[Tib]

Chapter Nine: The Off-Season, Part Two

At the front desk I met John Draper, a well-built graying man in his mid-fifties. We shook hands. “I had hoped to meet under better circumstances,” he said.

Theo was arrested for public intoxication. From what Draper told me, it could have been worse.

“He’ll be alright,” said the sergeant. “I didn’t think we needed to have the manager of the local pro team arguing with strangers in a parking lot.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Can I see him?”

I wrote a check for Theo’s bail and John grabbed a set of keys from a ceramic pig snout hanging on the wall.

The Hinesville Police station was six rooms and a hallway with cells on each side. Theo was at the end. “Driscoll?” he said, squinting at me from the dark.

“Hey, Skip. I’m getting you out of here.”

We went out to my truck.

“Thanks,” I said to Draper.

“No, thank you,” he said. “You’re bailing him out. He’s all yours now.”

The ride back to Theo’s house on Spring Hill was only a moderate success. He must have given me the wrong directions six times before I accidentally turned onto his street. At least he didn’t throw up in my new truck. He had plenty to say, though.

“Didn’t want you to see this, Driscoll.”

“Call me Dave,” I said dryly.

“I used to manage in the Bigs, Davey. You know? The Bigs!”

“I know, Skip.”

“I was 29-26 as a manager. That’s not bad, is it? Especially with that pitching staff. Jeeeeesus, they were awful. You know I managed Horatio Munoz?”

”Yeah, Skip.”

“Now there was a player. Fast. Smart. No attitude. He could play short with his eyes closed. You could be as good as him, you know that?”

“I hope so.”

“You worry too much. Don’t let your ability guide you. And you don’t focus soon enough on the pitcher’s release.”

“Great,” I said. “You couldn’t tell me this six months ago when you were sober?”

“Hey, ****head, you ain’t been where I’ve been.”

“You mean jail?” I shot back.

“Yeah,” he said. “I forgot. You know everything there is to know about baseball. You’re just a baby in this game, kid. You should listen to someone who’s been there. You might learn something.”

“Well you did teach me one thing,” I said.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“How to bail someone out of jail.”

Mom and Dad arrived the day before Thanksgiving. After submitting to my father’s intense scrutiny of my elbow, and answering a thousand questions, I got them to sit down. I told them all about Hinesville and the team and Cliff and Miss Draper. I told them about the fans and the local attractions and Savannah. I also told them about Marisa Hollings.

Going to church with Miss Draper was always a pleasure for me. She was so serious all the time, but when she was in church she changed entirely. A calm came over her. Her stern gaze softened into a benevolent smile. I used to try to get her to laugh. I’d watch her out of the corner of my eye, and at particular times of a hymn would sing loudly and off-key. The stern glance would return. I would smile at her as if nothing at all was wrong and I’d laugh to myself when she turned away. After the service she would scold me.

“The Lord’s music is not to be mocked, David,” she would say to me.

“Yes, ma’am,” I would reply.

One Sunday she said, “David, I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work. I taught elementary school for thirty-one years and believe me, if six year olds couldn’t do it, neither can you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then she eyed me strangely. I felt like a beetle in a glass jar. “Perhaps what you need are voice lessons.”

“Oh, Miss Draper I was just—.”

“Tut tut! I know just the person, too. Follow me, won’t you?”

Did I have a choice?

She walked briskly toward a group of people clustered around Reverend Lockett, pastor of the little church. She tapped the shoulder of a slim girl in a blue dress. The girl turned around.

Wow. Brown eyes, pretty face, friendly smile, long brown hair. I guess a few singing lessons couldn’t hurt…

“Miss Hollings, this is David Driscoll.”

“Pleased to meet you, David.” A voice like warm apple pie. Her hand was slender and soft.

“I--. Uh, I’m, uh…very-.”

“David is a baseball player, Marisa,” interrupted Miss Draper. “With the Gents.”

“Yes, Miss Draper,” said Marisa. “I know.”

“David needs some singing lessons, Marisa. He simply cannot carry a note, I’m afraid,” said Miss Draper, shooting a dissatisfied glance at me.

“Oh, really?” said Marisa with a sly smile. Apparently Miss Draper’s introductions had earned a reputation. “Is this true, Mr. Driscoll?”

“Uh, well, I, uh-. You see, I was, uh…”

“And maybe some speaking lessons, as well,” added Miss Draper.

“I see,” said Marisa. “Well, I do have some time available now.”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Draper. “Marisa’s former student has moved on, David.”

“Ah,” I managed. I got the sure feeling they were not talking about singing lessons. “Good for me, then.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Draper.

And then we just stood there. Marisa stood smiling quietly. Miss Draper stared at me like she just ate half a lemon. I shuffled from foot to foot and looked at all the pretty trees.

“David.”

“Hmm? Yes, Ma’am?”

“Why don’t you give Marisa your phone number so she can call you to arrange your first lesson? You can’t expect a young lady to give you hers, now can you?”

“Oh! Of course. Right. Yeah.” <i>I’m an idiot, I’m an idiot, I’m an idiot.</I> It’s 257--.”

“Write it down for her, David.”

“I don’t have a pen.”

“I have one,” said Marisa. I wrote it down for her. My tie was choking me to death.

“There. That’s done,” said Miss Draper, as if she just finished folding clothes or putting away the dishes. “Come, David.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Nice to meet you, Marisa.”

“Nice to meet you, too, David.”

Have I mentioned I was an idiot?

My mother was very interested in Marisa. “No, mom, I don’t know if you’ll meet her this trip.” “Yes, she is from Hinesville. She’s studying to become a nurse at the Roper School of Nursing in Charleston. She also works in a music store teaching voice and piano lessons on weekends.” “Yes, she’s in town. She’s staying at her parents’ house in the Deer Run Estates for Thanksgiving with her family.” “No, I’m not going to call her.” “Because she hasn’t given me her phone number yet.” And so on.

I drove my dad around Hinesville while my mother prepared for our little feast. We had a good time – for about an hour. Remember when I said life sucker punches you sometimes? Well…

My dad said he had something to tell me. He said it was not good news and I should probably pull over. I remember feeling a cold shiver run over me as I pulled into a bank parking lot.

“What’s going on?” I said.

My dad said, “Rick Phillips was killed in Iraq six days ago.”

Rick Phillips was a kid I grew up with. We went to high school together, played on junior baseball teams together. We weren’t friends, but we knew each other. He enlisted in the Army right after graduation. He had been in but a year. I remember I sat there for a long, quiet moment. Traffic buzzed by.

I knew Rick, but I wasn’t chummy with him. He was one of those guys you say “hi” to when you pass him on the street. You just don’t think anything more of it. Now all I wanted was to say “hi” to him again.

My dad said he was working with his squad clearing roadways for supply trucks and a bomb exploded. He was the only one killed. At that moment I thought of Mooney. I wondered if the cold knot in my stomach was anything like what he must feel. It was a very strange feeling. It felt wrong. It felt like I was hungry and full at the same time. I just stared at the dash of my truck and felt guilty for all the things I had that Rick would never have.

“I suppose now your going to tell me not to take anything for granted,” I said.

“I don’t think I have to tell you that,” said my dad. “There’s no moral to this story, son,” he added. “It’s something I thought you would like to know.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I started the truck.

“You want to go back to the house?”

“No. I want to find a card to send to his family. And after that…”

“After that, what?”

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Cliff and my dad got along great, as I knew they would. Cliff showed him his bats. I feigned anger. “Hey, it took you three months to show me these.”

“What’s your point?” said Cliff.

“What’s so special about him?” I jerked a thumb at my dad.

“Do you know who Bennie Watson was?” asked Cliff.

“No.”

“Catcher. New York Dockers,” said my dad.

“Do you know Mountain Joe Clark?”

“No, but--.”

“Left field. Later first base. Chicago Crowns,” said my dad. “Once hit over a hundred homers in a single calendar year in the BBA and the Mexican Winter League.”

“Alligator Al Jefferson? Tommy the Rocket Brewer? Sweets Rodriguez?” asked Cliff.

“Uh, no,” I repeated.

“Alligator Al Jefferson was called Alligator because he made extra money wrestling alligators after games. Tommy Brewer. Jersey Jesters. Stole a base in every game of the 1946 season. Sweets Rodriguez used to take chewing tobacco and--.”

“All right, all right,” I said, throwing my hands up. “I think I get it.”

After that my life leaped forward like a rocket. I guess after the night with Mooney and the news about Rick Phillips, I felt like I wasn’t taking advantage of the opportunities around me. Maybe Kearse was right, after all. Maybe I had to fight a little for the things that were important to me. Marisa and I saw more of one another. A lot more. Thanksgiving slid into Christmas. I worked out like a madman. I cooked chili and made bats in Cliff’s freezing workshop. I wrote to Moose and Yoogie and J.R. I drove to Charleston, to Ft. Lauderdale and to Atlanta to see McCammon. By the time March rolled around I was ten pounds heavier, all muscle. I was itching to play.

On March 15th J.R. showed up. On the 17th McCammon arrived, ten days late. Theo fined him five hundred bucks. It never fazed him.

Hinesville was waking up. You could feel the anticipation in the air. The Gents were in the news again, on TV again. The local paper did stories about who was gone and who was new. Atlanta’s draft did not include a shortstop, despite losing Dave Fountain to free agency.

Theo was stomping around the clubhouse again. He and I never spoke of the night I got him out of jail, and I never told a soul until now. He paid me back every penny, but he was still Theo. He rode my ass about my swing and a dozen other things. Not once did he thank me. He came close years later when we met at a charity function, but I guess apologies never come easy to the unrepentant.

Spring came to Hinesville, and with it the promise of new beginnings. People waved at me on the street. They remembered. The smell of wood and leather was in my nose again. The staccato clicking of cleats echoed through the locker room again. I heard the heavy snap of balls striking the pockets of well-oiled gloves. I felt the surge of power in my torso and arms when I fired a ball across the infield. When I crouched at short, muscles relaxed but ready, I could see the familiar angles again out of the corners of my eyes.

Baseball was back again.


Next: Chapter Ten: <i>A New Beginning</i>