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Jason · 01-07-2006, 10:14 PM

Monday, April 10, 2006, 5:45pm, Detroit, MI

“You’re going to have days like this a lot, kid,” I heard Ryland’s voice say from the darkness at the end of the corridor.

“I know,” I said as I smacked another line drive to the back of the batting cage. “I’ll be just as mad after those games as I am now.”

I turned to face my manager as he walked into the light and stood next to the netting of the cage. We had just finished a 5-1 win over the Minnesota Twins and Ryland still wasn’t smiling. He looked me straight in the eyes and didn’t say a word. After a minute of awkward silence, Ryland turned and looked toward the far end of the cage.

“You hit the ball just fine,” he said in a tired voice. “Some days they just don’t find the holes.”

“Thirty seven years in organized baseball and that’s the best you can come up with?” I asked with a laugh as I turned back toward the batter’s box.

Ryland stood silently as I smacked a few hard ground balls at the center of the back wall.

“Raise your back elbow an inch,” Ryland said quietly.

Figuring I had nothing to lose, I raised my elbow. The hard ground balls switched instantly to hard line drives that would sail just over the head of any pitcher in the league. I knew that Ryland had to be standing there with his arrogant smirk but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to face him.

“Turn off the machine and sit down,” Ryland said. “I want to tell you a story.”

I don’t want to seem disrespectful of baseball veterans because that’s certainly not how I feel. I know that I could sit and listen to Salinas tell stories all day. Things were different with Ryland and not just because the man was my immediate boss and could screw up everything by sending me down to the minors. He wasn’t friendly most of the time and I didn’t like being around him. I was sure this was going to be some lame story about a rookie who went down and came back stronger than ever.

I turned off the pitching machine and leaned my bat against the netting of the cage. Ryland waved his hand to indicate I was to sit.

“It was the summer of 1972,” Ryland said as he sat down and leaned against the concrete wall. “It was my rookie year playing for Weaver in Baltimore.”

I really fought the urge to roll my eyes. I just wanted to get back to my batting practice not hear Ryland rip off a great story of Earl Weaver’s.

“We had just gotten back from a road trip to the West Coast and I hadn’t had a very good trip,” Ryland continued. “Weaver had given me four starts in the ten games and I didn’t collect a hit in any of them.”

If the man didn’t have the power to send me down to the minors, I would have made some comment about how his career batting average started with a one.

“As soon as I had my bag, I headed straight for the ball park to take some batting practice,” Ryland said. “I couldn’t really understand what was happening. I had hit over .300 at each level of the minor leagues and popped at least thirty homers. I get to the show and I couldn’t even hit to the warning track. I thought I something had to be wrong.”

“What were you hitting at the time?” I asked feeling as if I needed to talk to keep up the charade that I was interested.

“Just over .250,” Ryland answered with a smile that said he believed my bluff. “It wasn’t bad but I wasn’t very happy with it. So I started to head to the cage after each game that I didn’t get a hit.”

“Isn’t that what you should do?” I said. “Work harder to get better?”

“I thought so,” Ryland said in a slower pace. “I thought that’s what a professional hitter did.”

“So what happened?” I asked with actual mild curiosity. He hadn’t mentioned any snappy quips from Weaver or other players so the story seemed a little more than typical manager to rookie talk.

“I kept making changes in my swing,” Ryland said as he turned to look at the pitching machine at the far end of the batting cage. “Every time I went hitless I’d try and change something. I’d raise my elbow or lower my shoulder or spread my stance. By August I had tried about twenty different batting styles and I was hitting under .150.”

“That when they sent you down?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Ryland said in a tone of voice that actually made me feel sorry for him. I knew how much I didn’t want to go down to the minors and here was a guy who knew what it was like to make the show and go back down again. Maybe a manager can be a human being after all.

“As I was packing up my stuff to go,” Ryland continued, “Brooks Robinson came over and sat down next to me. I couldn’t even look at the guy. Here was a future Hall of Famer sitting next to a guy who couldn’t even hit his weight.”

I chuckled without even realizing I did it. Ryland looked up at me with an angry look that changed to a soft smile.

“Yeah, I sucked,” Ryland said and chuckled.

“Sorry,” I said and meant it.

”That’s OK,” Ryland said. “I can laugh at it now.”

“So what did Robinson say?” I asked.

Ryland looked at me and the smile faded. He slowly rose to his feet and looked down at me.

“Robinson said that when I came up I had a great swing and I ruined it,” he said. “He said that I should have trusted the talent I had already instead of thinking a patch of bad luck meant I didn’t have the skill to play at this level.”

I wanted to get up but Ryland’s words hit me so hard it almost felt like a physical kick in the stomach.

“You hit .500 in your first week as a major leaguer,” Ryland said with a stern tone. “Those two home runs you hit off Ed Humphrey Wednesday night were some of the fastest I’ve ever seen leave a ball park.”

Ryland turned and walked a few steps away from the cage and stopped.

“So like I said before,” he said without turning around. “You hit the ball just fine. Some nights they just don’t find the holes.”

Ryland walked down the hall and disappeared into the darkness. I slowly stood up and picked up my bat. As I walked to the switch to start the machine I glanced down the hall toward the locker room and lowered my hand. Turning away from the switch I slowly walked out of the cage and down the hall toward the locker room.

Something told me that someday I would be buying Jack Ryland a very large steak dinner.

01-07-2006, 10:14 PM	#43
Jason Hall Of Famer Join Date: May 2002 Posts: 3,855	Monday, April 10, 2006, 5:45pm, Detroit, MI “You’re going to have days like this a lot, kid,” I heard Ryland’s voice say from the darkness at the end of the corridor. “I know,” I said as I smacked another line drive to the back of the batting cage. “I’ll be just as mad after those games as I am now.” I turned to face my manager as he walked into the light and stood next to the netting of the cage. We had just finished a 5-1 win over the Minnesota Twins and Ryland still wasn’t smiling. He looked me straight in the eyes and didn’t say a word. After a minute of awkward silence, Ryland turned and looked toward the far end of the cage. “You hit the ball just fine,” he said in a tired voice. “Some days they just don’t find the holes.” “Thirty seven years in organized baseball and that’s the best you can come up with?” I asked with a laugh as I turned back toward the batter’s box. Ryland stood silently as I smacked a few hard ground balls at the center of the back wall. “Raise your back elbow an inch,” Ryland said quietly. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I raised my elbow. The hard ground balls switched instantly to hard line drives that would sail just over the head of any pitcher in the league. I knew that Ryland had to be standing there with his arrogant smirk but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to face him. “Turn off the machine and sit down,” Ryland said. “I want to tell you a story.” I don’t want to seem disrespectful of baseball veterans because that’s certainly not how I feel. I know that I could sit and listen to Salinas tell stories all day. Things were different with Ryland and not just because the man was my immediate boss and could screw up everything by sending me down to the minors. He wasn’t friendly most of the time and I didn’t like being around him. I was sure this was going to be some lame story about a rookie who went down and came back stronger than ever. I turned off the pitching machine and leaned my bat against the netting of the cage. Ryland waved his hand to indicate I was to sit. “It was the summer of 1972,” Ryland said as he sat down and leaned against the concrete wall. “It was my rookie year playing for Weaver in Baltimore.” I really fought the urge to roll my eyes. I just wanted to get back to my batting practice not hear Ryland rip off a great story of Earl Weaver’s. “We had just gotten back from a road trip to the West Coast and I hadn’t had a very good trip,” Ryland continued. “Weaver had given me four starts in the ten games and I didn’t collect a hit in any of them.” If the man didn’t have the power to send me down to the minors, I would have made some comment about how his career batting average started with a one. “As soon as I had my bag, I headed straight for the ball park to take some batting practice,” Ryland said. “I couldn’t really understand what was happening. I had hit over .300 at each level of the minor leagues and popped at least thirty homers. I get to the show and I couldn’t even hit to the warning track. I thought I something had to be wrong.” “What were you hitting at the time?” I asked feeling as if I needed to talk to keep up the charade that I was interested. “Just over .250,” Ryland answered with a smile that said he believed my bluff. “It wasn’t bad but I wasn’t very happy with it. So I started to head to the cage after each game that I didn’t get a hit.” “Isn’t that what you should do?” I said. “Work harder to get better?” “I thought so,” Ryland said in a slower pace. “I thought that’s what a professional hitter did.” “So what happened?” I asked with actual mild curiosity. He hadn’t mentioned any snappy quips from Weaver or other players so the story seemed a little more than typical manager to rookie talk. “I kept making changes in my swing,” Ryland said as he turned to look at the pitching machine at the far end of the batting cage. “Every time I went hitless I’d try and change something. I’d raise my elbow or lower my shoulder or spread my stance. By August I had tried about twenty different batting styles and I was hitting under .150.” “That when they sent you down?” I asked. “Yeah,” Ryland said in a tone of voice that actually made me feel sorry for him. I knew how much I didn’t want to go down to the minors and here was a guy who knew what it was like to make the show and go back down again. Maybe a manager can be a human being after all. “As I was packing up my stuff to go,” Ryland continued, “Brooks Robinson came over and sat down next to me. I couldn’t even look at the guy. Here was a future Hall of Famer sitting next to a guy who couldn’t even hit his weight.” I chuckled without even realizing I did it. Ryland looked up at me with an angry look that changed to a soft smile. “Yeah, I sucked,” Ryland said and chuckled. “Sorry,” I said and meant it. ”That’s OK,” Ryland said. “I can laugh at it now.” “So what did Robinson say?” I asked. Ryland looked at me and the smile faded. He slowly rose to his feet and looked down at me. “Robinson said that when I came up I had a great swing and I ruined it,” he said. “He said that I should have trusted the talent I had already instead of thinking a patch of bad luck meant I didn’t have the skill to play at this level.” I wanted to get up but Ryland’s words hit me so hard it almost felt like a physical kick in the stomach. “You hit .500 in your first week as a major leaguer,” Ryland said with a stern tone. “Those two home runs you hit off Ed Humphrey Wednesday night were some of the fastest I’ve ever seen leave a ball park.” Ryland turned and walked a few steps away from the cage and stopped. “So like I said before,” he said without turning around. “You hit the ball just fine. Some nights they just don’t find the holes.” Ryland walked down the hall and disappeared into the darkness. I slowly stood up and picked up my bat. As I walked to the switch to start the machine I glanced down the hall toward the locker room and lowered my hand. Turning away from the switch I slowly walked out of the cage and down the hall toward the locker room. Something told me that someday I would be buying Jack Ryland a very large steak dinner.