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Tib · 05-12-2004, 08:33 PM

CHAPTER 1:

Draft Day

The most vivid memory I have of draft day 2003 wasn’t the call from Peter Van Alten, GM of the Atlanta Generals. It wasn’t the many friends and family filling my parents’ modest home in the sunny foothills of Mount Rose, California. It was my dad turning to me right after I got off the phone and whispering, “Maybe we shouldn’t tell them about the knee.” Years later, right before he died, my father and I would laugh about our little secret. You know the way you chuckle to yourself when you get away with something? Like that. My knee injury was to be a secret for fifteen years.

I was eighteen on draft day, a senior in high school. Only two months prior I had created quite a stir by declaring for professional baseball’s amateur draft. I was ranked one of the top ten college baseball prospects in California and everyone had expected me to go to Pepperdine like my old man. I had been offered scholarships to Stanford, Oklahoma State, Arizona State, UCLA, Florida and Notre Dame, but I didn’t sign letters of intent with any of them because of my knee. I was afraid if I went to college they’d either find out about the knee or it wouldn’t hold up and I would be out of baseball before I realized my dream of playing in the CBA.

Together, my dad and I decided I should go into the draft to maximize my rehab time. We decided to keep the knee a secret for fear I wouldn’t be drafted at all. As it was, we felt I’d probably go in the first four or five rounds, and that would buy me some time; it was likely that a team would be more patient with a high draft pick. That patience could give me as much as a year to continue my rehabilitation; we knew a poor first season could be attributed to a “period of adjustment”. And up until that phone rang it was our intention to eventually tell whoever drafted me about my knee.

It’s funny, the things you remember. I vividly recall the commotion in the house that day. I can see my mother moving about with a certain nervous industry, busy offering trays of snacks and drinks to all her guests. I can see my high school coach, Ron Hoeffler, talking to my younger sister Jan, who was an all-conference athlete herself. I can see all my friends gathered around the TV, drinking sodas, talking and laughing. I can see my dad, happy and full of energy, trading stories and barbs with his friends. I even remember there was a squirrel climbing a palm tree outside the den window right before the call came. But for the life of me, I cannot remember picking up the phone.

All I remember is the house fell silent the way a restaurant does when someone drops a tray. It seemed like everyone heard it at the same time and we all froze, choking off words in mid-stream, waiting to hear if it was really the phone or our imaginations. Well, it was really the phone. I gave a nervous glance at my dad, we exchanged a smile, and then the receiver was at my ear. At that instant I heard someone behind me say, “Now? That was quick”.

Feigning levity to mask my terror, I announced “Hello! Driscoll Draft Central!”

“Hello. Davey Driscoll please,” came the deep southern drawl.

“This is me. I mean I’m me. I mean this is --. I’m Dave Driscoll.”

“Well, Davey Driscoll, this is Peter Van Alten from the Mutual League champion Atlanta Generals.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Davey, we’ve just made you our first round pick. Twenty-ninth overall.”

I must not have spoken for a while, because the voice said, “Davey? Are you still there?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

“We are very much looking forward to you playing for our organization. You already know Hal Fitzwalter don’t you? Well he’s on his way to your house with some papers for you to sign. We’re prepared to offer you a $315,000 signing bonus. You’ll be reporting to the Hinesville Gents in April.”

“Thank you, Mr. Van Alten.”

“Welcome to the Atlanta Generals.”

And that was it. After 10,000 ground balls and countless hours in a batting cage, after three varsity seasons, 77 errorless games at shortstop, two all-conference MVP awards, one state all-star award, one roller hockey accident, and one tiny lie I was a first round draft pick. My knee didn’t hurt the rest of the day.

My conscience did, though.

05-12-2004, 08:33 PM	#2
Tib All Star Reserve Join Date: Aug 2002 Location: Paso Robles, CA Posts: 995	CHAPTER 1: Draft Day The most vivid memory I have of draft day 2003 wasn’t the call from Peter Van Alten, GM of the Atlanta Generals. It wasn’t the many friends and family filling my parents’ modest home in the sunny foothills of Mount Rose, California. It was my dad turning to me right after I got off the phone and whispering, “Maybe we shouldn’t tell them about the knee.” Years later, right before he died, my father and I would laugh about our little secret. You know the way you chuckle to yourself when you get away with something? Like that. My knee injury was to be a secret for fifteen years. I was eighteen on draft day, a senior in high school. Only two months prior I had created quite a stir by declaring for professional baseball’s amateur draft. I was ranked one of the top ten college baseball prospects in California and everyone had expected me to go to Pepperdine like my old man. I had been offered scholarships to Stanford, Oklahoma State, Arizona State, UCLA, Florida and Notre Dame, but I didn’t sign letters of intent with any of them because of my knee. I was afraid if I went to college they’d either find out about the knee or it wouldn’t hold up and I would be out of baseball before I realized my dream of playing in the CBA. Together, my dad and I decided I should go into the draft to maximize my rehab time. We decided to keep the knee a secret for fear I wouldn’t be drafted at all. As it was, we felt I’d probably go in the first four or five rounds, and that would buy me some time; it was likely that a team would be more patient with a high draft pick. That patience could give me as much as a year to continue my rehabilitation; we knew a poor first season could be attributed to a “period of adjustment”. And up until that phone rang it was our intention to eventually tell whoever drafted me about my knee. It’s funny, the things you remember. I vividly recall the commotion in the house that day. I can see my mother moving about with a certain nervous industry, busy offering trays of snacks and drinks to all her guests. I can see my high school coach, Ron Hoeffler, talking to my younger sister Jan, who was an all-conference athlete herself. I can see all my friends gathered around the TV, drinking sodas, talking and laughing. I can see my dad, happy and full of energy, trading stories and barbs with his friends. I even remember there was a squirrel climbing a palm tree outside the den window right before the call came. But for the life of me, I cannot remember picking up the phone. All I remember is the house fell silent the way a restaurant does when someone drops a tray. It seemed like everyone heard it at the same time and we all froze, choking off words in mid-stream, waiting to hear if it was really the phone or our imaginations. Well, it was really the phone. I gave a nervous glance at my dad, we exchanged a smile, and then the receiver was at my ear. At that instant I heard someone behind me say, “Now? That was quick”. Feigning levity to mask my terror, I announced “Hello! Driscoll Draft Central!” “Hello. Davey Driscoll please,” came the deep southern drawl. “This is me. I mean I’m me. I mean this is --. I’m Dave Driscoll.” “Well, Davey Driscoll, this is Peter Van Alten from the Mutual League champion Atlanta Generals.” “Yes, sir?” “Davey, we’ve just made you our first round pick. Twenty-ninth overall.” I must not have spoken for a while, because the voice said, “Davey? Are you still there?” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.” “We are very much looking forward to you playing for our organization. You already know Hal Fitzwalter don’t you? Well he’s on his way to your house with some papers for you to sign. We’re prepared to offer you a $315,000 signing bonus. You’ll be reporting to the Hinesville Gents in April.” “Thank you, Mr. Van Alten.” “Welcome to the Atlanta Generals.” And that was it. After 10,000 ground balls and countless hours in a batting cage, after three varsity seasons, 77 errorless games at shortstop, two all-conference MVP awards, one state all-star award, one roller hockey accident, and one tiny lie I was a first round draft pick. My knee didn’t hurt the rest of the day. My conscience did, though. Last edited by Tib; 11-01-2020 at 03:07 AM.