Rollercoaster, Part One
Baseball is a game of constant change. Lineups change with every new starter. Starters throw different pitches in different locations for every different count and every changing batter. There are different pitchers for every situation, countered by pinch hitters selected to oppose them. Fielders change positions based on changing defensive objectives. Batters change bats and stances. They change their approach at the plate based on count, outs, runners, inning and situation. Pitchers change their pitch selection for the same reasons. Managers must consider all these variables and calculate successful outcomes from all this changing data. Throw in the randomness inherent in striking a round object with another round object and you have the rollercoaster that is baseball.
Yet, like a rollercoaster, baseball craves its own limits. Somehow, we can put up with all the direction changes and unexpected highs and lows as long as the cars stay on the track. It’s the illusion of control: “If we have limits, everything will be fine”. The traditions of baseball, those unchanging rules and rituals, the limits we put on conduct and chaos, are defended with passion and determination, as if this alone will avoid total disaster. But for every argument against change there are five examples why it is inevitable. For every defiant refusal to accept the evolution of the sport there are five players who push those conventions aside and find a new path to the future. Granted, it’s not often a future all of us want, but without those guys we’d still be using wooden bats and our eyes alone to determine the strike zone.
The 2015 preseason was about the conflict between change and sameness.
The carnival ride that was the 2015 season began in December with a slew of retirements. Bootsy Morales retired. Bobby Frisina retired. Dave Fountain retired. Bill Katz retired. These were not entirely unexpected. Bootsy was having issues with his knees and didn’t want to move to first, even though teams were interested in him there. I’ve always believed catchers are born and not made, and I guess Bootsy’s decision proves my point. You know, when three generations of your family are catchers, maybe you just identify yourself as a catcher no matter where you play.
Bobby Frisina refused reassignment and Washington released him. As we know, KC offered him a spot in the booth and he took it with enthusiasm. The idea of remaining in baseball without the grind on his body was appealing to him. Plus, he was back home and the hours as a broadcaster were better. And he had three teenage kids, one starting college. And a wife who missed him. Once he was the face of the franchise, now he’d be the voice of the franchise. He’s been there ever since.
Dave Fountain was the starting shortstop for the Generals the year I was drafted by the team. Although we have become good acquaintances since we retired, I always needle him that if he wasn’t so good I wouldn’t have been traded my rookie year. He always tells me he won’t apologize for being good and that he didn’t even know who I was and if he did he still wouldn’t have cared.
Bill Katz and his steel cable ligaments finally wore out. He began having elbow problems that surgery couldn’t fix and after sixteen seasons he decided he wanted to be able to play catch with his eventual grandchildren.
On an up note, Dave Guevara and Von Jones both got married, Dave in early December and Von in February. The weddings were mini reunions of my teams in Hinesville and in KC. It was great to see each other off the field. Flash, Jukebox, Yoogie, Bobby Nitta, Joel Kral (who welcomed his first child in late January), Frisina, Boogles. We were growing up, you know? We weren’t kids anymore. Well, Jukebox was still a kid in many ways. The only one missing was Moose. Von sent him an invitation, but he was a no show. No one knew exactly what he was up to.
The holidays were a kind of lull that year, a weird kind of limbo. You know how rollercoasters often travel slowly as they set up for the next set of speedy curves? Like that. Damon was four and Molly was two and were old enough to make requests of Santa Claus. I built my first playhouse and tricycle, though judging by how much happiness it brought, I think the playhouse was also a gift for my wife. Damon immediately tried to get the tricycle airborne. I told him he was not to jump it off the patio steps anymore, even if it was fun to crash in the snow.
I bought him his first baseball glove that Christmas. It was a new glove, just on the market, named after one of the best fielders in the league -- a masterpiece of design called the Driscoll Pro Series. Real cow leather, not that genetically engineered stuff from China. Signed by Dave Driscoll himself. Damon wore it for pictures, dropped it under the tree, and went right back to the tricycle. My father laughed and laughed.
“What’s so funny, grandpa?” I asked him.
“You got a Legends cap from Santa when you were four. You threw it in the garbage.”
Another aspect of the holidays when you’re a Big Leaguer is end-of-year endorsements. Product endorsements typically end when the calendar year ends, so December is a big month. Thanks to the Magic Man and his talented cadre of motivated representatives, I signed extensions with Baseline Sports (makers of the Driscoll Pro Series), Mirano Eyewear, Relvig Pharmaceuticals (makers of Glacier Mint muscle rub), and Kinetiq, makers of the Spring-Lok baseball swing trainer. I probably should also have signed with a crystal ball manufacturer, because the season’s prospects began to look cloudier the closer we got to Opening Day.
In early February the first trades and signings were announced. Nick St. Laurent, who played so solidly for us, went to Seattle with catcher Alvaro Aceves for center fielder Lane Fenn. Seattle also signed Dave Guevara to a 4-year contract. Moose went into arbitration for the second year with Montreal. This was a rarity because most players who go to arbitration are caught between the team’s lukewarm commitment to them and a poor economic situation. Arbitration usually means a new home the next season. Two arbitration contracts in a row means the player has received no interest from other teams and thus has no leverage. Moose was very clearly stuck, at least for this year. The weird thing was, he got $2 million. In arbitration. It was a victory for his market value, but a strange backhanded compliment, and not from the Blue Sox but from the arbiter. It was as if the arbiter was telling Montreal, “You should have signed him.”
But perhaps the most concerning news during the off-season was the Comanches going into arbitration with eight players, four of them pitchers, three of them starters. Not exactly a vote of confidence. In fact, word was that after spending over $60 million on players the last four years and getting four marginal seasons (not to mention the continued expense of a new stadium) Chicago was now skittish about spending money. Perhaps skittish isn’t the right word. Cautious might be a better word. That was the word Fontillion used when he talked about the precariousness of the team’s negotiations with so many of their current players. In the end everyone signed, including St. Laurent, who was traded later that day to Seattle. I suppose the team was happy. They saved millions, but now had six not-so-happy players with one-year contracts. Whether I stayed with the team or not, there were going to be big changes in Chicago next season.
And all this still meant the 2015 rollercoaster was only just starting out of the terminal, gliding through the first gentle turns. And, like being on a rollercoaster, I was excited and a little nervous. Unlike other seasons, this year I would have more attention on me from teams thinking about making me an offer, should I file for free agency. That was good. I could strengthen my situation by playing well. Having three starting pitchers, our starting third baseman, and one of our best relievers on one-year contracts was worrying.
In the pocket of my travel coat Gwen found the pin drive Hal gave me. We popped it in the TV and watched it. It contained about fifteen minutes of palm com video of me playing in high school.
“You were a spaz,” Gwen observed.
“I was not a spaz.”
“You were spazzingly energetic.”
“I loved the game. I wanted to win.”
“Were you on cocaine? Because it looks like you were on some form of juvenile cocaine.”
“I will not apologize for being competitive. I used to get very fired up for games.”
“Well, you certainly look fired up. You look like you fired up right before this game.”
At the end was Hal interviewing me. “Can you state your name, position and school for me?” said Hal’s voice.
“Dave Driscoll. Shortstop/pitcher. Mount Rose High School. Mount Rose, California.”
“Class of?”
“Two-thousand two.”
“Have you made a decision yet on school?”
“Not yet. We just started talking to schools.”
“Which schools?”
“Cal Lutheran, UCLA, Texas A&M, and, um, Fullerton, I think.”
“Have you spoken to any Big League teams yet?”
“Just you and the Mammoths. Oh, and San Diego.”
“What do you love about baseball, Dave?”
“Competing. Seeing if I’m better than my opponent. Making plays when they have to be made. And winning.”
“Would you like to say anything to the Atlanta organization?”
“I guess I would say that I know breaking into professional baseball is kind of a rollercoaster. Some grab the sides and hold on for dear life. Others throw their hands in the air.”
“And which one are you?”
“This baseball thing is a huge risk,” my young self said. “My instinct would be to grab on and hold tight, but I’d throw my hands in the air because you can be either scared or excited in life and I’d rather be excited about my future than scared of losing it.”
“Good answer,” said Hal’s voice.
“Good answer,” said Gwen at almost the same time.
Then my dad walked in the room smiling. “Hey, Rollercoaster Man, your son just threw his new glove in the garbage.”