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Tib · 05-29-2004, 02:36 PM

CHAPTER 4:

Meeting The Gents

At 8:00 AM on March 15th I arrived at the stadium, bat bag on my shoulder, to meet the rest of the team. I walked in the open gate marked “Players Entrance” and was confronted by a black man in a Gents shirt. He squinted into the morning sun and asked my name.

“Dave Driscoll.” I showed him my team ID.

“Right,” he said to himself, checking a name off his clipboard. “Welcome to the Gents. I’m Mike Tucker, one of the team assistants. You can call me Tuck.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Just go through that gate and down a ways until you see an orange door. That’s the players’ locker room entrance.”

“Thanks.”

As I walked to the orange door I passed several cars in the players’ lot. It looked like a demolition derby just ended in front of the stadium. I silently thanked my dad for talking me out of a Corvette. It was cold in the tunnel under the stands. There was a bright rectangle of light at the end and I saw it was the doorway to our dugout. The clubhouse door was on the right.

The lockers were beat up gray metal, some dented with unmistakable fists marks. The benches were golden brown wood, worn smooth by the years and filled with knots and the etchings of bored ballplayers. The carpet was the indoor/outdoor kind, faded gray, and looked like an army of rats had been chewing on it. The humid air was heavy and smelled like disinfectant. There was a bank of narrow windows running along the top of the wall near the ceiling, propped open to let in the morning air. A freshly repainted Gents’ logo was on the left wall next to a fifty-year-old porcelain drinking fountain. Why they didn’t paint the rest of the place was beyond me. On the far wall were two offices with big windows and a door that said “Equipment Room”.

There were already several players there. They looked up briefly as I entered, then went back to what they were doing. A group of Latin players sat in one corner, talking softly in Spanish. Another group of black players sat across from them. There was only one other white guy there, sitting alone wrapping his left hand with tape. These guys were to be my teammates, and in some cases, my competition. What an exciting, weird feeling.

There were two coaches there, checking guys in. I looked around for Theo Garner, but he wasn’t in sight. Then I heard “Driscoll?”

Try to be cool, try to be cool. I answered in the lowest voice I could. “Yeah?”

“Locker 15. Stow your gear and come up for your paperwork.”

“Gotcha.” I plopped down next to the big kid wrapping his hand.

“Dave Driscoll,” I introduced myself, extending my hand.

“Twenty-ninth overall. I know,” he replied, shaking my hand. “Steve McCammon. Catcher.”

“Good to meet you.”

“You too.”

March 15, 2003

Dear Dad,
Things are going well. Today was the first day of workouts, but Mr. Garner wasn’t here; he’s coming tomorrow. One of my coaches is Bobby Gable, from the Chiefs. Remember him? Maybe I can learn to steal a few more bases from him. He looks like he can still play! Our pitching coach is Larry Costello. Pitched for Pittsburgh back when they were the Drillers. I don’t remember him, though.

You’ll like this: Gable said “Our job is to get you the hell out of here as soon as possible. For some of you that will mean double-A, for some of you that will mean home.”

We filled out paperwork for the first hour. There was always paperwork. Have not been assigned uniforms or uniform numbers. I’m still hoping for #17. Our colors are blue and gray, like the Generals. Met one of our catchers. Steve McCammon. Nice guy. Big. Wouldn’t want to have him blocking the plate on me. Maybe I’ll ask him if he wants to rent that other bedroom. Also met Mark Kearse. I remembered watching him in the NCAA title game in 2001. He played first for Texas. Big hitter. He’s 23 now. Been to AAA and back again. He said he was here to rehab a shoulder injury, but he wasn’t very convincing.

Workouts went well. Knee felt great. Sprints went well. The other shortstop, Lino Lopez, is a faster runner than me, and very quick. I have more range, even with my knee, and my arm is stronger. He looks at me like I’m dating his sister.

Met a guy from California, Don Takahiro. Pitcher. He’s from San Francisco, but he was born in Japan. He was a third rounder last year. I thought we’d have more to talk about, being from the same state, but he’s not very social. Intense, though.

Not like this kid, Dexter Suttles. What a name! He’s a reliever. Hilarious. A real character – always cracking jokes. Everybody likes him. He’s from Atlanta so he’s the hometown boy. He’s huge, too. All these guys are big.

Batting practice was ok. Our own pitchers threw to us. Just fastballs, a couple of curves. Tough to get a rhythm when they switch pitchers on you every 5 minutes. I hit ok. I parked one off of this guy Bobby Nitta from New York! I hope they don’t expect me to do that all the time!

All in all, a good first day. Strange thing, though: Latin players stuck together. So did black players. Definitely not used to this. How are we going to play together if we don’t talk to each other?

Tell mom her casserole was great. Tell her I’ve got a gas stove and a washer, but no dryer. There are clotheslines out back, though. I’m working on getting a phone, but I need an extra line for my computer, so that will take a day or two. All the utilities are hooked up. I’m going to need some money for furniture. I need a sofa, a kitchen set and a couple of chairs. Reception sucks here – I can only get the Savannah NBC affiliate. I’m going to need cable. I’ll email you ASAP. First game on April 1!

Dave

The next day we were issued uniforms. My first professional uniform! They asked us if we had a number preference. If two guys wanted the same number, the older guy got it.

Gable holds up number 17. “Who wants it?” he says.

I couldn’t believe it, but Lino and I both raised our hands. Are you kidding me? I’ve got to fight this guy for my jersey number, too? So Gable says, “How old are you?” We both said, “Eighteen.” (Lopez said it in Spanish). So Gable asks us what our birthdays are. Can you believe we had the exact same birthday – April 4th, 1985? The one guy I’m competing against not only wants the same number, he has the same birthday as me! I remember we both sort of looked at each other in shock, not knowing what to do.

Gable says, “You’re ****ting me.”

We were not ****ting him. Guys were standing around. A very uncomfortable moment. Then something interesting happened. Gable says to me: “You’re the first rounder. You decide.” Now everybody’s looking at me.

I have to stop here and explain something to all of you who don’t know the significance of numbers to baseball players. Numbers are everything in baseball. Many ballplayers do not play for numbers, of course, but in the end we all must accept that they rule us, define us. Certain numbers are sacred, almost holy things, not to be disrespected or trivialized. Franco Travacanti’s 577 homeruns. Stan Newman’s 3,833 hits. Joe Letowski’s 359 wins. Guillermo Ruiz’ 3,991 strikeouts. Numbers are the markers that show our progress as ballplayers. They are the milestones that mark our greatness. A ballplayer’s uniform number can become something that defines him. It’s usually not that way in the beginning, but he can become enamored of a number, for any reason, and stick with it his whole career. Horatio Munoz wore number 13 and no other. When Clyde Pollson was traded to San Francisco he actually paid a teammate for number 33. Now I was being given the chance to take 17, my number since the age of 5, and not just for A ball but very likely for the rest of my career. I was 18 years old. Believe me, I wanted to take it.

Then I remembered what Hal had said about being a first round pick: “They're going to challenge you.” Lino looked at the ground. Gable was watching me closely.

“Don’t show up your teammates,” my dad had said. “You haven’t done anything yet.”

“You take it,” I said to Lino. I couldn’t take 17 just because I was drafted higher. What an ******* I would’ve been.

Lino went off with the jersey. “You have another number in mind?” said Gable.

“Not really.”

“I put you on the spot there.”

“It’s all right,” I lied. “Pick one for me.”

Gable looked through the remaining uniforms. “You want number one?”

“Hell no.” Number one? Was he kidding? It was great to be the team’s #1 pick, but what kind of an ******* would I be if I advertised it on my back all season? I didn’t need that kind of pressure. I watched Lino trying on his new jersey.

“How about eleven?”

“Whatever.” I wasn’t listening. I took it and went to my locker. Only then did I realize eleven was my dad’s number. What was that I said about pressure?

“****,” I said with a chuckle. But it was OK, you know?

Next Week: Theo

05-29-2004, 02:36 PM	#12
Tib All Star Reserve Join Date: Aug 2002 Location: Paso Robles, CA Posts: 992	CHAPTER 4: Meeting The Gents At 8:00 AM on March 15th I arrived at the stadium, bat bag on my shoulder, to meet the rest of the team. I walked in the open gate marked “Players Entrance” and was confronted by a black man in a Gents shirt. He squinted into the morning sun and asked my name. “Dave Driscoll.” I showed him my team ID. “Right,” he said to himself, checking a name off his clipboard. “Welcome to the Gents. I’m Mike Tucker, one of the team assistants. You can call me Tuck.” “Nice to meet you.” “Just go through that gate and down a ways until you see an orange door. That’s the players’ locker room entrance.” “Thanks.” As I walked to the orange door I passed several cars in the players’ lot. It looked like a demolition derby just ended in front of the stadium. I silently thanked my dad for talking me out of a Corvette. It was cold in the tunnel under the stands. There was a bright rectangle of light at the end and I saw it was the doorway to our dugout. The clubhouse door was on the right. The lockers were beat up gray metal, some dented with unmistakable fists marks. The benches were golden brown wood, worn smooth by the years and filled with knots and the etchings of bored ballplayers. The carpet was the indoor/outdoor kind, faded gray, and looked like an army of rats had been chewing on it. The humid air was heavy and smelled like disinfectant. There was a bank of narrow windows running along the top of the wall near the ceiling, propped open to let in the morning air. A freshly repainted Gents’ logo was on the left wall next to a fifty-year-old porcelain drinking fountain. Why they didn’t paint the rest of the place was beyond me. On the far wall were two offices with big windows and a door that said “Equipment Room”. There were already several players there. They looked up briefly as I entered, then went back to what they were doing. A group of Latin players sat in one corner, talking softly in Spanish. Another group of black players sat across from them. There was only one other white guy there, sitting alone wrapping his left hand with tape. These guys were to be my teammates, and in some cases, my competition. What an exciting, weird feeling. There were two coaches there, checking guys in. I looked around for Theo Garner, but he wasn’t in sight. Then I heard “Driscoll?” Try to be cool, try to be cool. I answered in the lowest voice I could. “Yeah?” “Locker 15. Stow your gear and come up for your paperwork.” “Gotcha.” I plopped down next to the big kid wrapping his hand. “Dave Driscoll,” I introduced myself, extending my hand. “Twenty-ninth overall. I know,” he replied, shaking my hand. “Steve McCammon. Catcher.” “Good to meet you.” “You too.” March 15, 2003 Dear Dad, Things are going well. Today was the first day of workouts, but Mr. Garner wasn’t here; he’s coming tomorrow. One of my coaches is Bobby Gable, from the Chiefs. Remember him? Maybe I can learn to steal a few more bases from him. He looks like he can still play! Our pitching coach is Larry Costello. Pitched for Pittsburgh back when they were the Drillers. I don’t remember him, though. You’ll like this: Gable said “Our job is to get you the hell out of here as soon as possible. For some of you that will mean double-A, for some of you that will mean home.” We filled out paperwork for the first hour. There was always paperwork. Have not been assigned uniforms or uniform numbers. I’m still hoping for #17. Our colors are blue and gray, like the Generals. Met one of our catchers. Steve McCammon. Nice guy. Big. Wouldn’t want to have him blocking the plate on me. Maybe I’ll ask him if he wants to rent that other bedroom. Also met Mark Kearse. I remembered watching him in the NCAA title game in 2001. He played first for Texas. Big hitter. He’s 23 now. Been to AAA and back again. He said he was here to rehab a shoulder injury, but he wasn’t very convincing. Workouts went well. Knee felt great. Sprints went well. The other shortstop, Lino Lopez, is a faster runner than me, and very quick. I have more range, even with my knee, and my arm is stronger. He looks at me like I’m dating his sister. Met a guy from California, Don Takahiro. Pitcher. He’s from San Francisco, but he was born in Japan. He was a third rounder last year. I thought we’d have more to talk about, being from the same state, but he’s not very social. Intense, though. Not like this kid, Dexter Suttles. What a name! He’s a reliever. Hilarious. A real character – always cracking jokes. Everybody likes him. He’s from Atlanta so he’s the hometown boy. He’s huge, too. All these guys are big. Batting practice was ok. Our own pitchers threw to us. Just fastballs, a couple of curves. Tough to get a rhythm when they switch pitchers on you every 5 minutes. I hit ok. I parked one off of this guy Bobby Nitta from New York! I hope they don’t expect me to do that all the time! All in all, a good first day. Strange thing, though: Latin players stuck together. So did black players. Definitely not used to this. How are we going to play together if we don’t talk to each other? Tell mom her casserole was great. Tell her I’ve got a gas stove and a washer, but no dryer. There are clotheslines out back, though. I’m working on getting a phone, but I need an extra line for my computer, so that will take a day or two. All the utilities are hooked up. I’m going to need some money for furniture. I need a sofa, a kitchen set and a couple of chairs. Reception sucks here – I can only get the Savannah NBC affiliate. I’m going to need cable. I’ll email you ASAP. First game on April 1! Dave The next day we were issued uniforms. My first professional uniform! They asked us if we had a number preference. If two guys wanted the same number, the older guy got it. Gable holds up number 17. “Who wants it?” he says. I couldn’t believe it, but Lino and I both raised our hands. Are you kidding me? I’ve got to fight this guy for my jersey number, too? So Gable says, “How old are you?” We both said, “Eighteen.” (Lopez said it in Spanish). So Gable asks us what our birthdays are. Can you believe we had the exact same birthday – April 4th, 1985? The one guy I’m competing against not only wants the same number, he has the same birthday as me! I remember we both sort of looked at each other in shock, not knowing what to do. Gable says, “You’re **ting me.” We were not *ting him. Guys were standing around. A very uncomfortable moment. Then something interesting happened. Gable says to me: “You’re the first rounder. You decide.” Now everybody’s looking at me. I have to stop here and explain something to all of you who don’t know the significance of numbers to baseball players. Numbers are everything in baseball. Many ballplayers do not play for numbers, of course, but in the end we all must accept that they rule us, define us. Certain numbers are sacred, almost holy things, not to be disrespected or trivialized. Franco Travacanti’s 577 homeruns. Stan Newman’s 3,833 hits. Joe Letowski’s 359 wins. Guillermo Ruiz’ 3,991 strikeouts. Numbers are the markers that show our progress as ballplayers. They are the milestones that mark our greatness. A ballplayer’s uniform number can become something that defines him. It’s usually not that way in the beginning, but he can become enamored of a number, for any reason, and stick with it his whole career. Horatio Munoz wore number 13 and no other. When Clyde Pollson was traded to San Francisco he actually paid a teammate for number 33. Now I was being given the chance to take 17, my number since the age of 5, and not just for A ball but very likely for the rest of my career. I was 18 years old. Believe me, I wanted to take it. Then I remembered what Hal had said about being a first round pick: “They're going to challenge you.”* Lino looked at the ground. Gable was watching me closely. “Don’t show up your teammates,” my dad had said. “You haven’t done anything yet.” “You take it,” I said to Lino. I couldn’t take 17 just because I was drafted higher. What an ***** I would’ve been. Lino went off with the jersey. “You have another number in mind?” said Gable. “Not really.” “I put you on the spot there.” “It’s all right,” I lied. “Pick one for me.” Gable looked through the remaining uniforms. “You want number one?” “Hell no.” Number one? Was he kidding? It was great to be the team’s #1 pick, but what kind of an *** would I be if I advertised it on my back all season? I didn’t need that kind of pressure. I watched Lino trying on his new jersey. “How about eleven?” “Whatever.” I wasn’t listening. I took it and went to my locker. Only then did I realize eleven was my dad’s number. What was that I said about pressure? “*,” I said with a chuckle. But it was OK, you know? Next Week: Theo* Last edited by Tib; 11-01-2020 at 02:09 AM.