Chapter 72:
Full Steam Ahead
Baltimore is cold, and when you build your stadium to overlook the harbor, you invite even more cold. The Hunting Grounds could get cold, too, but being in the heart of Chicago’s South Side helped protect it from the wind coming off Lake Michigan. Harborside Stadium, as I was to learn, was built intentionally open to the Patapsco River to give fans a view of the Inner Harbor. And it was a great view, one of the most photographed in baseball, but sometimes (and especially in the afternoons) the wind off the ocean swept right up the channel and into the stadium. In short, your eyes would have a feast looking out at the docks at Tide Point, but the rest of your body would freeze to death. I was spoiled to spend the first month of my Steamer career in Florida, but it wasn’t long before I rediscovered my love of heavy wool coats.
The team returned to the city on March 30th for the traditional preseason finale series against the Sentinels before we returned to Florida to start the season on the road in Miami. Game 1 was a balmy 48 degrees. Game 2 was 51. Game 3 was 58. People were in tank tops in the stands. I admit, after having to wear layers to keep warm I was looking forward to Florida. I may have played in Chicago, but I was still a California kid.
Throughout the preseason I shared shortstop duties with Matt Norrell, a switch hitter who impressed last season (.314/6/35 in 103 games), and although Stokes told me I was his starter, he was also honest enough to tell me he intended to give Norrell plenty of at bats. I was turning 32 on Opening Day, and no matter how physically able I was, 32 is a threshold in professional baseball. It’s the age of greater scrutiny, when everyone says nice things about what you’ve accomplished so far, but secretly wonders how much gas you still have in the tank. And an $18-million contract doesn’t change that. Thirty-two is a conspicuous age, the number at the end of certain statistical demographics. The commonly accepted age range for a player’s offensive prime is 27-32, for example.
Strangely, I wasn’t feeling any pressure. By now I’ll bet you’re thinking “Dave was probably stressed about being past his prime”. Nope. I just signed a good contract, for a length of time that most players don’t get offered, and I had a good spring at the plate (.282/2/11, 4 steals). My elbow and knee were healthy. And most of all, I was ready to prove my worth to my new team.
Let me tell you about my new team.
As most of you know, if you’ve followed professional baseball at all, the Baltimore Steamers are one of the league’s most mercurial teams. The franchise has a history of stringing together multiple winning seasons, even championship chasing seasons, but is also known for its long playoff droughts. The Steamers also have a history of not performing according to plan. Baltimore has won titles without the strongest lineup or pitching staffs, but they’ve also failed to finish .500 with the most expensive payroll in the game. During my career, Baltimore won more than one championship while finishing dead last in their division four times. Joining this team for me was a gamble, and not just professionally. When you play for the Steamers, you’re never quite sure where you’ll end up in the standings.
The team Theo put together was a good one. There were always questions, of course, about bullpen depth and the health of the injury prone, but not about talent. In 2016 I was one of the new guys, along with my old teammate Rudy Galindo and relievers Telmo Vasco and Jimmy Kappler from Seattle and Pittsburgh respectively. Perhaps the thing that put off most of the pundits was the absence of a lefthanded starter. On the other hand, Theo didn’t believe in lefty-righty splits, just like he didn’t believe in ghosts or the Loch Ness Monster or the perfect waffle.
Phil Corkery was a two-time All-Star with a fratbro sense of humor (his description). He was always ready to laugh, even if the joke wasn’t that funny. He had a three-day beard every day, even the day after he shaved. His feet were simply too big for his body and his shoulders were so wide he had to turn to the side to go through doorways. He wore number 86 because before he made the team he was cut from Baltimore’s final Big League roster three times. He was tall (6’5”), a painfully slow runner, but a huge target at first base. His slash-type swing could drive a ball into the gaps with power, but could also shank one down either line for a double. During games he kept a wad of gum in his mouth the size of a golf ball and liked to chat up baserunners. He used an immense glove almost as long as his feet. His wife Laurie was Miss Mississippi 2009. He had two blond toe-headed kids, Muriel and Grant, who liked to help by hanging up game day jerseys. Muriel once drew a picture of me as a gift and left it in my locker. She couldn’t remember my name, so she wrote simply: “Not Terry”. I have it framed above my desk.
Second baseman Marcelo Calderon was a 31-year-old converted shortstop of Mexican/Italian descent who told everyone, “My name is ‘Mar-chello’, not ‘Mar-sello’”. He was a Baltimore farmhand Theo loved for his solid glove, but his bat was streaky. When he got hot, though, he was on base all the time. He had just gone through a messy divorce and missed his daughter terribly, so much he began talking about going back to play in the Dominican to be near her. He used one of the trendy new shallow pocket gloves and his hands were so fast you could barely track the ball before it was coming at you. He was one of the two hundred or so players who still used a wooden bat. He called it the “caldero”, which he said is a kind of Hispanic pressure cooker. I think he just wanted to name it after himself. He was quick-footed, quick-witted and funnier than people gave him credit for. I was looking forward to playing with him. I thought we could make a very exciting duo up the middle.
Matt Norrell was the new blood, full of promise and talent, and my main rival for playing time. He was a terrific hitter, but inconsistent in his efforts to improve. I say this not to be cruel or critical, but to describe the kind of obstacles he faced in his career. His father, former Big Leaguer Tom Norrell (six seasons as a starter with Detroit: 63-68), was a big influence on him, both positively and negatively. Again, not to be critical. He described his challenges with his dad in his interview in the November 2019 issue of Baseline magazine. By his own description (and statistically), Matt was a poor fielder, which in part explains my disproportionate playing time, though he was without a doubt the better hitter. He was also a high-profile draft pick, having starred on Nevada State’s 2014 Division I championship team. I knew going in he was seen as a potential future All-Star, but I also knew Theo and his bias toward defense, at least at shortstop. Hell, Horatio Munoz hit .231 his first season with Theo, but Theo stuck with him. Essentially, shortstop was my position to lose.
James Wills. What can be said that hasn’t already been said? He was a bona fide superstar. 551 career home runs, a 10-time All-Star, a future HOF lock and the all-time franchise golden boy. An absolute pro beloved by fans, his #33 was the best-selling jersey for the last six seasons – in all of baseball. He was the first Steamer player to shake my hand when I got to Florida for Spring Training. His wife sent my wife a gift basket and a welcome card. His business first attitude and shrewd baseball mind were envied by all, especially companies like Amerisports and National Pastime, who fought over his after-retirement career in broadcasting (Wills never mentioned anything to anyone while he was still playing). He was a consummate pro, insanely talented, with records he accomplished almost by willpower alone. He holds the Big League record for errorless games at third, an insane 53 games in his age-25 season. No fast-food, energy drink, or shoe deals for James Wills. His endorsements included banks, investment companies, luxury car makers, and international resort hotels. And in an era where the internet decided your nickname, he was James Wills. No one called him Jim or Jimmy or Jimbo, not even the internet. Our manager, Tim Stokes, affectionately called him Mr. Wills.
This didn’t stop Theo from calling him Jimmy, though. Of course, we all cringed whenever he did, because we knew Wills. But Wills never did or said anything, at least in front of anyone. I think Wills instinctively knew Theo wasn’t trying to start something. Theo didn’t have that kind of subtlety. Besides, James Wills only fought the battles he could win, so he let it go. Theo was not his favorite person, but I’m sure James Wills understood the futility of reasoning with Theo Garner.
One of my former teammates, Rudy Galindo, joined the team with me. He was 38 years old this season, and he was losing velocity on his fastball, but he still had the devastating sinker. Still, it was a risky signing. Critics quickly dismissed him as a veteran too long in the teeth hanging on to his career by strength of past accomplishments, but that wasn’t fair. Rudy had some great seasons, knew how to pitch and how to get outs. Nothing impressed Theo more than a pitcher who “knew which end of the ball to hold”.
So the Steamers, with added veteran experience and some question marks in the bullpen and no lefthanded starters, began the season in Miami with a quality start, a 3-1 victory, and a James Wills homer. The team was 3-3 in week one and 3-3 in week two. The vets were playing well. Wills had three homers by Game 6 and I grabbed Player of the Game with a bases clearing double in an 11-5 victory over the Admirals in New York. Standing at second base, I enjoyed the boos tremendously, though the New York fans’ displeasure may have been more for the slider that didn’t slide then any kind of anger at me.
On April 12th we scored five in the eighth to win 5-2 over powerhouse Denver team. The next day, a cold Sunday getaway game, Norrell started and I finished, driving a low fastball into the stands along the left field foul pole for a pinch hit homer, my first of the season.
Our starting pitching had a hot start. Galindo and crew didn’t give up more than three earned runs for almost two weeks, and by the end of April we were 16-10 and in first place. I was hitting .277 with 5 doubles and starting most every game. I had been experimenting with ceramic bats for most of the spring and settled on a Maxibat Montauk BX-225 that was +3 mph on barrel contacts. All in all, I was pleased with my production at the plate, which was unusual for me. I was used to grinding mightily for hits early in the season. I began to think, “Could it be a good offensive season without having to work my ass off?”
It was not. But for the first time in my career, offense was the least of my problems.
Next up: Dave's struggles in Baltimore begin