by Faith O'Shea
“This is one of our favorite pastimes and we haven’t seen a good game since October. We’re both kind of excited about getting back to it.”
Melinda had a warm smile on her face when she said, “The trucks will be leaving for Sanford soon. It’s a red-letter day in this house.”
She’d heard all about the trucks, like a caravan carrying gold.
“What’s so precious about the cargo?”
Jim was the one who answered. “Everything you need to run a baseball team is transported, uniforms, spikes and turf shoes, bats, thousands of balls, batting gloves, jackets, helmets, golf clubs, bikes, and lots of other things. More than that, it signifies a new season is about to begin.”
He’d pulled out a Greenies baseball cap from his back pocket and handed it to her. “You can’t be a fan without one.”
“Who said I was a fan?”
He must have noticed what she was still wearing. She hadn’t taken it off since Rique had thrown it at her.
“Looks like I’m not the only one pressing the issue. Where’d you get the sweatshirt? Our new shortstop?”
She nodded, knowing Jim was reading something into it that wasn’t written.
“If you want to know baseball, you have to pick a team. Only then will you feel the thrill of a win and the agony of defeat.”
Melinda, who’d taken a position next to her husband, said, “The first year Reid was here, they had an awful season. It was hard to watch.”
“So why do you?”
“For me, it’s personal. My son plays. But once you’ve gotten the bug, it’s hard not to.”
Jim was leaning toward her and she could feel his enthusiasm. “I’ve been watching since I was a kid. And when my father would take me to a game, it was the highlight of my year. There’s nothing like the smell of peanuts roasting as you walk toward the gates, the cheering of the crowd, the crack of the bat. All clichés but true. Your dad watches occasionally. It’s a mathematician’s kind of game. Lots of stats involved.”
Fiona remembered him watching some nights before bedtime, but he never showed any real emotion, never the kind of animation that Jim was displaying.
“He did. He usually had a book in his hand, so I always thought it was on as background noise.”
“Fans come in all shapes, sizes, and intensity.”
The way they rooted for their teams showed the great disparity in personalities.
“Who’s his team?”
“Phillies, which is another National League team.” He chuckled. “We’ve made some serious wagers over the last few years.”
That meant they’d kept in touch. That came as a surprise as well.
“Have you always followed the Greenies?”
“Since moving to Boston.”
“Why them?”
What she was really asking was why not the Red Sox, the more popular team.
“Aside from the fact that Reid’s played for them since I met Melinda and I love my wife, I’m a purist at heart. I never did like the designated hitter assignment. And there’s something about going against the grain, rooting for the small hometown business instead of the big corporate entity.”
“Explain about the hitter thing.”
“When I was kid, pitchers were part of the hitting rotation, usually batting ninth. Most of them weren’t very good. Still aren’t. So back in the seventies, the American League changed that by instituting a non-position. The DH is merely a filler in the order for the pitcher, and he’s usually one of the aging players who excels at hitting but has outlived his usefulness in the field. Yes, it’s prolonged the careers of some of the greats, but if a pitcher’s part of the team, he shouldn’t get a pass. The National League has held out but there’s talk of them finally capitulating. I’ll be wearing a black arm band the day that happens.”
“What happens when they play each other?”
“Whoever has home team advantage determines the line-up. At Harborside, the pitchers hit, at Fenway, they don’t.”
“Any other differences?”
“Nope. That’s it.” He glanced over at Melinda and smiled. “Other than having a son-in-law on the team. It makes it much more personal.”
Melinda smiled and added, “Happy wife, happy life.”
Jim picked up the remote and gave her an intro into what she’d be watching.
“This game is one between the Greenies and Mets, when Enrique was first called up because the star shortstop had gotten hurt. He was with the team for a couple of weeks before being sent down again. Everyone thought he was going to be the next greatest thing since…sliced bread.”
“But he wasn’t?”
“He disappointed when he got there for good. He was used as a utility player, a pinch hitter, sat on the bench a lot. I think he’s best when he plays every day.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“No. There are some players who know their role and perform it well. It’s what makes a great team great. I’m showing you this game so you can see the difference in his play when we watch something more current.”
There was a sliver of unease with her uncle’s explanation.
“Why is Rique playing a central role in this lesson?”
“You’ve come to me for a reason and I believe he’s part of it.”
She wasn’t going to admit anything about that.
“I just don’t like feeling dumb when he talks to me. I didn’t even know there are umpires. I called them referees.”
“When we’re finished, you’ll not only be able to understand what he’s talking about, you’ll know how he’s played. You ready?”
“I guess.” She sat back as the saved game began to play. She was anticipating boredom, but as she watched Reid pitch, her uncle explaining what each one was, slider, curve, fast, cut fast, which were his specialties, she began to feel the rhythm, tried to follow the trajectory as it spun toward the plate. When Enrique came to the plate, he gave Reid a small salute and a wicked grin.
Melinda pointed out, “They weren’t related yet. Reid was still giving Izabella a hard time, so that wasn’t a friendly gesture. It was more of a Don’t fuck-with me-or-mine.”
Fiona was mesmerized by the swing of the bat, the power behind every stroke. When he got the right pitch, there was a resounding crack, and the ball went sailing over the outfield and left the park. There was another salute as Rique ran the bases, his leg muscles rippling, his strides long and sure.
Her aunt and uncle gave her a play-by -play of every hit into the outfield, every ground ball, and she concentrated most on the man she was living with, his body, just like Terry said, poetry in motion. She watched him dive head-first toward a ball, and somehow spring right back up and hurl an arrow of a throw to first for an out. He made a double play, flipping the ball to second base from a crouched position, shaving seconds off the throw.
He was third in the line-up, which her uncle dissected for her. The best hitters were up first, having more times at bat than those at the bottom.
“Mateo Alvarez was over for dinner last night. He’s the new…third baseman, from Cuba. They were talking about him being third up, before the clean-up hitter. What’s that?”
“Yeah, we know. He stayed with Izabella’s family while he was waiting for his visa to be approved. They liked him. Said he was quiet and serious.”
“I just found out that Rique already knew him before yesterday.”
“I think that will work to Mateo’s advantage. Keith’s the one who arranged it and he usually knows what he’s doing.”
“Keith is?”
“Their agent. Signed both. Reid’s best friend since high school.”
She mused about that before getting back to her original question. “Why will Mateo be hitting third and what’s a clean-up batter?”
“Third batter up is the best hitter, the fourth in line is the one with the most power. He’s expected to drive in runs.”
“How about the first? Mattie thought it was a good idea t
o put Rique there.”
“He’s called the leadoff. His job is to get on base, use his speed to make things happen. Steal second, take an extra base if the next guy hits a single. He needs to be patient, take as many pitches as he can without striking out, let the guys on the bench see what kind of stuff the pitcher has that day. Rique has the speed. I’m not sure about the patience.”
She ruminated over that. It would take discipline. Her uncle brought her back by asking, “Time for a break?”
“Yeah. My head’s spinning.”
“I made tuna fish. That okay?”
“Sounds good.”
When they sat down, she took a bite of the sandwiches made with sour dough bread, one of her favorites. They were accompanied by chips, carrot sticks, pickles, and cookies for dessert.
“We can have a question-and-answer session while we eat.”
But once Jim got going, it became a tutorial as he filled her in on the draft, the stadiums, the leagues, the schedule.
She’d just crunched into a pickle and was fighting off the effects of garlic and dill and wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.
“They play how many games a season?”
“One hundred and sixty-two. Only get a day off here and there and a lot of time is spent traveling across the country, playing more on adrenaline than sleep. They have to take good care of themselves or they burn out fast.”
“Football players play once a week, right?”
“Yeah, and the hockey league mandates a few days off after so many games, and a week sometime during the season.”
“Doesn’t sound like the…The MLB, right?...cares about their members.”
“MLB, major league baseball, and it’s up to the coaches to take care of them. One of the reasons the Red Sox did well last year is the coach made sure the pitchers didn’t lose steam going into the playoffs.”
“How about the Greenie coach?”
“He’s an old goat. Been around forever. I think they need some new blood there, but I don’t make those decisions.”
Melinda was wearing a wide smile as she patted her husband’s leg. “Your uncle does quite well as a sideline coach, though. Tells Farina what do from the couch.”
He harrumphed. “He rarely listens.”
As soon as lunch was over, Fiona took Hoover out to pee, then they were back in front of the TV, a game Rique played last year on the screen.
“Mets and Greenliners are in the same division and play each other frequently throughout the season. In this one, the regular shortstop had a day off and dos Santos was substituting for him. You’ve seen him at his best; now you’ll see one of his worst. He was sloppy, with a lack of focus, making three errors, one of which cost the team the game. The shortstop is supposed to lead the infield, should be the best athlete on the team. He has the potential but isn’t living up to it.”
Reid was pitching again, which was probably why they’d saved the game, and he struck Rique out every time he got up to bat. She noticed a different man standing in what she now knew was called the batter’s box. Gone was the power, gone was the intensity. No wide grin, no evil smirk.
Instead it was Reid who’d saluted him after the last strike called, each and every time. Rique didn’t seem pissed about it. He looked more resigned. It looked like he’d lost his passion. She thought his poor performance was due more to that than a lack of discipline.
“The difference is obvious. Even I see it. Is that why he was traded?”
“Not sure. It was a crazy move in some camps. The shortstop they have now will be retiring at some point and they’ve given away the next best thing.”
“They gave him away? Do they exchange players, one for another?”
“No, they trade away the contract. I was surprised the Greenies picked his up.”
“Why? Didn’t they need someone in that position?”
She had no idea who played it last year, hadn’t cared in the least.
“Napolitano is one of Farina’s favorites but he’s getting older and isn’t talented enough to be a an all-star, in that position. Nilsson’s the one that brought dos Santos in, along with the others. She’s done a great job so far anchoring the team with young guys who just might get us that ring.”
“And Nilsson is?”
“VP in charge of Player Development.”
She considered all of this before asking, “Will Napolitano be let go?”
“No, they’ll keep him on the bench as a utility player. It’s a demotion but he’s still on the team. That has to count for something. Have you gotten your fill yet? I don’t have any more of Rique’s games, but I have dozens of Reid’s.”
“I think I’m good. I have a basic understanding of the game, but I have to admit, it’s kind of boring. There’s a lot of downtime.”
“That’s because you’re under thirty.”
“What does that mean?”
“Technology is killing the fan base. Kids today want fast, instant gratification. They don’t want to watch every game, every pitch. They watch the first three innings and if there’s not enough action, they turn it off and catch the highlights at the end. They’re fans but not longstanding ones.”
Melinda added, “They might catch the throw that gets the runner heading home out, but they’ve missed the execution that led up to it.”
“They miss the nuances.”
“Exactly.”
There was a lot to mull over but she wasn’t sure why she’d bother. Once she was no longer living with a baseball player, she’d never use it again. She couldn’t see herself sitting down to watch the whole game, even though it might be interesting to see if she could pick up those nuances her aunt and uncle had referred to. It had more to do with her love of patterns, how things worked than anything else.
“Come to opening day with us. It isn’t for a couple of months, and you might have a job by then, but taking an afternoon to play might do you some good.”
“I’d better have a job by then. If not, Mom will have interviews lined up all over the country for me.”
“You’ve gotten good at keeping your boundaries in place.”
“Only when I have good reason to. If I’m still unemployed, I won’t.”
Jim kissed her forehead. “You’ll get something. I’m sure of it.”
She leashed Hoover, wishing she could be as sure, and set off for Izabella’s, her mind still a whirling dervish of facts. Maybe she’d watch another game when she got there, to pass the time. It had more to do with studying the patterns, seeing how things worked, and she suddenly wondered when she’d lost her mind.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
By late afternoon, Enrique was worn out. Giving it all he had was taking a toll, but there was no way he was going to let his teammates show him up. The addition of Seb to the practice was a boon. The guy was a walking jokester and made the drills less daunting. He’d found humor in most everything, and they’d laughed all the way out of the training facility. Even Mattie, usually so serious, had cracked a few smiles.
The guy was as different from him and Mattie as day was to night. He was tall and blonde with a shaggy cut, blue eyes, and light complexion. He was home-grown, having lived in a small town in eastern Massachusetts, although he’d gone to Louisiana for college. He looked more like a West Coast surfer boy than a professional baseball player. He’d been picked up his last year at Tulane by the Boston team and had been in their farm system since, working his way up to the big leagues. He’d finally made it and he’d told them he wasn’t going back. Today he’d proven his worth.
He’d also kept them entertained during the drive back to Harborside, with little tidbits about the team’s history and the new park.
“Left field is different now than it used to be, no more nooks and crannies. All I have to worry about now is the plexiglass and the harbor. It would have been tough following in Calipari’s footsteps. He was an icon and he covered that wall like he was part of it.”
Mac Calipari had work
ed left field at Bogs for over a decade and had been inducted into the Hall of Fame as soon as he was eligible, not only for his Golden Glove prowess but for his hitting, as well.
Mattie asked, “What’s he doing today?”
“He’s manager of the triple A team in Pittsfield. Thank God I didn’t have to play for him.”
Rique narrowed his eyes. “Why? Is he tough?”
Seb scrubbed his face but before he could answer Leo voiced his opinion. “No. He’s done some good things there. He’s approachable, communicates well and has a passion for the game that’s transferrable.”
Rique arched his eyebrow at Seb and the outfielder admitted, “I dated his daughter in high school…and let’s just say it didn’t end well.”
When Leo had barked out, “What the fuck?” Rique thought it had to do with Seb’s former relationship with Mac’s daughter, but the burst of a siren grabbed his attention.
Red and blue lights were flashing just ahead of them, an ambulance pulling up to the side bay at Harborside. Enrique grabbed the seat in front of him, leaning forward to get a better look at what was going on. Seb and Mattie did the same. Leo brought the car to a screeching stop and scrambled out from the driver’s seat, the rest clamoring out after him. After catching up with the EMTs who were rushing into the side entrance, he bellowed, “What the fuck happened?”
The man ignored him as he continued through the tunnel toward the offices. It was his partner who offered, “Possible heart attack.”
“Who?”
Leo’s tone held an anxious undertone.
She went ahead without answering his question, but when the medical team made a beeline into Farina’s office, they all knew.
The female turned and said, “Please remain out here.”
Todd Cantrell, the equipment manager, was pacing furiously outside the office. A couple of his assistants were standing off to the side.
Leo barked, “Well?”
Todd stopped, turned to look at Leo, his expression one of stunned surprise. Even though he had his fingers steepled over his nose, Rique could tell his skin was pallid. At Leo’s command, he dropped his hands to his sides and explained between short, jerking breaths. “I popped my head in to ask how many sets of golf clubs he wanted to send to Sanford and found him slumped over, unconscious. He was cold to the touch and chalk white. I immediately called for help.” He stuttered, “It doesn’t look good.”
