiting on me. Just get Piazza. You gotta remember, nobody knew who Piazza was then. It was his rookie year, 1993. Nobody knew he’d end up being kind of good and winning the Rookie of the Year Award that year. He was just a dumb-fuck catcher then, and Dusty was pissed he’d stole a base. Two bases.
And, yeah, that was the plan. Instead of the pitching coach coming out to hand me the ball, it was Dusty.
“You been drinking, Halliday?” he said, sniffing the air and leaning in close to me when he handed me the ball.
Before I could lie, he said, “Ne’mind. Get Piazza. You got one pitch. I don’t want you to throw to Reed. You throw even one pitch to Reed you’ll be picking splinters out of your butt in Valdosta.”
“Sure, Skip,” I said, all teeth and outright joy. “Appreciate your confidence in me.”
Kirk Manwaring, our catcher who hadn’t said anything, just shook his head in disgust, spit a goober on the mound about where I usually set up and went back to the plate.
Reed stepped in, waggled his bat like he thought he was Henry Aaron, and Manwaring give me the sign. He showed the middle finger, which wasn’t in our usual repertoire and I nodded. I went into the stretch—even though I didn’t have to with nobody on first, except the stretch gave me a better line on what I intended to do than a full windup—whirled, and caught Piazza off the bag. He was only six-seven feet off—nobody in the park thought he’d even try to steal home. It was the perfect lead for what I wanted. He started to turn lazily to step back to the bag... and crumpled in the dirt.
I’d hit him in the nuts, a second before he’d turned.
Yelled, “Bam, sucka!” at the same instant I threw.
Plan A.
Never meant to throw to our third-sacker. Hit my target just like I’d drawn it up in my mind and like Dusty knew I would. Just another diamond accident.
Down he went on the ground, writhing like he’d been suddenly struck by the Holy Spirit and screeching in what mighta passed for those tongues which some churches favor. Our third baseman Matt Williams reached down, picked up the ball and tagged Piazza.
“Yer out!” screamed Blue, and then at me he yelled, “Watch your mouth, pitcher,” and we all headed for the dugout, streaming around Tommy Lasorda who’d come out to argue the call, which got the same result as it usually does, allowing Tommy to get back to their hotel pool early, start working on his tan.
The crowd erupted the instant Blue’s arm went up. Some old guy near our dugout fell over with a heart attack. After all, this was Scottsdale, one of God’s primo waiting rooms, and if he hadn’t keeled over then, he probably would have next day at the dog track, happen he was holding a winning two dollar ticket.
The crowd wasn’t done; came to its feet, roared “Charge” in a single voice. On my way in, I looked over at the hottie, who was waving with a cheerleader’s practiced wave. Everyone in the stands were on their feet, I see, save one man two seats behind the dugout, attired in a blue suit. The only guy in the stands in formal attire. Weird. The organist struck up the William Tell Overture.
Inning over. One to go.
Everybody else sprinted to the dugout while I strode in with a king’s mien. Kings don’t run. I did take care to step over the first-base foul line. I didn’t want any bad luck today.
The crowd still stood, yelling its lungs out. Everyone was standing except the guy in the blue suit, I saw, when I popped out for a curtain call.
Just before I got to the dugout steps, I touched the bill of my cap, milking the crowd for another cheer and they obliged.
Dusty Baker was the first to meet me, putting his arm around me at the top of the dugout steps. “Man, Pete! That sure killed their rally! Perfect throw!”
We headed down the steps. Dusty grinned. “I only wish you had that kind of control on your pitches to the plate.”
I grinned back. “Cap, you know you love me. I put butts in the seats.”
Baker shook his head and went back up to the top of the dugout steps as Will Clark came up to lead off the last inning.
I wandered past the other players over to the dugout phone and dialed a number.
Dusty looked over. “Who you calling, Halliday? You got no business on that phone.”
I started to hang up, then recovered. “Uh, my landlady, Cap. I think I left the windows open. It looks like rain.” I turned sideways and spoke into the phone in a low voice. “Yo, Fat. It’s me, Pete. I want a dime on Oakland. Same on the Red Sox. Clements goes tomorrow, right?” He said something. I paused. “Hey, man, I’m good. I’m winning this one, big-time. You know I’m—”
I held the phone away from him and saw Dusty mugging on me. I spoke back into the phone in a louder voice. “Yes. That’s right. The bedroom window.” I hung up, shined a grin at Dusty.
He just stared back, then did a funny thing. He looked straight up at the man in the blue suit sitting two rows up from the dugout. The man seemed intent on a device in his ear. A wire extended from the device to his pocket.
Just then, Will Clark, our first batter, smacked a ball that everyone in the park knew instantly was long gone. Out of the corner of my eye as I rushed to the front of the dugout with my teammates to cheer Will on, I saw Dusty watch his home run trot, then turn back to look at the man in the stands. The man nodded, removed the device from his ear and put it in his pocket. Dusty threw down his lineup card in disgust.
What the hell?
I hooked up with the girl in the stands as soon as the game was over and it turned out her name was Wendy. Big surprise. “With an ‘i’,” she said. “It was a ‘y’ when I was born, but I changed it.” She squealed when I asked if she used a little heart instead of a dot over it. I think it convinced her I had extrasensory perception skills. “How ’bout we meet up at the Cowboy and Goat Roper’s Saloon,” I said. “Maybe around nine tonight?”
“Sure,” she said, her chewing gum flying out and bouncing off my chest when she opened her mouth. She wasn’t even embarrassed, which I took to be a good sign.
&n
bsp; An hour after the game, I was still in my uniform, minus my jersey, shooting some stick with Salomon Torres. It wasn’t the happy clubhouse it should have been. The Dodgers came back the last inning and put eight up and just like that, spring training was over. So was my plan to get square with my bookie, but hell, we were headed to S.F. in the morning. I was kind of sticking around in the clubhouse in case he’d decided to show up and ask for an installment. Or worse.
Torres broke and put one more ball in and then I ran the table. “Yes!” I said, and made the “cha-ching” guesture of triumph. Torres made a face and handed me a twenty dollar bill, twisting his face further in disgust. Dusty stuck his head out of his office.
“Halliday! In here.”
I glanced around at the few teammates still there. “Skip’s gonna give me a bonus, I bet. Probably a new contract.”
Over in the corner, Barry Bonds in his Barcolounger, looked up from staring at his own eight by ten glossy and smirked. “Yeah, you the man, Pete.” The other players laughed.
I breezed into Dusty’s office, happy as a traded NY Yankee, kissed the twenty dollar bill Torres had just handed me, and stuck it in my pocket.
“Siddown,” Dusty said. He took the chair in front of the manager’s desk.
Someone else was in the office. I hadn’t seen him come in so he must have come in through the back. It was the Blue Suit from the stands.
“Sign this,” Dusty said.
“What is it?” I said. I leaned forward to see the paper Dusty shoved at me.
“Your outright release.”
I was floored. “What the fuck? I missed one lousy sign, Cap. Clark even misses signs. Bonds doesn’t even look for ’em.”
Dusty sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his nose. “You ain’t Clark, son, and you sure ain’t Bonds. It ain’t that, anyway. It’s your gambling.”
“Gambling? Who the fuck says I been gambling?” I looked over at the blue-suited man, gave him a good glare. Somehow, this guy was behind this.
“Me,” the man said. “I say you’ve been gambling.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Vernon Strassler. League office. You want to hear a phone tape?”
I couldn’t help it. I groaned and slumped forward in my chair. Strassler placed a small tape recorder on the desk and punched a button.
A deep voice said, “You got the Fatman.”
I heard my own voice reply. “Yo, Fat. Me, Pete. Gimme a dime on Oakland. Same on the Red Sox. Clements goes tomorrow, right?”
The deep voice said, “Pay what you owe, Halliday, and we’ll talk. By Friday. That means all of it, hotshot.”
I moaned again and louder as I listened to my own voice. “Hey, man. I’m good. I’m winning this one, big-time. You know I’m...” A click sounded, followed by silence. Then: “Yes. That’s right. The bedroom—”
Strassler turned off the machine.
Dusty shook his head sadly. “Sorry, son. Sign this for your severance pay.”
I straightened up. “Dusty, I’ll lay you five to one, if you give me another chance you’ll never catch me gambling again. I—”
“The check’s for ten thousand, Pete. You can thank me for the extra. The club was only going to give you five. We’ll keep this out of the papers and expect you to do the same.”
There wasn’t anything left to do. I picked up the check and looked it over. I started to say something and ended up shaking my head and picking up the pen on the desk and signing the release form.
Dusty stood up and I followed his lead and took his offered hand for a last handshake.
“You know, kid,” Dusty said, indicating the meeting was over. “It’s none of my business, but you might want to look at your life. Gambling’s cost you a wife and now baseball.”
Bright and early the next morning, a woman teller counted out bills, put them in an envelope and handed it to me. I thanked her, stuck the envelope in my pocket and left.
I was walking down the bank steps when two men came up, one a beefy mountain of a man and the other slight and swarmy. They came up beside me, took me by the elbows and hustled me down the steps. All three of us walked to the alley beside the bank and went on back to a pair of dumpsters.
The big guy spun me around and pinned an armlock on me. The little guy snatched the envelop from his pocket, tore it open and counted the money. “Damn,” he said, “Where’s the other five?”
I frowned. “It’s in the mail? You buy that?”
The little guy placed the wad of bills in his jacket pocket and nodded to his large partner who gripped me tighter. “Wise guy, huh?” the little guy said.
“Well, you wouldn’t know it by my SATs. You know what? You look familiar. I got it! Your mom.”
“My mom?” the little goon said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Your mom. We been dating. Whenever I have an extra twenty. I just love it when she takes out her false teeth. You know...” I went on. “I might end up your stepfather. Think she’d grow a mustache for me?”
The little guy hauled off and socked me in the gut. I collapsed and struggled to right myself and get my breath back.
“Yeah,” I said, wheezing my words out. “You hit about like your mom. I can see you’re related. I suppose you wanna give me a blowjob now?”
“You fuck,” the little guy screamed, and hit me again. As I folded in half like a WWII Japanese foot soldier unexpectedly finding himself in the same room as the Emperor, the little guy grabbed my hand and brought it around and secured it between his arm and chest. He bent four of my fingers back until they cracked. Audibly. Almost as loud as the scream I gave out, feeling like a complete bitch when I did, but couldn’t help it.
When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed, my hand splinted and bandaged and feeling like I imagined those pennies we’d put on railroad tracks when we were kids might have if they had nerves running through Lincoln’s face. Worse.
At least it wasn’t my pitching hand. Not that it much mattered any more.
Two men were sitting there, staring at me. A white man and a black man.
My teammates. Rod “Shooter” Beck and Willie McGee.
Willie, said, “Dusty wanted to come, Pete, but the club had a fit.”
“Loyal fuck, isn’t he. At least you guys came.”
Both men looked at each other. Rod said, “Some shit, huh, Pete? Almost make it to the Show and this is what you get. What’re you gonna do now?”
Up to that minute, I hadn’t thought much about it. I made my decision right then. “I’m going home to New Orleans.” I worked up a grin. “This little setback is just a speed bump on my way to riches.”
“You gonna keep on gambling, Pete?” Rod said. “Might want to reconsider that.” Willie nodded in agreement.
“Nah,” I said. “I’m done with that. It’s time I used some of my mental dexterity.”
“You’re gonna keep feedin’ that gamblin’ jones, aren’t you?” Willie said.
“No way, Jose. Gambling’s a loser’s game. I found that out the hard way. No, I bet you guys a hundred bucks each I’m back on my feet in a week. A month, tops. I’ll be watching you guys in the World Series from my private box. Lighting Cubans with C-notes.
“I’m giving two to one odds,” I said as they made their way out of the room. “No, three to one. Wait!”
They must not have heard me.
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