[Jason]

March 1, 2006, 10 pm; Lakeland, FL

I once heard my mother talking with a friend of hers about her aunt dying on the way to my mother’s wedding. She said she’d never forget going from the highest of highs to one of the lowest of lows. I never really understood what she meant by that until today.

I was sitting at my locker thinking about the game when I heard a very loud bang to my right. At first, I didn’t realize what had happened because I was so focused on my thoughts of the game. I looked to my right and noticed that there was a bat lying on the floor. I reached over to pick it up when I heard someone yell “S***!”

I turned to see Wil Salinas throwing Erik Colgan to the floor while keeping a hand wrapped around Colgan’s throat. Wil bounced Colgan’s head off the floor while Colgan begged him to stop. Wil leaned back and then punched Colgan in the nose. We could hear the crack as Colgan’s nose broke and blood began to rush down his face, onto his jersey and then the carpet. Croteau and Thompson swung in and pulled Salinas off the bloody lump that was once supposed to be a professional baseball player.

“You’re a worthless piece of s***,” Salinas yelled at Colgan. “You don’t deserve to wear that uniform!”

The other guys started to voice their agreement with Salinas when it finally dawned on me what had happened. I looked at the bat in my hands and saw “Colgan” written with a Sharpie on the knob. The bastard had thrown a bat at me from just a few feet away. Just like every other throw he seemed to make this spring, it went wide right of his target.

Skip came running into the room with Gibson and Bruce Fields, the bench coach. He started toward Salinas when Gibson slapped him on the shoulder and then pointed to Colgan lying on the floor. Skip walked over to where Colgan had made his way onto his hands and knees and just slowly shook his head.

“What the hell happened in here?” Skip said out loud to no one.

“That a****** walked in here, grabbed a bat and threw it at the rook,” Ben Marzano said. “Salinas saw him do it and took care of the situation.” The statement was met with quite a few subdued chuckles from most everyone in the room.

“Did you do that, Colgan?” Gibson said loudly. “Threw your bat like some spoiled eight year old?”

Colgan rose to his feet but wouldn’t look Gibson in the face. He just stood there with his head hanging down as blood dripped off his chin onto his white Reebok cleats.

“You were just off this club,” Skip said evenly to Colgan. “But now you might as well forget ever being a part of the organization. Pack your crap and head back to West Virginia. I doubt anyone will be calling you soon.” Skip then turned and started to walk out of the room with Gibson and Fields behind him.

I glanced down at the bat and then back up to see that Colgan was looking right at me with an enraged look. It then hit me that everyone in the room was looking at me as well to see how I would react to the situation. I did the only thing that came to mind. I walked over to Colgan with his bat held out before me in my hands. As I reached him, and he lifted his arm to take the bat, I let it roll off my fingers and onto the floor. The loud sound caused Skip and the coaches to stop and look back at us.

“Here’s your bat back,” I said. “You’ll probably need it at whatever backwater Junior High school you end up as a part time phys ed teacher.”

The room erupted in laughter and I glanced over to see Gibson with a huge smile give me a thumbs up. I turned to head back to my locker as Colgan threw a “f*** you” at me.

“Hey Erik, I’d love to chat,” I said looking back at him. “But I have my major league spring training debut to prepare for right now.”

“Damn right you do, kid,” Salinas said.

Colgan bent down and picked up his bat. No one said a word to him as he went to his locker and packed all his belongings in a giant duffel bag. Colgan stood up and looked around as if he expected someone to wish him good luck but the entire team acted as if there wasn’t a human being standing there whose life’s dream had just vanished with the fling of a bat. Colgan slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out of the locker room.

I know I shouldn’t feel this way but I feel for Colgan despite the fact he treated me like complete crap. I hope that I never make the kind of decision that puts me in the middle of a room of people that don’t even acknowledge I’m there. I probably shouldn’t have made the crack about being a Junior High gym teacher because that’s likely what Colgan will end up being a year from now. Still, he did bring it on himself.

The game began and Skip had me batting fifth in the lineup and playing second base. In the top of the first, Marzano struck out the side. I was glad that happened because I had butterflies in my stomach so bad I felt like throwing up all over again. I almost sprinted off the field after the third out and grabbed my spot on the bench. I expected I’d have the bottom of the first to calm down and be fine when I went back to second for the start of the second inning.

Ramirez and Canfield both grounded to short. Salinas showed why he’s an All Star by hitting a shot into the right center gap and trotting into second with a double. Pedro Torre, our DH, was hitting before me and he wasn’t swinging a good bat. I slowly grabbed a bat and helmet to head for the on deck circle fully expecting not to hit this inning when Skip grabbed my arm.

“Look,” Skip said in my ear, “this isn’t advice I’m ever going to give you when the games really matter. Since this is your first professional at bat ever and I don’t want it to be insignificant, swing for the fences.”

I turned my head and looked at Skip with what had to be a funny look because he shot me a thin smile.

“Get up there and give ‘em hell,” he said and pushed me toward the on-deck circle as I heard a crack. Torre had sent one deep into the hole at short and while Indians shortstop Trejo was able to get a glove on it there was no chance for a play at first.

So my debut was going to be with two on and two out in the bottom of the first inning. I put on my helmet and walked past the on-deck circle and right to the batter’s box. I took just outside the box and took a look around Joker Marchant Stadium. There was only a crowd of about two thousand but they were all cheering and yelling.

“OK Rookie,” the umpire said. I turned to look at him and he smiled. “Let’s play ball.”

I stepped into the box and set myself for the first pitch I’d see as a professional baseball player. Jim Mantz was getting the start for the Indians and was supposed to be their wonder boy of the future. The first pitch was a fastball that missed my chin my about two inches. I went diving into the dirt as the Tribe’s catcher giggled.

“Welcome to the show, kid,” he said as I turned and glared. I stood up without brushing the dust off my uniform. (I would later find out that when I did that Gibson turned to the guys on the bench and said “That’s the way you show a chickens*** pitcher you’re not afraid of him!”) The second pitch was a nasty slider that cut away and hit the corner of the zone. Strike one.

“Hell of a pitch,” I muttered.

“You want another one?” the catcher asked me.

“No, I don’t,” I said as I prepared for another slider. Laguna may be a decent defensive catcher with a great arm but he seems as smart as a rosin bag.

The slider came just as I thought it would but it wasn’t in my wheelhouse. I knew there was no way I could turn on it and pull it out to left so I went with the pitch and smacked a line drive over the head of Sanger at second. Salinas scored easily but I had to hold at first when Torre slipped and fell rounding second base. Still, I began my career one for one with an RBI. I couldn’t stop smiling as I stood at first base. Fred Orosco, the Indians’ All Star first baseman, came over to me and was smiling too.

“Enjoy the feeling, rookie,” he said and winked. “You only get that first pro hit once.” It was the best feeling of my life and a high from which I didn’t want to come down.

When I walked back to the dugout, Skip grabbed my arm and asked me why I didn't swing for the fences like he told me.

"It was low and outside, Skip," I said. "I couldn't turn on it so I thought it would be better to take it the other way and at least try to knock in Salinas."

"Kid, you keep thinking like that," Skip replied, "And you're gonna go a hell of a long way in this game."

At the end of the day that single to right was the only hit in my stat column. I ended up one for three with a couple of walks. I think if it wasn’t for what happened with Weatherly it might have been a different story. The two outs I made came after I had to move to third.

Yeah…third.

I had just earned my second walk when Darrell Weatherly came to the plate in the bottom of the fifth. I had been watching Mantz and thought I had his timing down so I asked Skip if I could try to steal given the chance. Skip gave me the green light so I was focused on running with the first pitch. Mantz was paying no attention to me and I was able to get a hell of a jump. As I prepared to slide into second, I noticed that Trejo slowed up and wasn’t even preparing to take a throw so I went in standing up.

I turned to see Weatherly rolling in the dirt around the plate. At first I thought a pitch had hit him but Mantz already had the ball back and was standing with a concerned look on his face. Skip was at the plate already along with the trainers and Gibson. The trainers started waving their arms toward the ambulance crew at the bullpen gate and they started rushing toward the plate with their stretcher.

Weatherly continued to roll around and I heard his screaming. It was a scream I had never heard in my life and it caused me to shudder. It sounded almost inhuman…like an animal dying. The trainers and the ambulance crew continued to work on Weatherly for a few minutes while the Indians players gathered in a group and I heard one of them praying for Weatherly.

I asked Trejo what happened to Weatherly.

“I don’t know,” Trejo said in English with a heavy Puerto Rican accent. “But he fell like a stone.”

The trainers put Weatherly on the stretcher and walked with him as the ambulance crew rolled him off the field. The fans stood up and applauded for Weatherly as they took him away but he seemed to have passed out from the pain. I just stood on the bag and watched as Carlos Palomo came off the bench to strike out in place of Weatherly.

I ran to the dugout and Skip pulled everyone together.

“It looks like Weatherly ripped his bicep,” Skip said. “And I won’t lie to you. It looks really bad right now. But we can’t worry about that. Ellison, you’re a third baseman so get to third. Schott, you’re in at two.”

Somehow I made it through without making an error but the excitement was completely gone. We won the game 4-3 but when it was over there was no high fives exchanged or handshakes among the players. We just migrated toward the clubhouse and changed clothes without saying much of anything. There was an eerie silence through most of the clubhouse and no one appeared to want to break it.

I asked Gibson where they had taken Weatherly and he told me Lakeland Regional Medical Center but advised me not to go. Salinas and Thompson were standing nearby and said the same thing. I went anyway because I just felt like it was something I had to do.

A very cute nurse showed me to the room Darrell was in and left us alone.

“Well rook,” he said as he turned glassy, bloodshot eyes in my general direction. “Looks like you’re going to play where you want to play now.”

“Appears that way,” I said quietly.

“Bet you’re happy as hell,” Weatherly said slowly through a cloud of painkillers.

“Not really, no,” I replied.

Weatherly slowly turned his face toward me and took a minute to allow his eyes to focus. I don’t know what my face said to him but his eyes narrowed into a glance that drilled through my head.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I want to know how to play third base in the major leagues,” I said. “I’ve been playing second all this time and while I’ve played third before I know it’s not the same up here.”

“F***in’ A it’s not,” Weatherly said and laughed. “Sit down rookie.”

We spent the next two hours talking baseball and I think it helped Weatherly feel a little better. It’s also possible he was just on some really good drugs. Nurses kept coming and going bringing water and pills for Weatherly. Finally, a really pretty redhead nurse came in and announced that visiting hours were long over and I needed to leave before the attending doctor yelled at her. I smiled and said I’d be happy to leave when she came over and slid a piece of paper into my hand before she walked out.

On the paper was the name “Michelle” and a phone number. I looked up to see Weatherly smiling at me.

“Welcome to the major leagues, rookie,” he said. “Now get the hell out so I can sleep.”