SHORT HOP - My Career In Baseball by David Driscoll

[ifspuds]

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

There has to be more! I've just spent hours reading this and there aren't any more updates!

Seriously though, this is as outstanding as everyone else has said. Several times I laughed out loud, until my wife finally asked what the hell I was reading. You've got a good, easy style, Tib. The little bits of dry humor are perfect.

This is the dynasty thread everyone should aspire to. If only ITP itself was a tenth as fun as this. It says a lot that you've actually made me consider reinstalling it. If Markus hasn't made you a consultant or something, he's not paying nearly enough attention.

Time to join the throngs waiting for the next installment!

[jaxmagicman]

Originally Posted by ifspuds

Time to join the throngs waiting for the next installment!

Which is today. Tib promised us more today!!!!!

[Tib]

Okay, it's time for a rare mid-week installment of SHORT HOP. Dave finishes his stint in Mexico and heads back to Arkansas a little wiser than before. I must say this is one of my favorite chapters. Thanks to everyone for the kind comments - after years of writing only for my own amusement it feels good to get such a positive response.

On to the conclusion of Chapter 16. Arriba!

[Tib]

Chapter Sixteen: "Dabeed Drisco" y La Liga Nueva, Part Two

Pridgen, who was smarter than he looked, decided to grab the lightest guy to share a bunk, so I took the top and he took the bottom. There wasn’t a preference involved. It was more to minimize injury once the ****ing thing collapsed. A couple of our new teammates were in the dorm when we got there. Ricky Gutierrez was an outfielder from the Norcal League. He was from El Monte (in L.A.) and was Mexican in name only.
“Everyone’s speaking Spanish to me like I know it,” he said.
“Your name is Gutierrez,” said Boucher.
“Yeah,” replied Ricky. “But I ain’t Mexican.”
“What do you mean you ain’t Mexican? Of course you’re Mexican!”
“Yeah, but I don’t speak Spanish. I’m American. Just ‘cause I have a Mexican name…”
“And you happen to be in Mexico.”
“Hey, Boucher,” I said. “Your name’s French. You know any French?”
“It’s French-Canadian.”
“****,” I said. “That’s like being punished twice for the same thing.”
“**** you, Driscoll.”

Guillermo Trejo also made the trip with us. He was Cuban and knew Spanish, but the dialect was so different even he didn’t know what they were telling him sometimes. There’s nothing funnier, or sadder maybe, than two people who both speak the same language and still can’t understand one another.

The headquarters of La Liga Nueva was in Toluca, a town outside Mexico City. There were seven teams. It was strange, but the teams were known only by their city name. There were no official nicknames for them, except for the ones given them by their fans. Puebla were called the Scorpions. I thought it was a cool name at first. Then I found out it was because Puebla is full of brown scorpions. They were everywhere; in our showers, in our lockers, everywhere. The team gave us all a small bottle of anti-venom when we signed in.
“What the hell are we supposed to do with this?” asked Bill Borgman.
Massomino answered. “If you get stung, open the cap, jab that little needle into the skin near the sting and squeeze the bottle gently.”
“You gotta be ****ing kidding me.”
“Nope. And it might be a good idea to keep it in your back pocket during games.”
“They’re on the field? Now you are ****ing kidding me.”
“Yes, they are on the field and no, I am not ****ing kidding you,” replied Rollie. “Hey, it could be worse.”
“How could it be worse?” asked Bill.
“You could be playing for the Pachuca Rattlesnakes.”

La Ciudad de Mexico is a huge city, one of the biggest in the world, set high in the mountains. People don’t remember that it’s as high as Denver. It’s immense. I was there for two months and didn’t see even one tenth of it. The city of Puebla was a fairly sizable town about thirty minutes outside Mexico City. The field was actually a walled off block of the town. You couldn’t see anything but the lights from the street. You just walked in through one of four huge gates and there you were. We five Hounds, plus Ricky Gutierrez, walked to the field (it was a short walk) and met the rest of the team. Remember I mentioned one of the buses was from Florida? Well on that bus was none other than Thad Martinez, the Gents third baseman I had played with for a season and a half. What a tremendous relief it was to have a Gent there with me. I introduced him to everybody. I hoped we’d get to play together; I knew we’d do well because we were so used to one another.

As we stood there under the wooden bleachers, two men came out of the locker room door to address us. One I recognized as Leo Godwin, the pitching coach for the Denver Bandits, and the other was our manager, Rollie Massomino. Godwin, a great pitcher in his day, was there to help the Bandits’ first round pick the year I was drafted, Rob Santina. Massomino had managed in the CBA for the Chicago Chiefs (where he won a championship) and New Orleans Musketeers. He told us he winters in Mexico now that he’s retired and managing in La Liga helps keep him young. “Either that, or you kids with all your **** will give me another heart attack,” he joked.

The fields in Liga Nueva were atrocious. The infields looked like dirt parking lots, full of ruts and stones. I once tagged a guy stealing second who slid face first. It took three buttons off his shirt. The outfields looked like a carpet of yellow bristles. Some, like ours, had these little yellow thorny seeds all over the place. When you ran into the outfield for sprints, you’d come back with six or eight of those little f***ers piggy-backing it on your socks. Once, for fun, while a bunch of us were doing our clothes at a nearby laundry, I took a handful of those things and put them in the dryer when Boucher wasn’t looking. His clothes were covered with them. It took him an hour to get them all out. You know, for all our differences, Canadians and Americans do use the same profanity. Did I mention we didn’t have T.V. in our dorm?

And if you think the infields were bad, our equipment was worse. The balls were so old they had a picture of Cortez on them. The leather was hard as a rock and twice as dry. They were scuffed all to hell. They had black stitches in them, which puzzled me until I realized they were laced with animal hair.

The pitching machine was what we called whoever was throwing batting practice. Our only fungo broke when Rollie exceeded its design specs and tried to hit a long fly ball with it. It had to be nailed together and wrapped with duct tape. Why not just use someone else’s bat, you say? Are you crazy? Risk breaking a perfectly good bat hitting those cannonballs?

The fans, though, were the best. Even in the heat of the Mexican winter they came by the dozen to watch us play. They showed an enthusiasm and excitement that was fun to be a part of. Sure, most were drunk by the third inning, but baseball in Mexico isn’t like in America. In America, for example, most fans aren’t drunk until the sixth or seventh inning.

Fans would bring signs and banners and noisemakers to cheer on their beloved Scorpios or Diablos or Toros or Angeles. Some “adopted” a player and would wear their jersey and call their name when they batted. They made up songs. They brought food. I remember Derek Sousa had quite a following in spite of his 3-7 record. He had that dangerous look that women seem to love. Too bad he wasn’t dangerous to opposing hitters.

I had a group of my own, in fact; Los Mariscos de Drisco, otherwise known as “Driscoll’s Fish”. I have no idea why fish was the theme, except that it kind of rhymes. Remember, they were all drunk. They would yell “Da-beed Dri-sco! Da-beed Dri-sco!” whenever I came to bat. There was one woman in particular who was infatuated with me. She would buy a ticket near our dugout and proposition me every time I came to the on-deck circle.
“What you think, Dabeed?” she would say, striking a sexy pose. “You like a little this?”
“No, gracias,” I would say over and over and over and over.
There were those among us who did take advantage of the local, shall we say, hospitality. Most of us just played pool, drank beer, gambled and watched T.V. in the bar downstairs.

We played right through Thanksgiving and on to Christmas. During one game in early December I came up to start the game and took a called strike on the outside corner. It was questionable, but I didn’t say anything. The next pitch was high, but called a strike again. This time I glanced at the umpire as I backed out of the box and he was staring at me, smiling. That was odd. The next pitch was about two balls outside and low and he rang me up. I stared at him in disbelief.
“That was outside,” I said.
“No. No ou’side,” he said with a heavy accent.
“Strike, huh?” I muttered to myself as I walked away.

In the third inning I came up with two out and runners on first and second. I took a curveball that almost hit my hand and the umpire called it a strike. Now I knew something was up. The pitcher, a local kid named Carlos Cabexa, chuckled as he received the throw. The catcher, another local kid named Ruiz, was also smiling. I see, I thought. I called time and walked over to talk to Godwin in the third base coaches’ box.
“These guys have got something going against me,” I told him.
“I know,” he agreed.
“You know?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re not going to do anything about it?”
“Hey, Driscoll, it’s La Liga. That’s the way it is here. Gringos don’t get nothing, and sometimes less than that. Especially talented gringos.”
“This ain’t right, Coach.”
“That’s true.”
“Shouldn’t we protest or something?”
“If you think getting a black man to argue for you is the solution, you’ve got a lot to learn. What do you want me to do, get thrown out because you can’t hit a ball a foot outside the strike zone?”
“I can’t hit a ball a foot outside the strike zone,” I said. “No one can.”
“You better figure out a way or you’re wearing the golden sombrero today,” replied Godwin.
I swung at the next pitch – a miserable low outside slider - and nearly fell down. I was furious. Is this because I’m White or because I’m good? I glared at the umpire as I walked away.

In the seventh I struck out the same way and managed to look even worse doing it. In the ninth, with one out and the score tied 6-6, I came up again with a runner on third. The three of them were not going to get the best of me again. I took another called strike; I had come to expect it now. Unless I swung I wasn’t going to get anything. On the next pitch I squared to bunt and spun violently into the dirt when the ball came whistling at my head. I bounced up and stared at the pitcher. I left the dust on my uniform; I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. I could see out of the corner of my eye my teammates moving to the dugout steps, yelling at Cabexa. They were ready for a fight. I admit it made me feel good. The 1-1 pitch was another bean ball and I hit the dirt again. I was so mad I don’t really remember how I did what I did.

I knew the next pitch was going to be either a foot outside or right at my head. I squared again. If it was outside I had a chance to put it in play and beat it out. If it was at my head, well….

It was at my head. I swept the bat in front of me in a vicious swipe and snapped the pitch into the stands. I stood there staring Cabexa down. He didn’t smile this time. In fact, I distinctly remember the look of shock on his face. Cabexa stared me down from the mound. He wound up and dropped his arm to throw. I jumped across the plate to the other batter's box. The ball was a slider – a foot outside - only this time a foot outside meant perfect. I dropped the bat on it and took off. I sprinted past the ball as it bounced slowly down the first base line. I don’t know what happened next because my head was down and I was running for all I was worth, but I hit first without a throw. When I looked up, our runner had scored and Ruiz was retrieving the ball from over by the visitor’s dugout. Cabexa was sitting in the dirt near the first base line. It was ruled an error, no RBI, but I think I was more satisfied with that than if it had been ruled a hit.

That play was the talk of the league for weeks. You might think I was happy about that. Not really. Opposing Latin pitchers threw at my head for a month. The brawls were fun though. Senor Texatla didn’t think so; the fines cost him money.

During our Christmas break I went home to visit my folks. It was a nice homecoming. It was great to sleep closer to the ground for a change. It was especially nice to see my folks, even for only two days. It really recharged my batteries. Jan was off skiing, but I left her a note congratulating her on getting a softball scholarship to UCLA.

Our Puebla team started hot, stayed hot and ended hot. We won everything, including beating Toluca in the playoffs. To this day I’m not sure how we did it. Some of our guys didn’t seem particularly disciplined or motivated, except that they didn’t want to embarrass themselves. For most of us it was a chance to catch the eye of our GMs; let them know we were out there working hard, you know? I played very well, hitting .336 in 48 regular and 5 playoff games. I stole 11 bases. How bad were the fields? I made 11 errors in 53 games. That’s how bad the fields were. I still led the league in fielding. No bonus money in the Mexican League, though. Instead, they gave me a plaque with a scorpion on it. When I say scorpion, I don’t mean a fake plastic scorpion, I’m talking a bona fide goddamn taxidermied scorpion was mounted on the thing. Some poor ******* had to go out and catch a scorpion, kill it, prep it, and glue the son of a bitch on a plaque for me. Personally, I think that guy deserves a plaque of his own.

I got back to Little Rock on January 16th. It had been quite a winter. It was cold and rainy when I got off the bus outside Hanger Hill stadium. After two months in Mexico, I loved it. Gwen was there to meet me.
“Nice tan. How was everything?” she asked, giving me a hug and a kiss.
I held up my plaque. “I won Scorpion of the Year.”
“Very nice. Most people don’t get insects as trophies.”
“It’s not an insect. It’s an arachnid.”
“Like I care.”
“How are you?” I asked.
“I have some news for you,” she said.
“Oh, ****. You’re pregnant.”
“No, you idiot. Remember when you asked me to get your messages while you were away? You got a call from Coach Palmer yesterday.”
“Does he want me to play in Ecuador now?”
“No. Topeka.”
“Topeka?”
“Topeka.”
“Topeka, as in double-A Topeka?”
“Yup.”
I stared dumbly at her for a second. We both broke into simultaneous smiles, then I gave her a big kiss. “Let’s go back to your place,” she said. “I made dinner for you.”
“Really? Thanks. What did you make?”
“Enchiladas.”
“You are sooo funny.”


Saturday: Chapter 17: Atcheson, Topeka, and the Double Play

[tyner2]

Congrats Dave

[ifspuds]

Love the title for the next chapter. Looking forward to it!

Too bad Dave and Gwen just got back together in the same town, and now he's leaving again. But then again, we already know they get married.

[jaxmagicman]

Good times by all. Fun Chapter.

[cknox0723]

Originally Posted by Tib

Cabexa stared me down from the mound. He wound up and dropped his arm to throw. I jumped across the plate, reversing my grip on the bat. The ball was a slider – a foot outside. I dropped the bat on it and took off.

Awesome. Absolutely awesome.

This might have been the funniest chapter of all of them so far..."the Pachuca Rattlesnakes"..."baseballs with Cortez's picture on them".

And now, we're back to...Topeka. Still not Hinesville. But at least it's not Arkansas. Saturday will be a treat.

[UngratefulDead]

Wow.. have you looked at all into getting this published? I know I'd buy a copy...

[BigTallAggie]

Or even just put a file up that people can purchase. I would get a copy of this in a heartbeat.

[Tib]

Originally Posted by UngratefulDead

Wow.. have you looked at all into getting this published? I know I'd buy a copy...

Originally Posted by BigTallAggie

Or even just put a file up that people can purchase. I would get a copy of this in a heartbeat.

You guys bring up an excellent point. I've given manuscripts to some friends of mine for their comments and one said that since I'm posting it on the Web I should copyright it. I hadn't, but it's easy enough to do, so I did. If you go back to the very first post in this thread you'll see where I added it. I encourage anyone who has started a dynasty of their own to do the same.

I have looked into a couple of those internet publishing houses who publish in any quantity, etc. But this story is not ready to be published. This is essentially a first draft, so I'm going to have to do a lot of cleaning up, rewriting, and polishing before I'd consider it ready. In fact, I have about two pages of notes for additions I'd like to make in the next draft; to add greater depth, develop characters a little more, etc.

But I do consider it a terrific compliment that you would pay for a copy, especially when you're getting it for free anyway!

[jaxmagicman]

Originally Posted by Tib

You guys bring up an excellent point. I've given manuscripts to some friends of mine for their comments and one said that since I'm posting it on the Web I should copyright it. I hadn't, but it's easy enough to do, so I did. If you go back to the very first post in this thread you'll see where I added it. I encourage anyone who has started a dynasty of their own to do the same.

I have looked into a couple of those internet publishing houses who publish in any quantity, etc. But this story is not ready to be published. This is essentially a first draft, so I'm going to have to do a lot of cleaning up, rewriting, and polishing before I'd consider it ready. In fact, I have about two pages of notes for additions I'd like to make in the next draft; to add greater depth, develop characters a little more, etc.

But I do consider it a terrific compliment that you would pay for a copy, especially when you're getting it for free anyway!

I know a couple online publishers personally and I can talk to them whenever you are ready.

[Tib]

Welcome to Saturday and another chapter of SHORT HOP. Dave's story is rolling along very nicely. I am apparently in quite a stride right now, writing-wise, and I'm going ride this wave for all I can get. I'm several postings ahead as I write this and it's quite a relief. I just have to remember not to give anything away!

This chapter brings Dave to Topeka and our story to the 90 page mark. Can you believe you guys have read 90 pages so far? We've had quite a journey already. I wonder what the next 90 pages will bring...

[Tib]

CHAPTER 17:

Atcheson, Topeka, and the Double Play

Just when I thought I was going to be a Hound forever, I became a Star, a Topeka Star. When I called Palmer, he told me he was sending me to double A because my performance vector was spiking, my challenge factor was .6, and I needed competitive stimulation to encourage further professional growth. Hell, I could have told him that.

Everyone was proud of me, and I admit I was pretty proud of myself, but right away I started worrying about the new situation. What was Topeka like? Who was playing short there? Was I going to ride the bench? Could I hit double A pitching? It seems like every time something good happened to me, I always started worrying about failing. I’ve never been able to shake that. I drove Gwen crazy over the years with it, and a few of my teammates as well. But for the rest of that winter I was on cloud nine.

There was a weird feeling attached to this promotion. Gwen and I had only been seeing each other for about six months. Now I was going away to a whole new situation. I was very concerned about our relationship. This wasn’t like Marisa, where we kind of drifted apart over time. Gwen and I were together, really together, on a lot of things. I wanted to try to continue, but I wasn’t sure it was the right idea. My father decided not to go into the draft out of college because he had met my mother. Not that he would have been drafted very high anyway, but he probably would have had a shot with someone. Instead, he gave up his dream to be with her, get a job, and start a family. I thought a lot about that.

I knew I didn’t want her to wait for me. That’s the worst. Besides, I didn’t know what the future held and I wasn’t sure I wanted to wait for her. There was definitely something of an advantage in being unattached when you could be called around the country on a moment’s notice. Before I could figure out what to say, Gwen cut to the heart of it, like she always did.
“I want to break up,” she said.
“You do?” I said.
“Well, not really.”
“Me neither.”
“But it would be best for both of us if we separate while we pursue our goals. Don’t you think?”
“I guess so. I --, I don’t want you to feel like you have to hang on to something. I mean, --.”
“Yeah. We’ve got goals of our own.” she said. “I want you to follow your dream, wherever that leads. I need to follow mine. We should do it without the complication of trying to, you know, keep something going that --.” I could see she was really fighting to get through this.
“I know,” I said. “And if you meet someone…”
“I’m not going to meet someone.”
“You could meet someone. You met me.”
“No, I stonewalled you but you just kept coming. Look, I’ve thought a lot about this. I’ve had long distance relationships before and they never last. It’s hard to--. We both have big goals ahead. I know you want to stay true to yours. I want to stay true to mine.”
“Okay. That makes sense.” I said the words knowing she was right, but I felt something fall inside me. Thump. It was like a cold iron ball of depression landed in the pit of my stomach. I realized I was really, really going to miss her. I knew then how my father could have made the decision he did.

Women. What they do to us, huh?

I subleased the house to Gwen and hit the road in early March. Topeka was a Sunday drive compared to the trek I made from Hinesville to Little Rock, three hundred miles as the crow files. Topeka is on the Kansas River, 40 miles west of Kansas City on Hwy 40. Except for College Hill, it’s flat. It wasn’t really much of a hill. In L.A. it would be called College Gradual Rise. The whole town was only seven miles by seven miles, but it contained 124,000 people, about 80 percent of the population of Shawnee County.

I found a house on SW 21st St and Mulvane, a nice house owned by nice people who lived in a really nice house in North Topeka. I don’t know what my connection is with water, but the back yard was almost an acre and had Shunganunga Creek trickling through it. Not kidding. Shungnunga. It was close to the Expocentre and to Champion BBQ and Sports Bar where I hung out a lot while I was there. I also hung out a lot at Brewsky’s Bar and Grill. If anybody reading this has ever been to Brewsky’s, yes, they still have the moose on the wall.

Star Field was in the northwest part of the city at 6th and SW Gage Blvd., across the street from Gage Park, near Hayden High School. It was a nice stadium, with a small upper tier behind home plate. It faced northeast, though, so I always had trouble picking up the ball in the late innings of day games.

I wish I’d met the scout that was responsible for signing Dominicans, because I’d have liked to borrow two or three thousand dollars. Whoever he was, he must’ve made a killing on the pitchers in Topeka. The Stars had no less than four Dominicans on the staff, including Christian Montoya, who was promoted with me from Little Rock. What’s more, these guys were tight. Two of them, Pedro Ajenjo and Javy Fuensanta, were cousins.

The veteran of the staff was 25-year old Gene Coston. He was coming back from major surgery, but even so no one dared make mention that this was probably a do-or-die year for him. One of my other teammates that year was “Scarecrow” Ed Cottrill: 6’9” and 215 pounds. You may remember Ed as the only pitcher to ever strike out six times in a CBA game.

As luck would have it, the other shortstop on the team was Lorenzo Medina. Great, not another Medina, I thought. But it wasn’t. Lorenzo was a light-hitting, average-fielding player. It was clear I was brought there to start. Among the other Hounds to make the jump were catcher Javier Telles and our Aussie power hitter, third baseman Claude Dittmer.

Ken Nohorski was our batting coach, a likeable guy who was one of those rare coaches who would hang out with you after the game. Our pitching coach was Salido Meticas, who was so good it was scary. I figured KC brought him in to handle the Spanish speakers, but Salido was terrific with everybody. Our manager was Doug Atcheson. Knights fans will remember him from his days as the premiere defensive catcher in the United League.

The Great Plains League was one of the older and more successful of the minor leagues. It had once been an independent league of its own back before the CBA swallowed everything in 1966. The GPL Hall of Fame was in Topeka, in fact. I went there once and saw some of the old equipment. I even saw the plaque of Rutherford Monroe, the first black man to play in a white league. In 1945 he passed himself off as Cuban to get in, but he was black all the same.

Atcheson was a big guy with a light complexion and a head of graying blond hair. He wore a bristly graying mustache and his chest hair always poked out above his uniform. The guy was not just hairy, he was bear hairy. He was a bear on physical fitness, too, as you might imagine because he was a catcher. We did a lot of sprints. Pitchers too. Everybody ran or you didn’t play. I changed my workout routine to accommodate him and damned if I didn’t pick up some quickness.

I thought I’d really like him when I first met him.
“Driscoll, do you have the biorhythm printout Coach Palmer gave you?” he said to me.
“It’s at home, skip.”
“Damn,” he said.
“I can go get it if you want.”
“No, that’s all right.”
“What did you need it for?”
“I was going to make a paper airplane out of it.”

Atcheson was also big on challenging you. He wasn’t like Theo Garner, mind you, who would just haul off and yell at you about anything. Atcheson had it in his head that we minor leaguers were not quite men yet and by questioning our courage he could get us to perform. It worked some of the time. Some guys just tuned him out and other took offense. Also, Atcheson could not be swayed by any argument once his mind was made up. It can be an advantage, but most of the time, at least in my experience, guys felt like he didn’t care about their opinions.

I was one of those guys. After experiencing Theo Garner, the heavy-handed approach didn’t intimidate me anymore. Somewhere along the line I decided I was going to say what I thought needed to be said. I was never very vocal anyway, but there are times when you have to say something. In the locker room getting ready for our first game of the season against Omaha was one of those times.

We were sitting there listening to Atcheson give us a pep talk about the season and about how this is the first step of many on a journey. To be honest I was only half-listening. Then I heard him say, “You boys have been blessed with a wealth of God-given talent and I think it is your obligation to take that talent as far as it will go. You didn’t come this far to sissy out, did you? This is double A. This is a man’s game now. Omaha is not as good as we are. Not even close. You lose today, in front of all these people who have come to see you, and you will have sissied out. You lose today, you should feel ashamed. I know I would.”
“I’m already ashamed,” I muttered under my breath.
“What?” said Atcheson. “What did you say, Driscoll?”
“Nothing, skip.”
Atcheson was unconvinced. “Well, it was something, because I heard something. See, guys, this is what I mean. Dave, here, had something important to say, but he won’t repeat himself. Are you going to say something, Driscoll, or are you going to sissy out?”
Well I couldn’t be a sissy, after all.
“I don’t think-. I mean, don’t you think it’s a little harsh to talk about being ashamed after only one loss?”
“One loss,” repeated Atcheson. “One loss? Have we already lost the game? Apparently, in your mind we have.” He turned to the team. “Dave has already given up. He’s already thinking about losing. It’s in his head and we haven’t even played the game yet. This is a perfect example of the loser’s attitude I’ve been talking about these three weeks. You as ballplayers have a responsibility to win. That’s what you are paid for. Anything less is a failure. Dave thinks we’ll lose. Anybody else think we’ll lose?”
“I don’t think we’ll lose,” I said, resenting that I was being made an example. “But one loss wouldn’t be the end of the world. I mean, we’ll come back tomorrow, right? You can’t lose the championship in one game.”
Atcheson stared me down. Now I was uncomfortable.
“Can’t you? The last game of every championship is a loss for someone. Dave is now seeking to shift the responsibility for losing onto someone else,” continued Atcheson. “Who wants it? You, Adkins? You, Escalera? You, Wallace? Well I won’t have that on this team. Nobody lessens their own load at the expense of the team.”
“That’s not what I’m saying-.”
“Well then I’ll say it. You know, I’ve been impressed with you since you got here, Driscoll. But I’m having a serious problem with your lack of desire. Should I start Medina?”
“No.”
“You want to play tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Then I’m making you responsible for our victory tonight. I don’t care how you do it, but you get us the win tonight. Winning is now your responsibility.”
Now I was mad.
“You know what? Fine. I will win this game tonight,” I said, making what I knew was a dangerous prediction. “I can’t do it every night. But for you, skip, tonight’s the night.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” said Atcheson, smiling like it was checkmate. “That is what I want to hear from all of you.”
Then he walked out. As he passed me he patted my shoulder like I’d just done him a favor. That’s when I realized it was checkmate.

We were tied 4-4 in the ninth inning of that game. Omaha had runners on second and third with one out and our infield was playing in. I was on the baseline between second and third. At the plate was Omaha’s number three hitter. Guillermo Trejo had come in that inning for Posada and struggled. He motioned for a mound meeting.
“This would be a good time for you to do something, Dave,” he said to me.
“He’s got to hit it to me first,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “If I get him to pull the ball, will you do something?”
“Sure, Mo,” I said.
Trejo’s 2-1 fastball is a hammered line drive up the middle. I take two steps to my left and dive, snagging the ball belt high as it screams past. The runner on second jumped forward on contact and as I caught the ball he was right in front of me. Still in midair, I tagged him before he knew what had happened. Double play. End of inning. The crowd was stunned for a moment, then went nuts. The runner on second stood there staring at me like a first grader at a magic show.

In the bottom of the tenth I led off against a lefthander. Their corners were wide, guarding against the double. I bunted down the third base line and beat it out. I stole second. Dittmer sent a drive to right. I had no business trying for third, but I made it. I went in face first so hard I banged my chin on the ground. Espino sent a grounder between first and second and I trotted home with a bloody chin and the winning run.

Local television had covered the game and my diving double play made the news. So did my bloody chin. A student reporter named Del Harrison was one of the few members of the press who bothered to come into the locker room to interview me after the game. Del’s headline in the Washburn University Review the next day read “Short Hop Wins It for Stars”.

Ask him now and Del will take all the credit for my nickname, but the truth is his editor couldn’t read Del’s handwriting. The headline was supposed to say: “Shortstop Wins It for Stars”, but Del had nothing so cutting edge as a laptop. He wrote everything down by hand in a spiral notepad. “Old style”, he called it. So it was a simple misunderstanding. Nonetheless, I immediately became Short Hop to all the college fans. From there it just grew.

I wish it was a better story, but there you go. Short Hop was an accident. It had nothing to do with my bloody chin. I never said “my face short-hopped into third”, as everyone seems to believe. The three diving stops I made later in the playoffs had nothing to do with it. It happened on the very first day of the 2005 season after I had been masterfully manipulated into a guarantee I had no business making by a manager who must have been shocked I actually pulled it off.

Well, he did make me responsible for a victory. And I’ll tell you something else for free: even though I didn’t really believe that I won the game out of sheer willpower, it felt great. It felt like Success.

Next week: Chapter 18: Indecision and General Confusion

[Jazzmosis]

Wow - that is one of your best chapters to date - the nickname is fabulous - I'd been wondering how you had decided that, but to put it in the story so masterfully... genius.

[gbmoore121]

Tremendous. I'd say that was the best one since "Meeting the Gents." Another good Saturday.

By the way, you should read "The Southpaw" if you get the chance. I would wait until you finish this first draft, but it is a great read and done in similar style (set in the 40's I believe).

[jaxmagicman]

Good job, this chapter had some real heart, I felt the break-up with Gwen.

[tyner2]

I love the locker room scene..
and i'm going to miss Dave's conversations with Gwen.

[UngratefulDead]

Wow, excellent chapter. As someone who is involved in a long-distance relationship right now, I can tell you that that conversation between Dave and Gwen was dead-on.

One suggestion, I think that this exchange

Originally Posted by Tib

“Driscoll, do you have the biorhythm printout Coach Palmer gave you?” he said to me.
“It’s at home, skip.”
“Damn,” he said.
“I can go get it if you want.”
“No, that’s all right.”
“What did you need it for?”
“I was going to make a paper airplane out of it.”

Would be better if you changed "I was going to make a paper airplane out of it." into: "The clubhouse is out of toilet paper" or something like that. The airplane line just sounded kind of forced. Don't take that wrong, still a great, great read.

[ifspuds]

I agree with Ungrateful here. It's one of the few places I've come across in this story where the humor fell flat.

On the whole, this was another enjoyable installment. I loved the story of the nickname. As someone who's covered baseball games for a newspaper with just a pad of paper in my hand and had the editor goof something up as a result, it really rang true.