"To Catch the A Train"

[jomby]

(Note: I changed the title slightly. It has a better ring to it now.)



"Catching the A Train"


Baseball is truly a drama on the level of the most profound Greek tragedies. And the players-- the best of them-- are truly masters of the theater.

Take, for instance, Randall White. He was one steal away from breaking Tony Smithers' record at the age of 39. It was the last game of the season, bottom of the ninth, with the game deadlocked at zero. White hits a triple.

'Gordo' Giordano, who was catching the game, began staring White down-- telling him he had no chance. White, of course, was not one to be intimidated, and so he began taunting him in retaliation. Gordo-- also not one to be bullied, especially by some old, scrawny second baseman-- stood up, and vehement words were exchanged. Everyone in both dugouts got up, and it looked as though a brawl was about to break out.

The pitcher, Ruperto Negrete, was noticeably bothered. He had just pitched a shutout through 8 2/3 innings, and now it seemed that this melee was going to break his karma, knock him out of "the zone." And so, out of sheer frustration, he lowered his face into his mitt. And White was gone.



Then there was Francisco Rodriguez, who pitched 5 perfect games and 7 no-hitters-- in one season! He retired at the age of 33 because, as he said, " Right now, baseball is not ready for me. I'll be back when I am sixty." In game 7 of the 1937 World Series, Rodriguez walked 3 straight batters in the ninth inning with nobody out, and the manager came out to the mound to relieve him. No words were spoken-- Rodriguez just stared at him with his icy blue eyes, and the manager turned around and walked back to the dugout. He pitched only nine more pitches that game. That's all he needed.

What was it about Randall White and Francisco Rodriguez? What thing did they have that made them so great?



Even with these greats that shine in the spotlight, we mustn’t forget about those who brighten the spotlight itself-- the John Giordanos, the Omar Gonzalezes, and the Hank Joneses. White may have gotten that final steal, but John 'Gordo' Giordano made sure it was his final steal. When they collided at home plate, White had to be carried away on a stretcher; Gordo didn't even lose his mask.

And Omar Gonzalez, who you'll never find in the hall of fame or any on record book, is perhaps the greatest unsung hero in all of baseball. He caught for every single one of Rodriguez's games. It was his genius that dissected hitters, that probed their proverbial bellies looking for the soft spot, that told Francisco where and how to give them their coup de grace on every single pitch. And Rodriguez never, ever questioned his call.

And then there was Hank Jones.

Who was Hank Jones, you might ask?



Well ... that's me.

[Tib]

Nice. I love stories about the lore of baseball, even if they're from a fictional league. NOTE TO jomby: Find the Rascoe Barahona Thread and read it.

[jomby]

Thanks, Tib. Of course, it was your thread that inspired me to give it a shot. It certainly makes playing ITP much more enjoyable!


And I checked out the Rascoe Barahona story-- a great read. Right now I'm not sure what direction I'm going in-- I haven't even finished the draft-- but that's certainly good stuff to consider.

[jaxmagicman]

Hey great start, your reeled me in.

[jomby]

Chapter 2: The Sound (of Silence) and the Fury

But for a little while there, it looked like my moment would pass without ever having arrived.

It was mid-February. We sat there patiently, waiting by the phone in the living room. The old cuckoo clock that hung on the wooden paneled walls tick-tocked ever so slowly. My father was slumped in his wooden chair, holding a newspaper an inch away from his face.

He was fat. He wasn't just stocky, or hefty, or stout. Nor plump, chunky, heavyset, rotund, portly, large, well-fed or healthy. Just plain fat. And cross-eyed too. And his glasses, with rims the size of Belgian waffles, kept slipping down his face. And his nose was permanently scrunched from countless attempts to keep his glasses in place, so he always looked as though he was in the presence of some foul odor.

Thus, I wasn't terribly attractive too. But, we got along quite well that way. I was one of the few people that he wasn't completely nervous around.

"Hank," he said. "Hank. Hank, Hank."

"Dad, I'm right here."

"Ahhhh. Good. What, errrr.. *Harumph* Are you cert... certain that someone was supposed to call today?"

"Yes, sir. The scout said he'd call today."

"Oh. Ok, ok."

Dad knew, of course, that it was the duty of the scout to call on draft day. For he lived and breathed baseball-- at least everything you could read about it. In fact, he insisted when I was born that I be given a different last name, one that "fit a ball player." So I was given the last name "Jones," like the hall of fame pitcher Jackson Jones and Boston's legendary manager Kirby Jones. It was certainly a strange thing to do, and perhaps only something an obsessed fanatic would do, but I know my dad did it out of love. Not just for the game, but for me too: his name was Herb Doody.



Well, we sat there in silence for the remainder of the evening. 5 o'clock rolled by, and the deadline of 6 pm got closer. But it rolled by too, and the ticks and tocks started picking up speed and volume. And then 7 o'clock was gone, and then quickly thereafter 8 o'clock. Finally, at 9 pm, dad got up and looked at me. I was sitting there-- somehow completely exhausted-- staring at the phone. He must have seen the terror in my eyes, for his eyes began to well up. He sighed, clumsily patted me on the head, and then waddled off to his room.

The scout never called. All I could think was, "Oh my God. Oh my God. What happened? He lied to me. He LIED. What am I going to do?" I bolted up from my seat, ran to my room, and cried like a little boy the rest of the night.

[jomby]

Cahpter 3: The Only Good Scout...


Scotty Patterson had not lied.

Scotty Patterson was the scout. He was in charge of many of the western-middle Mississippian counties, from Humphreys and Noxubee to our home in Lafayette county. When it came down to it, he was a hit or miss kinda guy. When he hit, he hit it big. He was the man responsible for signing Jesse Davis, the greatest ILB center fielder this side of the Mason-Dixon line. Davis, after being traded from St. Louis, took San Francisco to 5 championships, and Patterson had found him in grade school.

But then, when he missed, he missed it big. The phenomenon of Tate Lipton was the result of his eye. Tate hit 60 home runs in 45 games playing for Aberdeen Magnet High School. Scotty got him drafted first round by St. Louis, the affiliate major for the Jackson Giants in Jackson, MS. With a 5 million signing bonus, Lipton crashed out at Single A because he never figured out how to handle a big league breaking ball.

And it was the very same Scotty Patterson who approached me in May of my junior year, after a big game against Tupelo Christian Academy, where I went 5 for 5 and hit for the cycle. I was about to go out with the boys, but he pulled me aside.

"Hank, excuse me. Can I speak with you?"

I looked at him, then at the guys. They all had their eyes wide open.

"Sure, but-"

"I'll only take a little bit."

We walked out on to the field. Scotty was dressed all in plastic-- windbreaker and sweats-- and his hair was slicked so much that it dripped.

"I'm with the Jackson Giants"

I paused and gave him a look.

"Ha!" he shot out, "You don't believe me? Listen, I'm on a tight schedule and I don't have time for your incredulity."

What?

"Listen ... Hank, what are you hitting now? .450? How do you feel about that?"

"Pretty good," I proudly responded.

"Do you know how many high school kids are currently hitting above .450? Huh?"

He didn't wait for me to respond.

"More than can fill the entire majors and minors combined."

"I'm sorry. I don't understand. You've gone out of your way to tell me-- after my best game ever-- that I'm not good enough for 'your' leagues?"

"No, no ... and that's the thing. Hank, I know you're good. I know you're damn good. I see you, Hank. And I see the way you see things. You look at that ball different than anyone else. You look at that ball like it's some mystery that only you have the answer to."

I was confused.

"Hank-- tell you what-- look me up in directory in Jackson. And ... and I guarantee that I will get you drafted next year. And then, they will be 'your' leagues."

He smiled, turned around and walked off.

I saw Scotty one other time, about 6 months later, and he said the same thing. He was legitimate, and it seemed from what my father told me that his clout was too. And so I banked on his word. He advised me not to play my senior year to conserve my strength for the minor league season. I took extra classes to graduate high school in December. I didn't apply to any colleges, or any jobs, for that matter. I was 100% sure that I would be drafted by the St. Louis Cardinals and begin playing in Jackson by the spring.

And Scotty Patterson had not lied.

Instead, he died.

[jomby]

(Note: I'm trying to get this story rolling along so that I can start simming. And I'll probably post less frequently once I get into the baseball season. I hope it's not too boring so far, for anyone who has happened to read this. Real baseball is just around the corner.)

Chapter 4: What is in a name?

The morning after the draft, I got up early and went out to get the Jackson Advocate. As soon as I had it in my hands, I opened up to page one of the sports section. And there it was-- St. Louis had drafted 2 catchers early on, James Moore in the second round and Norbert Fuller in the third. The night before, all I felt was helplessness; now, only anger. I was convinced that I had been the victim of some middle-aged man's cruel joke. I went home and spent the rest of the day sleeping.

* * * * * *

On the first of March, I joined my father at the municipal archives, resigning myself to a career of filing. The hours weren't bad, and it was generally peaceful. Dad had me working on a pile of documents for the Department of Parks and Recreation. It was here that I stumbled onto a report that was marked for cross-filing. It read:

Date 11/22

Case Report: VT 11/22/4233

Reporting Officer: Constable John Kay

At about 1440 hours, I met with the EMT at Highland Park, Meridian. A male, Scott F. Patterson, had collapsed after engaging in an argument with another male, Jim Reed.

EMT pronounced Patterson dead on the scene due to a massive cardiac arrest.

I spoke with Mrs. Patterson and she said Mr. Patterson and Mr. Reed began arguing about a baseball player. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Patterson collapsed. No physical violence had occurred.

...

"I'll be damned," I said out loud.

As I found out later, Scotty had found a great shortstop prospect from King's Academy that nobody had seen. That day Scotty went to watch him play, but instead he found Jim Reed talking with him before the game. Apparently, Reed is known in the scouting community as the "Mercenary;" his job, as he sees it, is to out-scoop everyone else. He finds your 'secret' leads and sells them, so to speak, to the highest bidder. When Scotty saw him there, he lost it-- he lost it all.

So, he died before he had a chance to report his prospects to the main office in St. Louis. I no longer felt duped by a man, just cheated by fate.

April came around and the season began. Dad went to the Giant's season opener, but I stayed home. I was too bitter to face a shattered dream that had been destroyed by mere chance. If Scotty Patterson hadn't have died, I thought, I'd be playing, not watching. It was that one random event that separated the bleachers from the field. But now it seemed like a barrier thicker than any concrete wall.

* * * * * *

Later that evening, though, the phone rang.

"Hello"

"Is Hank Johnson there?"

"Hank Johnson? No, you have the wrong number."

"Hank Johns?"

"What? Who is this?"

"Is there a Hank Johns there?"

"No, there is a Hank Jones. Who is this?"

"Is Hank Jones a ball player?"

"Yes ... no ... I mean, he was."

"Was he a catcher for Oxford Senior High?"

"Look, I'm not answering anymore questions until you tell me who you are."

"My name is Kerry Whitten and I'm with the Tampa Bay Bombers. I've been trying to get in touch with Hank for a while now."

"Why?"

"To tell him that he has been drafted-- "

I dropped the phone.

[Rasmuth]

dude...you have a nice style...keep it up

[jomby]

Thanks, Rasmuth.

[jomby]

Chapter 5: Supply and Demand.


In the 10th round, with the 300th pick, I had been drafted by Tampa Bay. And I truly owed it all to Scotty, although it didn't quite play out the way that anyone could have imagined it.

You see, for a player to be drafted, his name must first be registered with the commissioner. It doesn't matter whether the player was already a household name; if he wasn't registered, he couldn't be picked. Well, Patterson used to register his prospects at the last possible second, to give his opponents the least amount of time to scout out who he had-- until one year when he missed the deadline by a day, and his diamond in the rough ended up staying in the rough. Scotty nearly lost his job. Since then, he made it a habit to submit a list of his prospects well in advance. But-- and here's the kicker-- in order to guard his players, he made their names practically illegible.

So a sheet with my name on it was submitted the day after Scotty Patterson talked with me. And nobody had a clue what the name was. But it didn't matter-- it was legal, and I was still eligible.

But that wasn't enough to get me on a team. Fate went out of her way to make amends for Scotty's death.

A week before the draft, a huge story was about to break. One year ago, a member of the Associated Press had noticed a dramatic increase in wild pitches thrown the year before-- about 100% more. After investigating newspaper clippings and photos, he uncovered what he thought was a point-shaving conspiracy. It seemed that a good number of catchers across the ILB had been throwing games at crucial moments merely by setting up their stance a few inches behind their normal position. These extra inches were just enough to turn a precision-placed curve into a back-stopped dirt ball. But instead of publishing this story, the reporter began blackmailing those who he thought were involved.

Although that story never officially broke, at the beginning of February, future hall of famer John Fortney announced his retirement. 3 other starting ILB catchers immediately followed suit. When team owners caught wind of this scandal, they "battened down the hatches" and began preparing for the worst. Out of the 300 picks in that year's draft, 102 were going to be catchers. But not every owner knew what was going on.



The draft that Monday was pure chaos. As commissioner J. Wilson Grant put it, "It was the biggest brawl in baseball history." It all started in the second round of the draft when Detroit picked a catcher, Steffan Melancon. Pittsburgh followed suit with Shigemasa Senichi, and then Chicago with Coy Morillas-- both catchers. Those who were savvy knew they had to act now if they were going to salvage their team. The next eleven picks were all catchers, and everyone scrambled to make sure they got one before they were all gobbled up. Arguments ensued, and even a fist fight broke out. But the run was on. Many prospects like Nicky McCray and Norbert Fuller, who were slated as 8th to 9th rounders, were picked as early as the 2nd and 3rd round. But Tampa Bay's owner, Paul Fiztle, knew nothing of the Wild Pitch Scandal. On day one, he missed the train.



Day two was like a hangover. The majority of the catchers were taken, so picks were more conservative. But Fiztle, having finally heard about the scandal that morning, adamantly refused to pick an over-priced catcher. He was shrewd, but most certainly frugal. With the 15th pick in the tenth round, they drafted a pitcher, James Nott. Fitzle was proud of himself because, as he saw it, Nott should have gone in the 9th round.

Tampa still needed a catcher, though. So Paul Fitzle hobnobbed a little with New York's Lenny Cohn, and managed to finagle the last pick of the draft for a song. Actually it was for food and a song, as Fitzle offered to take him out to the cabaret for dinner. After closing the deal, he pulled his assistant Kerry Whitten aside and said, "You better get me something good with this."

But the catchers were all gone ... except that one name scribbled on a sheet of paper that nobody knew anything about. And so, in the tenth round, the Tampa Bay Bombers declared:

"We'll take Hurl ... Hurk? Hunk? We'll take Hunk Johnson."

[jomby]

Note: I just wanted to say that although I've had to use a bit of poetic license, I've tried to stick as closely to the game as possible. The retiring of 4 prominent catchers really happened, as did the drafting of catchers, 14 in a row. So I tried my best to incorporate things that happen in ITP into my story.

Also, I happened to get ahold of a portion of the original registration sheet sent by Patterson. I've attached it below.

[cknox0723]

Great stuff, enjoyed the backstory as much as the actual story. You've got a very creative way of developing your plot.

But what the heck is the "A Train"? Can't wait to find out.

[Tib]

Originally Posted by jomby

So I tried my best to incorporate things that happen in ITP into my story.

That's the challenge, isn't it? It's tough sometimes to figure out why 14 catchers would be chosen in a row... But it's also part of the fun. Good luck.

[jaxmagicman]

Keep up the good work. Tib you may have some competition for my reading (oh who am I kidding. I will read them all).

[jomby]

Chapter Six: Good Mornin' America, How Are You?




That next morning I awoke with a renewed zeal.

But my body was tired. Last night, when my father got home, after I told him the news, he was so excited that he couldn't speak for an entire hour. I almost called the doctor. But he eventually found his wind, as his 'storm' broke loose and we stayed up until 5 a.m. as he recounted the entire history of the Hammond Hurricanes. As I found out, they had only recently become the Rookie team for Tampa Bay- only 24 years ago. Before then, they were set up in Jacksonville, Florida as the Jumping Frogs. But a hurricane came late one season-- in the middle of a game-- and ripped the field apart. Everyone, including the 500-something fans, barricaded themselves inside the two dugouts for six hours as the storm passed. Dad said it was a modern day miracle of the loaves. No one was hurt, but the damage to the field was extensive.

That same year, Southeastern Louisiana University in Hammond had built an elaborate stadium, trying to jumpstart their collegiate team. But they overspent, and the president, realizing this, had to bail them out. So they placed a bid for the Jacksonville Frogs-- and won, on the condition that they be named the Hurricanes, in commemoration of that miraculous day.

* * * * *

Dad was already up. He had made a his special bacon & egg grits surprise (which wasn't really that special, but it was always a surprise). We ate without a word; no words were needed. The day was absolutely brand new, something neither of us had experienced in such a long time. It was a day that carried with it the feeling of wonder and amazement, and we weren't about to dirty it with our everyday chit-chat. We just let it sink in.

When we had finished eating, dad got up and put on his hat and gloves. He smiled at me. I nodded back at him and grabbed my bags. We left at 8 o'clock-- he had to be back at work at 10-- and drove from our home in Oxford to the train station in Jackson. Again, we were quiet the whole way there, but both of us were beaming.

Once we arrived, he helped me with my bags as we entered the station and walked up to the ticket booth.

"Uh.. *Harumph*.. How, uh, what-- hmmm."

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Yes, yes. Can I get a-- *hmph*-- a ticket to Hammond?"

"Sure. The City of New Orleans arrives at 6 p.m. Would you like deluxe, standard, or coach?"

He looked back at me and then squinted.

"Well.. hmph.. deluxe, of course. It's for my son-- he's a professional ball player!"

"How about that! Alright, then, deluxe it is! That will be seventy-five dollars."

Dad didn't even flinch, even though he only made 40 dollars a week.

"Seventy-five it is!"

He got the ticket and then walked over to me.

"Dad, that's too--"

"Hush! Never look a gift horse in the mouth, even if he has gold teeth. Look, son-- my boy-- there is nothing I'd rather spend this on than you. Can you see that? Can you see that there is nothing better for me to buy than this for you? Ok? You send me a letter, now, and tell me all about it. You tell me everything."

He was serious. He hugged me, which he hadn't done that since Mom died. And then he giggled, and left. It was only 9 o'clock, and the train wasn't due for another 9 hours. So I sat down on a bench and tried to sleep.

* * * * *

When I woke up, there was a black man standing next to me.

"Tired, boy?"

"Uh... sorry. Pardon me-- uh, yes sir. Yes sir, I guess I am."

"Don't sleep too much now, or you might miss you train."

"What time is it?"

"Oh... s'about evenin' time."

I sprang up, still trying to shake my slumber.

"Oh no...."

"Hold up, son. You ok, you ok. Settle down. Ain't no train come by here for a cup' hours."

"I'm supposed to be on the 'City of New Orleans' at six."

"Ah! Well, you ok. She be in about fi' teen minutes. You ok."

I breathed a sigh of relief, rubbed my eyes and sat back down, still trying to wake up. The man sat down next me. He was old and lanky, and he took his time sitting down; he seemed to have that look of experience and hard-fought wisdom about him. He pulled out a gold pocket watch, glanced at it, and stared off at the tracks.

After sitting there for ten minutes, he turned to me.

"You got somin' big."

"Um. I'm sorry.. uh, I'm not sure--"

"No, nobody sleep for eight hour at a station less they got somin' big goin' on. I seen 'em all. They are those who cain't sleep, and they worried. They worried 'bout they family, or they job, or what they done. And then, they are those who nip-nap here and there. They ain't sure what they want. They cain't commit they selves to nothin'. But then, they are those who put they head down and sleep like a baby. They in the motion of changin'. That's you-- you sleepin' to change."

Just then, a train roared in to the station.

"What's you name, son?"

"Jones, sir, Hank Jones."

"Jones? Well I be dog-gone. Then... that's got to be you train."

I got up and grabbed my bags. When I looked up, I saw the most majestic piece of man-made beauty I had ever laid eyes on.

"That's right, she's somin' else. The 'Panama Limited' ain't nothin' next to her. White folk tend to stick to the Panama, but the Nawlin's is the God-ordained best train that man could ever hope to rest his feet on."

I looked over to him.

"Well, thank you--"

"Call me Sim."

"Thank you, Mr. Sim. Maybe I'll see you around."

"Heh heh... You know, I'm thinkin' you might. I'm thinkin' you might very well."

He smiled and I smiled back. I boarded the train and then spent the best three hours of my life on that train, the grand and glorious City of New Orleans.

[jaxmagicman]

Ok. I like the exchange with the dad, now I want to know what the exchange with the old man is about. You and Tib both leave me wondering when I read.

[Vris]

Excellent read. I don't come down to the ITP section of the boards much, but I heard wonderful things about Tib's writing. Your's came up first and am I impressed. I'll be back.

I'm usually not a fan of first-person writing like this, but it's quite entertaining. I hope you're going to continue on with it.