SHORT HOP - My Career In Baseball by David Driscoll

[Tib]

There was a little delay in bringing you Chapter 19 today because I added more and more and had to polish up some spots. This chapter started out very simply, but grew to become quite long and I wanted to work out some things before I posted it. It'll be in two parts.

As always, I am very grateful for all the terrific comments and for the loyal following Dave has developed. So far, this whole "sim-based fiction" experiment seems to be working...

[Tib]

CHAPTER 19:

Short Hops, Tall Tales, and Midnight Chili

I played all of two games with Santa Fe before the season ended. I went 3 for 6 and stole a base. I don’t think Willard Jackson could have thrown one by me, I was so focused. The Stampede lost those two games to drop to 63-67, but the Southwestern Association was so weak that year they made the playoffs. I didn’t qualify for the AAA playoffs, so it was a week in Santa Fe (a beautiful city) and back to Topeka.

The Stars lost those last two games of the season as well, finishing at 70-60, good for second place and a playoff berth of their own. We met Burlington in the first round and took them in four games. Then it was Beaumont, who we eliminated easily also. The finals were not going to be as easy. The Colorado Springs Wildcats had several future CBA players on their roster (as we did) and they were a very good hitting team (we were not). As Atcheson put it, we were going to have to “man up” if we were going to win.

Games 1 and 2 were awful. I can’t describe them any other way. We were held to 10 hits in the two games (3 of them mine) and 2 runs. We were in a very quick 0-2 hole. In Game 3 Espina homered twice and we won 6-4. Game 4 was another debacle, 9-3. Our rotation, (the Killer C’s, they were called) Cottrill, Coston and Conklin, had gone a combined 30-15 during the regular season. Against the Wildcats their ERA was a combined 5.67. Faced with elimination, I finally knew what Atcheson meant when he said the last game of any championship is a loss for someone. I hated it, but I couldn’t get rid of the thought that we might lose.

At least Game 5 was a home game. The stands were packed and the crowd was rowdy and ready to cheer. In the third inning, I doubled to the left-center gap and Dittmer singled me home. We led 1-0. In the sixth, I singled and moved to second on Borgman’s sacrifice bunt. With two out, Javy Telles hit a smash that caromed off the third baseman’s leg and into short left field. I hit third and floored it. There was no throw. Now were we up by two. Then the fun began.

In the top of the ninth inning our closer, a big brash kid named Mike Moore, took the mound. We were playing the lines to stop the extra base hit. Moore walks the first two batters and Atcheson takes a quicker than usual stroll to the mound. The rest of us infielders converge on Moore.
“What the ****, Moore?” says Atcheson.
“I’m all right, skip. I’ll be fine,” says Mike.
“Don’t hand me that crap. I was a catcher in the CB ****in’ A, for Christ’s Sake. Have you noticed that you just walked the tying run? Is this how they do it in Australia? You’re tighter than a virgin on prom night and you look like you’re about to **** your pants. I got Trejo ready to go. Can you do this or not?”
Atcheson, you’re the worst cheerleader I’ve ever seen, I thought.
“I can do it.”
“Well, do something,” says Atcheson walking off the mound. “Tell you what,” he calls back, “have them hit it to Driscoll. He’s the only one who knows what to do with the ****ing thing.”

As God is my witness, he actually said that. Maybe Atcheson was psychic. Or maybe it was from his years behind the plate. Whatever it was, Doug Atcheson seemed to know what was going to happen next.

Moore’s next pitch is a high chopper that bounces right over Dittmer’s head. I bolt to my right and dive. I pick it off backhanded on the short hop (what else?) behind third. Jumping up, I throw to Dittmer for the force. One out, runners still at first and second.

The next batter is Gary Nahoud, who went on to play for Denver for a couple of seasons. Nahoud chops Moore’s splitter off the plate and over the mound. I take off, but Moore backpedals, trying to field it. It jumps off his hand toward the second base bag. I stab at it on the short hop (of course) with my bare hand and somehow it sticks. Wheeling quickly, I fire to Espino and get Nahoud by a half-step. Two outs, runners on second and third.

Next up is Travis Collins, who had good career with the Hammers. Collins is pure power and not much technique or speed, so I back up a step to the outfield grass. Moore feeds him splitters but Collins ain’t biting. Finally, Moore has to throw a 3-0 fastball. The result is a line drive that breaks Collins bat and sends both ball and barrel hurtling into center field. Ignoring the barrel, I follow the ball into short center where I dive and pick it off on the (you guessed it) short hop. Popping to my feet, I go to throw and the barrel hits me. I shake it off and throw to Espino. He does the full splits and we nail Collins at first. Inning over, game over. If Collins didn’t like cheeseburgers so much we never would have had a chance.

The win moved the series to Colorado Springs for Game 6 where we lost the game 11-3 and the series 4-2. It was a good season for Topeka, all things considered, and a good season for me. I hit .316 in 122 games, with 36 doubles, 61 RBI and 80 runs. I stole 22 of 27 bases. I made 19 errors and none during the playoffs. I won the Great Plains League Defensive Player of the Year.

For days after a season’s end, teams keep their facilities open so guys can pack up their stuff or work out, or whatever. As I cleaned out my locker, perhaps for the last time (who knew, with Marty Kellinger running things?), I got a call on my cell phone from J.R.
“Hey, J.R. What’s up?”
“Dave, Cliff’s in the hospital.”
I was stunned for a moment. Oh, no.
“Dave?”
“I’m here. What happened?”
“He collapsed at home. He managed to call 911, though. It’s a blood pressure thing, I guess. He’s stable now. They’ve got him on machines. They’re doing a bunch of tests.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the house.”
A hundred questions lined up in my head.
“At the house? When did this happen?”
“Ten days ago.”
“Ten days ago! How come you didn’t call me?”
“He didn’t want you to know. Not with the Stars in the playoffs.”
Not with the Stars in the playoffs? What kind of nonsense is that?
“Man, you should have called me.”
“You were nine hundred miles away, dude. Besides, he made me promise not to call you until after the playoffs. He’s okay.”
“You should have called me anyway.”
“I gave him my word, man. I’m sorry.”
“You Texans and your goddamn word. I’m coming to town.”
“I know. Your room’s ready.”
“Does Moose know?”
“Not yet. Durham’s still in the playoffs.”
Of all the stupid-
“Okay,” I said, letting out a small sigh. “I’ve got to get back to Little Rock. I should be in Hinesville the day after tomorrow.”
“He’s okay, man.”
“What hospital?”
“There’s only one. Dave, he’ll be all right.”
“Yeah.”

I was really unprepared for how frightened I was. My parents had fifteen years on Cliff. They were never seriously ill my whole life up to that point. Except for my dad’s knee operation, neither of them had ever been hospitalized. Cliff was the first person I knew, really knew, who ever had anything like this happen to them.

I have had many scares over the years. Everybody does, of course. I’ve been awakened in the middle of the night by one of those Phone Calls we all dread. I’ve endured health crises with my dad and my children. I’ve had health issues of my own, as you have read. But nothing can prepare you for that first time hearing “they’re in the hospital” or “they collapsed”. It feels like the blood drains right out of the back of your head and is replaced by a thousand tiny ice cold butterflies.

I fired off a quick email to my folks, telling them why I was heading back to Hinesville. I called Gwen. I packed quickly, remembering to take along a certain black bat. I stopped at the house in Little Rock for some sleep and found a note:
“Classes out at 3:30,” it read. “Don’t leave without me. Gwen.”
She doesn’t even know him, I thought. It’s a funny thing, but when you realize you love someone, it feels the same as getting scared, except the blood rushes to your heart and the butterflies are in your stomach.

Driving in shifts, Gwen and I got into Hinesville the next day. We went straight to the hospital and met Moose outside Cliff’s room. He was talking quietly with three black men who looked to be about Cliff’s age. The door to Cliff's room was shut. I introduced Gwen.
"These are some of Cliff’s friends,” said Moose. “From the BBA.”
I thought I recognized one from Cliff’s press clippings.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “How’s he doing?” I asked Moose.
“They’re doing some kind of test,” said Moose. “The doc’s in there now. They’ll tell us when we can go in.” He looked awful, like he’d been driving all night. And he had.
“Have you gotten any sleep, Steve?” asked Gwen.
“Sleep? What’s that?”
“I guess Durham’s out, too, then.”
Now that he knew about J.R.’s promise, he gave a small chuckle. “Yeah. No pitching. We had a good run, though.”
“Us, too.”
“Congrats on the Defensive Player thing.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Congrats on winning the division.”
“Thanks.”
“How did the rest of the guys do this year?”
He looked at me strangely. “Fine. They did fine,” he replied in a guarded way. “Kearse is in Raleigh now. Landeros hit .296. Yoogie and Dex couldn’t get anything going. They had tough years.”
“Man, I’m sorry about that.”
He looked at me strangely again.
“What?” I said.
“Lopez was hurt all season. Shoulder socket or something.”
“Oh, what? Really? I wasn’t-“
“You sure as hell were,” he said with a smile.
I smiled back, not because Lopez was injured, but, well, it was good old Moose, wasn’t it?
“Who’s Lopez?” asked Gwen.

The doctor came out of the room. She said Cliff was doing fine and would go home in a day or two. We all went in to see him, but only for a little while. We mostly made small talk. Funny how you can see a guy in the hospital, yet make a conspicuous effort not to talk about what put him there. He was in good spirits but noticeably thinner.
“Davey,” he said, “let me introduce some of the worst ballplayers I ever played with.”
This was met immediately by reponses of mock protest and emotional injury from the three men.
Cliff continued. “This here’s Glendon Winters, who pitched for Birmingham. This is Reggie Mayberry, who played with me in Cincinnati. And this is Clarence “Rooster” Wells, the sorriest excuse for a second baseman who ever put on a glove for the Kansas City Comets.”
“I recognize you,” I said to Rooster. “From Cliff’s scrapbooks.”
“And I recognize you, too,” he said. “Cliff told us all about you.”
“I hope he wasn’t as tough on me as he was on you guys.”
“Oh, he was, he was,” said Mayberry, a big man, taller than Moose.
“It’s real nice of you to come all this way to see a man who’s so ungrateful to the three friends he has left in this world,” said Winters.
“Why’d you come all this way, anyway?” said Cliff. “I’ll be fine. And who is this lovely young lady?”
I introduced Gwen. He kidded me about her.
“Best not let Marisa see you with this fine young lady.”
“Who’s Marisa?” said Gwen, a little too sharply.
“Oh, now Cliff,” I said with a nervous glance at Gwen. She was giving me the Stare of Iron. “Heh, heh. We don’t need to go there. Besides, Marisa is the past.”
“Well, have a care, then. You may just bump into your past in the hall here.”
Oh, no, I realized. Marisa must work at this hospital now. Could I be in trouble, here?
“Who’s Marisa?” asked Gwen. Again, the Stare.
“You get better, now,” I said. “We’ll come see you tomorrow. Is there anything I can get you?”
“You could bring me a bowl of chili,” said Cliff. “These folks have got me on all kinds of strange diet foods and it’s awful. Just awful.”
“I don’t think I can do that. I mean, don’t you think we should follow what the doctor says?”
Cliff made a face like doctors! What do they really know? “Then will you bring me something from my house?”
“Sure, Cliff.”
“Take my keys there and go in and get me what’s on my nightstand up in my room. Bring it to me here.”
“Can do. What am I bringing?”
“You’ll know it when you see it.”

Next week: Short Hops, Tall Tales and Midnight Chili, Part Two

[canadiancreed]

Geeze you ever though of doing this writing gig professionally? This would probably make a decent novel

[cknox0723]

Originally Posted by Tib

“Can do. What am I bringing?”
“You’ll know it when you see it.”

Great chapter, picked up towards the end and an excellent cliffhanger, no pun intended.

Are there actually minor league playoffs in ITP, or was that a bit of poetic license?

[Ford Prefect]

Good as always Keep on writing Tib

[Jazzmosis]

Genius writing, as usual.

Another good read.

[Tib]

Originally Posted by cknox0723

Are there actually minor league playoffs in ITP, or was that a bit of poetic license?

Poetic license. There are no minor league playoffs yet. It was just my way of saying what I'd like to see in the game.

[cknox0723]

Originally Posted by Tib

Poetic license. There are no minor league playoffs yet. It was just my way of saying what I'd like to see in the game.

Sneaky son of a gun.

I'll have to start doing the same thing.

[Icy]

WOW WOW WOW i can't underestand how i have missed this thread until now, just spent 4 work times reading this and i'm realy impressed, the best dynasty ever!! Tib you really should consider to publish this. As for the others, you made me install ITP again but i'm dissapointed as i can't feel into an inmersive world like the one you created, you are describing the ITP game we all dream about. Keep up the good work, i'll be waiting week by week for my dynasty drug

Being off topic, any of you can recomend me any good book, at least half as good as this dynasty, about any basebal or football player? no mather if real or fantasy.

Thanks in advance and specially thanks to Tib for this amazing work.

[malpits]

I read a good book on the 1919 sox, it was called '8 Men out' I thought it was a very good read.

Tib I like your story very much, but one problem why only once a week I need more. No only joking But I do feel sad once I get to the end each time. I could see a movie being made on this if once you get it publish it takes off. Can i ask what you work as Tib as your writing is very good and it seems like you are a good story teller.

[Tib]

Two things: 1) the stats and events in Dave's minor league playoff games are invented by me. I know I said all the on-field events would be taken straight from the game (and so far 99% of them are), but I allowed myself the freedom to describe what I'd like to see added.

2) To answer malpits' question, I am not a professional writer by any means, although I've written for almost 25 years now, starting in high school. I've always enjoyed the creative process and I've written just about everything there is to write, from poetry to newspaper columns to magazine articles to computer text adventures. I mostly write for my own pleasure, but there comes a time when the challenge of pleasing others is the next step. I work in a maximum security state forensic mental hospital. My actual job is hard to describe, but let's say it's a combination of police officer and correctional officer. Don't worry, I'm much cooler than your average prison guard.

[Vezna31]

Originally Posted by Icy

Being off topic, any of you can recomend me any good book, at least half as good as this dynasty, about any basebal or football player? no mather if real or fantasy.

I just finished reading biographies on Walter Johnson and Cobb. Both were great books, Cobb especially because the author had actual dialogue with Ty over his last few years where the author of Johnson's book did not. It gave me a really different perspective of why Ty Cobb was the way he was. That dialogue was quite funny though very sad. I'm currently reading a book on Sandy Koufax. I'm only 40 pages in so far. I definitely recommend Cobb. The book 8 Men Out was good too. That was made into a movie either late 80's, or early 90s.

[Tib]

Here's the next installment of SHORT HOP. One of the aspects of sports I love is when competitors are interviewed (long after their careers are over) about what it was like to play with so-and-so. The stories they tell, with affection now, are always so entertaining. I think the exaggerated qualities show a kind of playful respect and admiration.

Willie McCovey was once asked what it was like to hit against Sandy Koufax and he said it was like trying to drink coffee with a fork. One of Ted Williams' opposing pitchers was asked how he pitched to him. "I throw him my best stuff," he said, "and run to back up third." Magic Johnson claims he stepped in front of a Dr. J drive to the basket and the Doctor actually split in two, went around him and rejoined himself before making the layup. Many a defensive back has claimed they've actually seen the eyes in back of Gale Sayers head. Anyway, hope you enjoy my own version of this wonderful tradition.

Next week Dave starts in AAA Santa Fe with an eye on the Bigs in Chapter 20: Can You Repeat That?.

[Tib]

Chapter 19: Short Hops, Tall Tales, and Midnight Chili, Part Two

Leaving Cliff to take a nap, the six of us went out for lunch.
Reggie, Rooster and Glendon told us they had kept tabs on Cliff for some years, making sure he was all right after his wife died.
“That was a real shame,” said Glendon. “She was everything to him.”
“Cliff told me he quit baseball soon after meeting her,” I offered.
“Not too soon, but too soon for the rest of us,” replied Glendon soberly. “Cliff had some of the best years a player could have, but when he met Dorothy, well, that was it. It was only a matter of time.”
“Why?”
“He was in love,” said Rooster. “Dorothy was a fine woman, a quality woman. I think all of us would’ve given up the game for a woman like that.”
Their eyes dropped in unison and they nodded solemnly, as if they all were suddenly remembering something very important.
“She wanted a steady life,” continued Rooster. “She didn’t see the life of a ballplayer as being stable.”
“And she was right,” added Reggie. “Back then it wasn’t. So Cliff played another year and some, then he just quit. Went to work in a sawmill, a job his father got him.”
“But he had 49 homers in 1949 and another 50 in 1950.”
“He was something to see,” said Glendon. “Big barrel of a chest sticking out, those big, thick hands of his. He was a powerful hitter. Powerful.”
“And a good hitter,” added Rooster. “Why, he was so strong he could give a bat an Indian squeeze and sawdust would fall down just like that.”
“That strong, huh?” I said, obviously skeptical.
“Son,” said Rooster, “Clifford Jericho Tyler was so strong he once hit a home run with the leg of a pool table.”
“He what? With a what?” I said, now clearly disbelieving.

Rooster said: “In 1950 we were playing Detroit in a night game. We were killing time before the game playing pool, like we did most days. Clifford comes into the pool room and starts working on his bats. Cliff always had his bats with him. None of us used them though, because we thought the handles were way too thin, you know? Not strong enough. Break easily, we thought. And bats cost money. Our daddies didn’t give us free wood, you know. As I remember, Clifford would go on and on about thin handles and balance and all this. We didn’t pay him no nevermind. So finally Cliff says ‘I don’t know how you can hit with those logs you’re using. I could sooner hit a home run with a table leg than with those sorry pieces of kindling.’

“Well,” said Rooster,” that was it for us. That afternoon, after Cliff had already gone to the park, we snuck back into the pool room with a saw and took one of those legs right out from under that pool table. It was tapered-like, sort of like a long cone about so-long. When Cliff came up in the eighth inning I says to him: ‘Cliff, I got a new bat you can use. It’s got a real thin handle. You’ll like it.’
‘What is it?’ he says. So I show him. ‘Go ahead,’ I say. ‘Let’s see that home run.’
Of course after what he said he can’t back out, So Cliff walks to the plate with this look on his face like someone just stole his lunch. He wrapped those huge brown hands around that table leg and hit the first pitch over the center field wall. Pow!”
“That’s hard to believe,” I say.
“Are you doubting me, son?” said Rooster.
“No sir!” I said.

“Clifford was that good, you know,” said Glendon. “I once saw him throw a runner out at second from the backstop. Old Billy Draper was a junkballer and he threw a spitter in the dirt that Cliff chased to the backstop. The runner took off for second and Cliff grabbed that ball and sent it toward second and pegged that runner. Boy, he had an arm. That ball was sizzling so loud members of the crowd looked up, thinking it was a P-51 come flying by.”
“And strong. That man was the strongest man I ever saw,” said Reggie. “I once saw him pick up the front end of a bus so we could change the tire.”
“Okay, I don’t think so,” I said.
“I saw it with my own eyes, young man,” said Reggie, perhaps a little hurt that I didn’t believe him.

It was Reggie’s turn now: “We were driving through Alabama during one of the rainiest nights in the history of the state when the tire of our bus hits a fallen tree and goes flat. I’m driving that night and the roads were slick and heavy with mud. I get out to see what happened and the tire for sure is down. We’re going to need the spare. So I get out the jack, but of course it’s too muddy for the jack to lift that heavy bus.”
“Of course,” I said.
“So I says ‘Boys, we got trouble.’ We can’t get the jack under the bus to lift it and we can’t put the spare tire on, so we’re going to be stuck here for a while. Well, the prospect of being stuck in Alabama mud for more than five minutes is more than they can bear, so the team starts in on me and Cliff says ‘Hold up. Hold up. Reggie, you come with me. The rest of you go to the back of the bus. Go as far as you can, now.’

“So we go outside in the pouring rain again and Cliff says ‘get that tire and get ready’. ‘What are you doing?’ I say. ‘Just get ready,’ he says. So I get the tire and I get ready. For what I don’t know. Then I see Cliff plant those wide legs of his on either side of the tire. He grabs the fender of the bus and heaves. I’ll be damned but his feet sink into that Alabama mud up to his knees and the front of that bus lifts off the ground! I’m so shocked I freeze up. It’s a blessed miracle! I think. I look to the windows at the back of the bus and I see everybody’s faces pressed up against the glass, trying to see what on Earth Cliff is doing that just moved that bus, but there’s too much fog in that window from their breath. They can’t see anything!

‘Get the tire!’ yells Cliff. So I do and I put on the spare with Cliff right next to me, grunting and blowing air and holding that blessed bus up for me. After the feat was accomplished I helped Cliff pull his legs out of two holes, each almost three feet deep. And it just so happened that the weather turned hot the next day and baked that spot. To this day, if you can find it, there are two holes in the Alabama mud to mark the spot where Clifford Tyler once picked up a bus with his bare hands.”

Well, we all enjoyed those stories very much. Of course I didn’t believe a word of them. But I realized that it really wasn’t about the stories, it was about three friends sharing memories of their teammate and trying to show how much he meant to them. After Reggie, Glendon and Rooster left, Moose, Gwen and I sat quietly for some time.

“So how long did you guys play together?” Gwen asked finally.
“Too long,” joked Moose.
“Most of two seasons,” I said to her. “But playing with him wasn’t the problem. The problem with Moose is living with him.”
“I am an excellent companion,” he said very seriously.
“Your feet stink.”
“Your jokes stink.”
“I am an excellent comedian,” I said very seriously. It felt good to be around him again. I realized then how much I missed it, missed him. Why couldn’t we have come up together?
Moose ignored me and turned to Gwen. “Do you have any sisters and are they attracted to husky men?”
“I have two, but one’s married.”
“And the other one?”
“Sorry, Steve. I’m afraid she only goes for pitchers.”
Moose nodded thoughtfully.
“I thought you had a girl,” I said.
“I did.”
“What happened?”
“Uh, well it turns out she went for pitchers, too.”
“Oh, man. Sorry, Moose.”
“It’s all right. She was a transitional relationship.”
“Transitional relationship?”
“Yeah. From having a girlfriend to not having one.”
“Ouch.”
“You don’t think it was my feet, do you?”
“No,” I said. “It was probably just your personality.”

“Who’s Marisa?” Gwen broke in.
“My old girlfriend,” I said.
“Oh. Did you go out for long?”
“No. Not long.”
“She was hot, though,” said Moose, sensing an opportunity.
“Shut up, Moose.”
“Really?” said Gwen. “How hot?”
Moose leaned forward and gave a little nod. “Hot.”
“Shut up, Moose.”
Gwen turned on the Stare of Iron again. “Hot, huh?”
“Nonsense,” I said as dismissively as I could. “You’re way hotter.”
Gwen turned to Moose for confirmation.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “That’s true.”

“Who’s Lopez?” she asked.
“The other shortstop in Hinesville.”
“Ah.” She inclined her head. “The competition.”
“I hurt my elbow and he earned his way to double A before me.”
“And that doesn’t still bother you.”
“No. No, no, no. Just curious, that’s all.”
“You worry too much, Driscoll,” she said.
“And you’re a terrible liar,” said Moose.

Gwen met J.R., too. I didn’t know she’d be coming when I talked to him on the phone, so I thanked him for the room and said Gwen and I would stay at a hotel. She and I went over to Cliff’s place and I left her downstairs as I went in his room to get what he asked. I thought it was probably a Bible or some magazine he wanted, but it was not. He said I’d know it when I saw it and I did. Seeing it gave me an idea, a dangerous piece of mischief. I was going to need some help to pull it off, though. I sat on Cliff’s bed and made a phone call. Thank goodness Marisa hadn’t changed her number.

I went downstairs to the kitchen. Gwen was looking at some of Cliff’s pictures.
“This is his wife.”
“Yes.”
“How did she die?”
“How did you know she was dead?”
“Women don’t put pictures of themselves on the walls of their kitchen.”
“Oh.” This girl is amazing. “It was cancer.”
She turned to me. “Cliff’s a nice guy.”
“The best.”
“What did he want you to get?”
I held up the book.
“Oh, my goodness,” she said.
“Come on,” I said. “We’re going to the store.”

Marisa met us at the back of the hospital. The side service door was right where she said it would be, wedged in a little nook between a garden wall and a huge trash compactor.
“We’ve got to hurry,” she said. “This isn’t my shift. People may ask what I’m doing here so late. Nice to meet you, Gwen.”
“You too,” replied Gwen. “I wish it was under different circumstances.”
“What better circumstance than helping a friend?”
In that moment I loved them both.

Marisa led us up to Cliff’s floor using the stairs. We couldn’t afford to run into anyone at this point. She went ahead down the hall. She motioned that it was clear and we entered Cliff’s room. “I’ve got to go. You know how to get out?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Marisa, thank you for everything.”
“You are welcome, David. I think it’s a nice thing you’re doing. I’ll keep an eye on things as long as I can and make sure you’re not bothered.” She shut the door softly behind her.

Cliff was sleeping the sleep you hit only in the deep dark middle of the night. I had second thoughts about waking him at all, but then he opened one eye and looked around.
“Dave? That you?”
“Cliff!” I whispered. “Were you faking it?”
He only smiled his broad smile. “Marisa told me what you were doing. I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. Did you bring it?” He pushed himself up to a sitting position and rubbed his palms together. I took the lid off the pot of chili and Gwen got the bowls and spoons out. It wasn’t the best pot of chili I ever made, but it was the most important.

After a while, Cliff asked, “Did you bring it?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, pulling the album from my bag and handing it to him. Cliff eyes lit up with a tender sparkle. He gave his hands a final gentle wipe with his napkin and took it from me with both hands.
“Thank you for this,” he said, his eyes never leaving it. “I’m never far from it these days, but it felt like a part of me was missing, not having it.”
“Why not have J.R. bring it to you? He’d have done it.”
“I know it, but I didn’t talk to him about Dorothy the way I talked to you. I just wanted you to get it.”
“She was a lovely woman,” said Gwen.
Cliff opened the album, his old eyes scanning pages he must have looked at a thousand times. A thousand times a thousand, perhaps. A look of melancholy flitted across his face for a moment. “Yes, she was.”
“Cliff,” I said, and he looked up.
“You’re going home. Don’t think you’re not.”
“One way or the other we all go home, David, my boy. But I ain’t going yet. I’ve got at least one more ballgame to see, ain’t that right?”
“That’s right,” I said, smiling.
“Besides,” he continued. “I ain’t scared of dying. Not anymore. Something like this happens to a man and he gets to thinking, thinking about all the things in his life he has and doesn’t have. I can tell you, after a careful accounting, my life has been very profitable. Very profitable.”
“That’s good to hear,” I said.
“I’ll tell you what I am afraid of, though,” he continued. “Having another bowl of this chili.”
Gwen let out a laugh that was way too loud for a hospital in the middle of the night.
“Hey, c’mon,” I said. “It was short notice! I didn’t have time season the sausage the way you like.”
Cliff turned to Gwen. “Have you seen Dave play ball, Gwen?”
“Yes. Many times.”
Cliff leaned toward her and spoke softly. “I remember one time against Fort Myers the Gents were up by a run and the Pelicans had a runner on third. A ground ball goes up the middle and Dave here snags it on the dive and does a somersault and throws that poor runner out at the plate by five feet.”
“What? That never happened,” I protest.
Gwen, who was always smarter than I, says “Shush.”
“And there was a time against Beaumont when Dave kicked a ball to first ‘cause he didn’t have time enough to pick it up and throw.”
“Amazing,” said Gwen, enraptured. “I once saw him bunt a ball with the knob end of the bat.”
“Really?”
“I never did that,” I said.
“Shush!” they both said at once.
“One time, during my first season with Birmingham in forty-eight, I saw Tomcat Fareau escape three separate rundowns on the same play.”
“No!” says Gwen, a little overly-shocked.
Cliff nodded with conviction. “Oh yes. He was something, ol’Tomcat. Slippery as a greased eel. But that still was not as amazing as the time Wilfred Cullimore hit a ball off the sun. It was a hot, hot, hot day in Alabama…”

Cliff went on and on, telling every long-on-truth story he knew. We stayed up until the night nurse came in to investigate the noise and kicked us out (“Chili? You’re giving this sick man chili?”). Before I left I told Cliff there was one more thing I had for him. From my gear bag I brought out Beatrice.
“Oh, my,” said Cliff, his eyes sparkling at the sight of his old friend.
“Why don’t you hold onto it for a while?”
“Well, maybe just until you leave,” he said.
“We’re not going until you get back to your place again.”
“Then I’ll have to get better, won’t I?”
“Don’t wait to call me ever again. Playoffs or not,” I said sternly.
“You are at the very beginning of the best time of your life, doing what God meant for you to do,” explained Cliff. “I didn’t want to take anything away from you. Heck, following your career helps me get on. Besides, that team needed you, Lord knows.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But do me a favor and hang on a little while longer. You still haven’t taught me how to make cornbread.”

Cliff returned home a few days later. He had some kind of circulatory problem that was going to be with him forever now, but the doctors were confident he could control it with medication. They told him he should use a crutch and presented him with one of those adjustable aluminum and rubber contraptions.
“Oh, no,” says Cliff, waving Beatrice in their faces. “This is the only crutch I’ll need.”

The rest of that offseason went well. I stayed in Little Rock with Gwen. We put Beatrice on the mantle. I froze my ass off in Cliff’s shop for three days making a cane out of a Clifford Tyler Special.

Thin handles, I thought. Cliff was way ahead of his time.

Gwen and I went to California; no more Mexico for me. My family loved her immediately, of course. She and my sister talked softball for hours, it seemed. My mother gave me hopeful looks the whole time. My dad and I spent hours reading about the BBA on the internet. We looked up Glendon Winters, Reggie Mayberry and Clarence “Rooster” Wells. All I can say is, I should have gotten their autographs.

When I look back on those days, I often think about contraband chili and the tall tale marathon that night, and of the kindnesses of Gwen, J.R., Moose and Marisa, and of three friends from another time who came a long way to see their teammate. I am so thankful they did what they did for Cliff. To have people go to bat for you out of an instinct to help, out of a genuine sense of caring, is a very special thing. Sure, Cliff knew them all (with the exception of Gwen) and they knew him, but they didn’t have the relationship with him that I did. Maybe it was selfish to think so, but it felt like they were helping me, too. I always remembered that, later in life: when you care enough to help someone, you’re also helping the people they care about.

The Scorpions won the Championship that year, over a powerhouse Admirals team. Yoogie sent me a Starnet video postcard from Game 3 in San Diego, his home town. Closer to home, the Stampede lost in the first round. I thought maybe I could help change that around in the coming year. I didn’t know it at the time, but there was going to be a lot of changing going on.

Next Week: Chapter 20: Can You Repeat That?

[Jazzmosis]

As usual, written expertly.

I'm running out of unique comments to say how good this is... cause it's just beyond words.

[Reechards]

AWESOME!!! I love it when Cliff and Gwen are exchanging the BS stories. Somersault! hahahaha! That was a great idea to tie the stories in. I know a lot of old people that come up with bogus stories like that. Flat out brilliant.

[Icy]

Great as always. Only one request, please could you from time to time update us on the old Driscoll competitors like Lopez? how is he doing now on his team?

[Tib]

Originally Posted by Icy

Great as always. Only one request, please could you from time to time update us on the old Driscoll competitors like Lopez? how is he doing now on his team?

I keep tabs on most past teammates of Dave's. I'll see what I can do. BTW, there was an update of sorts in the first part of Chapter 19.

[Ford Prefect]

Sunday is a nicer day with Dave(y) around

[UngratefulDead]

Great stuff, as always Tib.