by Ryan McCord
CHAPTER 9 GERRY’S NIGHT
Halfway to Pullman they are when the real world (the one role models so often refer to) notifies James and Gerry that their temporary parole is being rescinded earlier than expected.
They thought they had discovered refuge in the American interstate, as if would provide immunity from the stressors of the daily, grisly pulse. Though it hadn’t been discussed, only assumed, they both cherished this recourse on the road as a final toast to their youth. By sticking to the map, westbound, and along the way managing to not disrespect the road trip gods by driving drunk, this trip was to buy them a week to do whatever they please. Ideally.
This is what Gerry had been thinking about during his drive to Joliet, when he isn’t constantly interrupted by the vexation that comes alongside metro traffic congestion. He worries about James a little, the one guy he knows who happens to be shallow enough to turn his back on a gal like Tina in order to carry through with a distasteful plan to spite life for not delivering on his dreams yet. But that will be a topic of conversation for the two to worry about later on, as Gerry is trying to ignore color in an otherwise tangible black and white issue: to play or not to play.
He wondered if it was now happening to him, “Is this the start of the game of professional baseball surrendering me to my knees?
“Maybe now I understand what my brother meant when he warned me: I’m agreeing to put my pride on a slow death layaway.”
And all Gerry ever wanted from this game is one measly shot at the Big Leagues.
Unless the ability to walk is taken away from them, anyone who has ever been a professional athlete must address his sporting fate. Unfortunately, since many don’t have one key asset to fall back on, e.g.: money, an education, a family, a hobby, or even just a supportive significant other, they make the irrational decision to continue clinging.
But how are you supposed to know when you’ve allowed your dignity to begin its descend into the fray?
Perhaps there are no obvious signs any longer, because for every athlete, every season can breed a new meaning to live on. The highly publicized, age-defying, so-called “Renaissance Seasons” are becoming more commonplace. This is causing sportswriters and even sports experts across the land to revise their original free consultations for retirement from pro sports.
Legendary gridiron hero Brett Favre stunk quarterbacking the New York Jets when he was 39 years old, so he retired. Then he was persuaded into coming back the next season to play in Minnesota. Taking every snap that season for the Vikings, at 40, Favre was arguably the best player every time he stepped on the field.
This is a man’s world; and just about every man in it wants to conquer something. Some men, like Brett Favre, for better or worse, discover just what it is they are supposed to master. Then comes a resounding appeal for a shot at triumph and glory, which presents itself in many forms; whether it be a spotlighted individual performance, or to be part of a team that can say they accomplished a set of goals together. Then some men are simply content to go on living to master at the art of parenting, projects around the house, or even The New York Times crossword on Fridays. And those who don’t strive to conquer anything for a living admire others who can by watching them on the television.
But as the windows are dressed with the attractions of fame, fortune and championship rings to engage the highlight-addicted consumer, the method behind the sports world’s madness lie in the Ego’s fundamental addiction for the spirit or drug of competition. And if competition itself were a fine wine, money would be the cheese. Owners compete for cheese. Advertisers compete for cheese. Athletes compete for cheese. Fans simply compete 365 days a year for their team’s improvement in order to live a better life vicariously through.
For Gerry, at this stage of his life, conquering his modest goal of simply getting one shot at the majors no longer gets him out of bed the way it once did. Fear now motivates him. Not only will he soon be a newlywed, a game-changer in itself, but also he’s never had to join the rest of America in the general work force. He’s competing against the thought of punching in and out, as the game of baseball has earned him every cent he has ever made.
If he were to retire today, Gerry only has his fiance to lean on for support. Only she would like nothing more than to see him turn his back and walk away from a sport that doesn’t need him, but only sort of wants him.
With a desire for some advice coming from the same wavelength, Gerry tries repeatedly to begin calling his brother, only to repeatedly get interrupted by congested, high-speed traffic that commands more than a divided attention. So he finally decides to wait until he gets to the ballpark.
Along the way from Chicago to Joliet, he stops and counts loose change for at least $8.00 worth of tollbooths, at an average of about $1.25 a stop. Also, not having a clue where he is-and a little anxious about it-he has to pay careful attention for commands from a GPS system that presently estimates he will be at his destination in 31 minutes.
“I gotta be in the office and checked in 10 minutes early,” he says to himself. “Throw in another five for security and parking, and that will give me about 15 minutes to talk to my bro.”
He drives underneath a graffiti decorated railroad bridge to soon find on the other side a stately, maroon colored, brick layered exterior of the very baseball stadium he has been looking for. Rot iron gates fit for an industrialist’s mansion outline the ground level throughout.
“This is independent ball?” Gerry says to himself, as if he’s already got his brother on the phone. “Unless they have to do something eccentric to sell tickets like fence off space for a petting zoo in the outfield during a game, I’m to enjoy coming to this place for work.”
He locates a sign on the building’s wall pointing in the direction of player parking, and decides to head that way.
There is no sign of security anywhere in the player’s lot. Only an SUV, a large Ford F-450 truck and a green riding lawnmower occupy the parking lot. He parks next to the truck, which is parked in front of a loading dock. He then notices a sign bolted to the concrete wall of the loading dock reading, “Manager: Doug Raridon”.
Gerry checks the clock on the dash before turning the ignition off. It reads 3:40. He still has ten minutes before he wants to go in. Time to give his brother a ring.
The screen on his phone refuses to show anything but a blank, black screen.
Five minutes later, after multiple attempts at hitting the power button and taking the battery in and out of its compartment, he realizes that overnight he made a rookie road trip mistake of leaving his phone on during the hours of mass rural stretches. Because of this, the device used up all its stored energy searching for a signal that was rarely available during most of the long ride to Chicago.
Gerry has played this game long enough to know the business side just as well as anyone else, and therefore, he’s not too nervous about solo representation in this meeting. But everyone has a preferred business consultant; and for Gerry, his big brother, the former ballplayer, fits the role. He just wants to ask follow up questions in regard to the baseball proverb that has proven to be both unforgettable and now a little maddening.
Today Gerry will be handed a professional contract that his agent had been negotiating with both the Joliet club’s general manager and skipper. He will be asked to sign and fax back the contract, which happens to be an enticing bounty for independent ball standards, in just 48 hours.
Gerry says a quick prayer to help quiet his mind a little. He asks for some sort of sign in the meeting that can better help him make the right decision. Just seconds after saying Amen, he puts the electronics under the seat as James requested and gets out of the truck. Soon after hitting his own lock button before shutting the door, he notices the truck he parked next to is being unlocked by a remote control.
“Who’s that?” A gruff voice calls.
Gerry clears the parking space area to see a paunchy man of average height amble his way over, carrying a baseb
all bat on his shoulder. This guy, maybe 50, has a large, thinning head of dun hair and a saloon moustache reminiscent of Dennis Hopper’s in Easy Rider-which in itself is grand enough to conceal two bites from this morning’s Moon’s Over My Hammy in.
It’s Joliet’s manager, Doug Raridon. The native North Dakotan will never be mistaken for upper class, but he could certainly fit in anywhere he goes because he’s fearless. Some people in this world, no matter where they come from, have an incarnating presence that inclines a head turn at the very least from everyone in a room. Doug is one of them. When you see him, its not as if you try to figure how or where you know him from, you just assume he’s an influential decision maker in whatever walk of life he’s associated with. Some men are able to effortlessly emote this power because they happen to be rich, powerful, and therefore, uppity. Doug is able to do this because he knows he is a winner. And this entitlement of sorts is fueled with the fact that, with a .600 career winning percentage, he’s a winner in a world even more merciful than the one an ordinary taxpayer has to deal with everyday: the world of professional baseball.
Having played or coached in the minor leagues for close to 25 years, in essence, Doug is the quintessential ballplayer in every form imaginable. Like sailors are born married to the sea, Doug is programmed to know and love baseball. He eats lots of cheeseburgers and tacos, but he sleeps and breathes with baseball on his mind.
“It Gerry Galloway,” Gerry responds. “We have a meeting shortly.”
“Shit we’ve been trying to get a hold of ya,” Doug said, surprised that Gerry actually showed up.
Gerry explained the reasoning behind the power failure with his phone.
“Fuckin’ cell phones,” Doug says shaking his head in disgust, clenching both hands on the bat handle as if he were posing for a baseball card. “Do the advantages really outweigh the non-stop bullshit?
“We could’ve just confirmed this meeting by paging you at the courtesy phone at Wrigley for free. Instead your paying, what? Fifty bucks a month for a phone that doesn’t work when you need it to? Fuck, let’s just play some fuckin’ baseball!”
Gerry reaches in Doug’s direction for the bat.
“Yeah but then you might of caused me to miss Refrigerator Perry sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” he jokes, feeling as if the ice has been broken with his potential new skipper.
“Refrigerator Perry? Is he fatter than me?”
“You’re not fat, Doug, I bet you could catch a day after a night still.”
“I can’t even see my dick anymore, let alone a splitty on a fuckin’ payoff count.”
Gerry laughs, now playing with the bat a little. “This is a beautiful club.”
“It’s yours,” Doug insisted.
“An R161?” Gerry says in astonishment after a closer look, his face replicating the first time he got his father’s car up to 100 mph.
“Yeah, it still needs to be boned over a little though,” Doug says, referring to the act of compressing a bat; a tactic used to fully maximize the ball’s traveling performance by pressing out any soft spots in the wood.
“This looks and feels like my old 34, too,” Gerry says, his right hand gliding up and down the barrel.
“Yeah, you’re agent told me about your old stick there,” Doug said. “I got some M9’s too, but we’re not gonna break those in until we clinch a playoff spot.”
Doug turns and waves Gerry towards the facilities. “C’mon, I got a few of those old Michelob Light bottles in the clubhouse that’ll be perfect for boning that.”
Gerry let’s Doug know he’ll be right with him, wanting to put the bat away first. He unlocks then opens the canopy door and takes a brief look around. Everything back there belongs to James, as Gerry’s things are packed into the rear of the extended cab. He decides to tuck the black bat under the heavy rubber mat near the wheel well area. He shuts the door and proceeds to grab his phone and charger out of the cab before heading back towards Doug, who is about 20 feet away chatting with his clubhouse manager.
Later on, as they continue their tour along the spectator porch just in front of Left Field Lenny, a 25 ft. high fiberglass statue of a construction worker, Doug told Gerry he could guarantee him two things. First being, that in this ballpark, where a fan has the freedom to watch from just about anywhere, the average player will enjoy a state-fair like atmosphere for an entire summer. And that’s a major selling point. Like any other kind of performer, athletes prefer to play in front of large crowds.
“Hey, this is greater Chicago, brother,” Doug says assuredly. “When you get off the bus here at 4 AM, after a 12-hour ride from the boonies of North Dakota, you’re happy to be home because you know you play next door to the best sports town in America.
“Hey, look at it this way. You’re like the baseball equivalent of an off Broadway performer playing here. No other major metropolis in the country has three independent baseball teams within 50 miles like Chicago does.”
It wasn’t until they finish the grand tour that Doug then laid it all out on the line with the second guarantee: they will win. And it wasn’t so much the cliché of a guarantee itself that freezes Gerry in the middle of making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but instead a John Wayne-like candor employed by Doug to follow.
“Today I’m recruiting you as my first basemen,” he said. “But I know you can play the outfield.
“So if there’s another first baseman who becomes available throughout the season who can mash like yourself, and all I gotta do to reel him in is say ‘C’mon over to Chicago, and first base is yours,’ I’m pulling the trigger.
“That could mean any number of things for you,” Doug said earnestly. “But hey, if yer doing yer thing and everyone’s happy, I’ll make you my right fielder or DH or wherever.”
Gerry just continues to listen intently, as he has never heard this sort of discourse from a manager. A lot of guys throw words around in attempt to beguile the desired athlete’s toil, but Doug appears to be an honest mechanic.
After an unflinching, two-second look into each other’s eyes (Doug awaiting a character flaw to surface and Gerry simply making a mental note of this), the skipper reaches into the Wonder Bread bag and begins to gnaw on a piece.
“The dirt on me,” Doug continues. “Besides my mouth which likes to eat, drink and curse too much, is people will tell you I’m not patient or even loyal enough.
“But if you come in everyday and play and act like a pro, I’ll not only leave you alone all season, but I’ll make sure you always get paid to play baseball for as long as you want and are capable.
“Why?” Gerry shrugs.
“Because you and I both know if there’s one thing this game has too much of its shit heads. I don’t contribute a whole lot to society, so I take a lot of pride as an ambassador of our game to help keep winning minds employed. It’s my oath.”
Doug then puts his hand out as if he were a model for the clubhouse itself.
“Other than that, this environment, as long as we’re winning, hey its no different than affiliated ball. Only you get paid more, you’ll get your own seat on the bus, we stay in more hotels than motels, and we’ll even put you up in an apartment here with a couple of our veterans.”
Of course Gerry isn’t married just yet, but he’s already acting like an experienced husband. By shaking hands with Doug in making a verbal commitment to the Hard Hat organization, he carries out a time-honored man folly of making life-altering decision without conferring with the Mrs. first.
In fact, not a whole lot is said when Gerry enthusiastically calls his fiancé with the good news once the meeting has concluded. Molly kept stressing that Gerry made a decision selfishly.
“You’re already letting the game make decisions for you when it’s supposed to be our decision,” she barked.
Gerry countered that he needed a job and “as long as our country is teetering towards another economic depression, why not keep playing baseball?” He also took the
old-fashioned stand that the husband is supposed to provide, and by taking a job offer, he is living up to God’s expectations.
For his fiancé, Gerry’s valid argument is falling on deaf ears. It doesn’t take an aspiring lawyer like Molly to know athletes could accommodate a rolodex full of clever logic in justifying the need to continue training for or playing a sport. She also knows the one excuse that is conveniently ignored by that rolodex. Under the letter “C” you will not find her excuse of choice entitled “clean break.”
Gerry has 48 hours.
