[Tib]

CHAPTER 10:

A New Beginning

Funny thing. When I walked into that ancient locker room on March 15th, I just assumed all my teammates would be there. You know, like high school. I was nineteen; what the hell did I know? The first sucker-punch lesson of the new season hit me when I sat down to unpack my gear: at any level of professional baseball, there are no guarantees.

Some of the guys were missing. I didn’t figure it out right away. I sat down next to Moose, started to put my things away, and I noticed a new name on the locker next to mine: Russell Weinman.

“Where’s Rojas?” I said.

“Gone,” said Moose. “And I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Why not?”

Moose just looked at me for a moment and then I got it. ****, he got released.

“Oh,” I said quietly.

McCammon leaned over to me. “Curlee and Aguirre are gone, too,” he whispered.

All I could think of was that after hitting .236 the year before I was just glad it wasn’t me. Those guys weren’t bad ballplayers. Hell, they hardly even played. I guess there just wasn’t enough room for everybody. Kearse’s words echoed in my head: "At the end of the season somebody’s going home.”

“Where’s Kearse?”

“He’s gone, too,” said Moose.

“What? He hit, like, .311!”

Moose stared at me again. “No, numbnuts, he got sent up to Durham after the season.”

“Oh.”

“And he hit .316, not .311. Are you telling me you lived here the last six months and I know more about the team than you do?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly home all the time, you know. I had a job and a girlfriend. You remember what a girlfriend is, right?”

“I think so,” said Moose, holding up five fingers.

Just then Theo burst out of his office. Twenty-five pairs of eyes looked up at him. Those eagle eyes of his looked back. You could bounce a quarter off his flattop. “You guys think you’re ballplayers? You ain’t ballplayers. You’re runners and swingers and throwers and that is it. You don’t know **** about being ballplayers. Thank God I do.” And he marched right out the tunnel door, his legs bowed like two parentheses, pausing only to call out over his shoulder: “C’mon, girls, we’ve got work to do.”

It was nice to know some things weren’t going to change.

Theo was Theo, and he rode our asses for about ten hours that day. It turns out we didn’t learn much in a year. For example, I was somehow still showering wrong. But it felt great anyway to finally be back at the ball field, doing what I had done for so long, hearing the chatter, gabbing with Gable and talking it up out there. I really felt a determination to better my numbers from last season. It shouldn’t be that hard, I thought, a monkey could hit .236 one-handed. I felt confident, stronger, more sure of myself. Except for the rare twinge, my knee was fine.

I had been to all the towns in our league already, and a host more. I had traveled, seen the country. I had stayed in hotels (okay, one hotel and the rest motels). I learned and adapted. I survived that first year and now it didn’t scare me so much. I suppose you could say it was the difference between being a freshman and being a sophomore.

Kearse wasn’t the only mid-winter call-up. Imosuke Soseke and Jose Landeros, of all people, also made the jump. I couldn’t figure that one out. Guevara outhit, outfielded and outran Jose. Why didn’t they take Dave?

Over the next two weeks, during workouts at the field and at Perry’s, I met the new guys. The guy whose locker was next to mine, Russ Weinman, was a well-built 19-year old from Denver. All-State track and football. 90+ mph fastball but no breaking stuff. Talk about rear back and throw. McCammon told me he had three speeds: fast, faster, and gorilla. Mike Lester was a college guy from the University of Washington. Very sure of himself, but not a jerk. Once, Theo caught him thumbing through a Durham real estate magazine and said, “You think you’re going to double A anytime soon, think again. You better learn to throw a change up or you’ll be looking at the want ads, Lester.” We also had two new first basemen, two huge guys who couldn’t have looked more different. Mark Pridgen was 6’4”, from San Jose and white as a sheet. Davor Asuncion, from the Dominican, was slightly shorter and very dark. Davor did everything right-handed, Pridgen did everything left-handed. Theo called them Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dummer.

But the one new player we had our eyes on was 19-year old Bradley Sing, the 50th overall pick in last year’s draft. This guy was supposed to really be something, but went 50th instead of 5th because he was caught with marijuana at his senior prom. Supposed to be a problem child with a short fuse. Got in a lot of fights. His own high school coach called him uncoachable. If that’s true, I thought, he’s not going to be here long with Theo Garner around.

As the season started I saw less of Miss Draper, but more of Cliff. He said he was happy Moose and J.R. were rooming with me again.

“It’s good to have a full, active house. Always something going on.”

“Hey, Cliff, do you mind if I tell them about your playing in the BBA?”

“Not if you mind hearing all my old rundown stories again,” he shot back.

I also saw less of Marisa. We would go out two or three times a week, when I was home. But road trips were tough, and we would get to our destination so late at night it was often impossible to call her. Plus, she was busy with the last few weeks of the term at nursing school, her internship at St. Joseph’s Hospital, and music lessons when she could fit them in. I liked Marisa, and she liked me, but we both knew we weren’t going to put each other before our careers. We got together less and less over the course of the season until we finally called it quits during my all-star break. We promised to call each other, and we did, for a while.

The Gents got out of the gate quick, going 15-8 to open the season. Moose had 5 homers in our first ten games and J.R. was hitting .341 in the leadoff spot. Keith Hart was leading the league, hitting .354. Dave Guevara started April as our second baseman, but had to give way to a new kid who caught Theo’s eye: Xavier Medina.

Medina was a good player, but I didn’t think he was Guevara’s equal. Plus, he never spoke to me. I thought that was strange and tried to start conversations with him more than once. Nothing. I was confused by this, and concerned. We weren’t communicating out there, and that can be dangerous. You want to ignore me off the field, fine, but not on the field. Then I say to Bobby Gable one day, “What’s up with Medina? He won’t talk to me.” And he told me Medina was Lino Lopez’s double play partner in Venezuela. Well, that explained everything.

I always remembered that, too. I always thought that was an unprofessional way to conduct yourself, and I’ve never changed my mind. Personal feelings are going to come into play, for sure. Especially with kids as young as we were. We were just starting to figure out all these things. What did I ever do to Xavier Medina? Take his buddy’s job away? Hardly. Who was in AA to start 2004? It sure as hell wasn’t me.

Baseball is a very competitive and often times emotional sport, but deciding how you’re going to treat somebody before you even talk to them is bush league. Even at nineteen I knew enough not to take my personal opinions onto the field. Medina was Lino’s friend. OK, fine. There’s some loyalty there. But we were teammates. You’re supposed to let that go. In my personal appearances I always like to say that on the field you should have eight brothers, even though off the field you may be an only child. Guys should work to maintain a sense of camaraderie that never dissolves. You know how many cutoffs I took from Keith Hart? I had to play with that guy every day and no matter what he says about me now, on the field it was never personal.

In my career I met guys who didn’t like me and whom I didn’t like. I’ve met people I didn’t like initially who later became good friends. My wife thought I was a jerk when we first met. I have had friends who didn’t like each other. That’s life. That’s baseball. That’s the way it is when you meet and deal with thousands of people each year. Media people, friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, and kooks all come into your life when you’re a ballplayer. I always tried to treat everyone with respect, at least initially. I never backed down from a potential friendship.

I really felt for Dave. He was a good ballplayer, and after playing with him for a year, I was very comfortable with him to my left. I thought he earned the starting spot, and yet he wasn’t playing. Of course, I had no idea what was really going on. Another sucker punch for ol’ Dave. But that was later. Whatever his condition, I missed my partner.

My first error in 92 chances came in game 18 on a routine grounder in Terre Haute. It was the simplest thing, and then whoop! No ball. I stared at my empty mitt like it just performed a magic trick. “Holy ****!” yelled Moose from behind first base. “Dave made an error!” I was pissed, too. Such an easy play. But I had to laugh when Thad Martinez, who had this great sarcastic sense of humor, turned to me and said, “Driscoll, you’re such a ****up.”

After the game, we’re playing cards in the hotel lounge when Theo comes over and asks where Hart is. We don’t know, we say. “Send him up to my room when you see him,” he says. The next morning there’s a cab waiting for Hart. What’s going on? we wonder. Then Hart walks by with his bags packed, smiling like he just drew the fourth ace..

“Where are you going?” asks Yoogie.

“Haven’t you heard?” says Hart. “Durham is one superstar short. I’m on my way to double A.” And then to me: “See you around, Davey.”

An impressive string of expletives charged up my throat toward my tongue like a runaway freight train.

“Good luck,” I said.

The very next day, just to show me how life is, I get a call at the hotel from Caroline, the team secretary. She tells me the Gents accidentally overlooked a clause in my contract and it was pointed out by Hal Fitzwalter. It seems that for winning Defensive Player of the Year I was to receive a $3,300 bonus. Should she send it to my Hinesville address? Yes. Yes, she should.

At the end of April I had 2 errors and 1 walk. I had no idea why until Gable told me there was a book out on me.

“What does that mean?” I say.

“It means opposing teams have studied you. They think they know how to get you out.”

Well, I was flattered for about three seconds.

“And how is that?” I ask.

“They throw you strikes.”

April saw us go 15-11, good enough for second place, but not good enough for Theo. “You ladies better start playing like you can or I’ll be managing in the Yukon winter league and I’m taking all of you with me.” I ended April halfway through a ten game hitting streak where I went from .247 to .273. Theo still had me buried in the number 7 spot, but I was driving in runs. Our hitting was phenomenal, but our pitching was another story. Hassell and Nitta were a combined 5-0, but after that it was a quick and painful descent into the valley of the shadow of the 5.00 ERA. Yoogie was at 3.23, but everyone else was struggling. Dex Suttles was getting hammered. Even <i>he</i> was starting to get depressed. Don Takahiro was 1-5. Flamethrowing Russ Weinman was at 6.79. So much for gorilla ball. Somebody better tell him gorillas can hit, too.

We began May with a long homestand and life went back to normal: baseball, workouts, Cliff’s chili, baseball, no women, baseball, Keith Hart was an *******, and more of Cliff’s chili. I picked up the organization newsletter and saw that Lino Lopez (#17) was hitting .286 for the Sergeants. Keith Hart was hitting .213 in limited duty. And hey, what do you know? Down here in the corner where you could almost miss it: Atlanta’s 2003 first round pick, Davey “Driscol”, was leading the nation’s shortstops in fielding percentage (.986).

For Christ’s Sake.


Next time: The Crack of the Bat