SHORT HOP - My Career In Baseball by David Driscoll

[WWBL Commissioner]

wow! that was good

[AdmiralACF]

Great chapter. The style change took a bit getting used to, but once I got the flow of it, it read great. I'm not sure if I'll call it THE best, but ONE of the best, certainly!

I want to make a couple comments on chapter 40 as I just tonight got caught up. I loved the humor in that chapter, with the interplay between Dave and Tafoya and Viveros. I laughed every time Tafoya was called "Boogles".

I was a bit disappointed with Bootsy's part in the chapter. As I was reading it, aside from the comment about Dave learning a lot from Bootsy, I had a gut feeling like Bootsy was being falsely cordial with Dave and was preparing to stab him in the back. The interview seemed to confirm that until it came off as a joke. I'd like to see a bit more conflict between Dave and a teammate. There hasn't been much since leaving Lino in Atlanta.

Here's the only specific editorial comment I found in the last several chapters:

Flavio Viveros was the perfect leadoff hitter.... Before long everyone was watching him, not the mound.

Change "mound" to "plate"? I think you were describing Viveros' ability to distract pitchers while on base, so it would make more sense to say attention (including that of the pitcher) was drawn to him from the plate, rather than from the mound.

Other than that, it's just been the usual awesome work, Tib. You've obviously put in so much effort on this that it would be a damn shame if it didn't get published. About the trouble you mentioned in writing chapter 42, I would suggest when you hit a point where you feel like you are doing more reporting than novelization, just gloss over the unimportant parts. Like the Baltimore series, for example, could have been condensed into a few paragraphs. As it is, it's enjoyable with the little storlyine with Ron-O and Dave's homer, but in the future you could just skip past less important series or games. Pick up the pace, concentrate only on the most important things, as memoirs tend to do. Don't feel like the story needs to also double as a dynasty report. This work is on a very different level than a simple dynasty report.

One thing I started to wonder about as I read about KC cleaning house and recalled some of the odd management decisions made by the AI is if you have considered switching to OOTP 6 or 6.5 for the simulation. I know that the story was meant to expand on ITP and the things you can do with it, but I think at this point that realism in the sim has got to be a concern. There are only so many circumstances you can come up with to explain away the AI's sometimes perplexing decisions. I just wonder if the thought of making a switch has even crossed your mind.

[Tib]

Excellent comments, AdmiralACF. Let me speak to some of them.

Originally Posted by AdmiralACF

I was a bit disappointed with Bootsy's part in the chapter. As I was reading it, aside from the comment about Dave learning a lot from Bootsy, I had a gut feeling like Bootsy was being falsely cordial with Dave and was preparing to stab him in the back. The interview seemed to confirm that until it came off as a joke. I'd like to see a bit more conflict between Dave and a teammate. There hasn't been much since leaving Lino in Atlanta.

So far team conflict has been minimal among the Comanches, but then again they were united in their efforts to reach the playoffs. There was conflict on the team, even then, but Dave being the new guy wasn't a party to much of it. If you recall the part about Chicago and how the city doesn't allow for neutrality and about how players' personal tables being an indication of team politics, you'll understand when I say Cobblestones is going to become a very interesting place next season. I have conflicts among players in mind. Also, there will be plenty of personal conflict for Dave away from the field (the upcoming Castle Cove scandal). You want conflict? How about being universally distrusted by your teammates?

Change "mound" to "plate"? I think you were describing Viveros' ability to distract pitchers while on base, so it would make more sense to say attention (including that of the pitcher) was drawn to him from the plate, rather than from the mound.

I was thinking of the attention of the spectators. Everyone usually watches the guy with the ball, so I was trying to illustrate that even without the ball Flavio was worth watching. Re: Ricky Henderson in his prime.

About the trouble you mentioned in writing chapter 42, I would suggest when you hit a point where you feel like you are doing more reporting than novelization, just gloss over the unimportant parts. Like the Baltimore series, for example, could have been condensed into a few paragraphs. As it is, it's enjoyable with the little storlyine with Ron-O and Dave's homer, but in the future you could just skip past less important series or games. Pick up the pace, concentrate only on the most important things, as memoirs tend to do. Don't feel like the story needs to also double as a dynasty report. This work is on a very different level than a simple dynasty report.

Thank you and I agree. The pace of the baseball will increase from now on. That was part of the reason for the "time ticking toward midnight/it's a new day" motif of the last chapter. We're entering a new section of Dave's career now, a time when things naturally speed up (like life). Also, if I wrote the results of every important series the book would be 1,500 pages long.

One thing I started to wonder about as I read about KC cleaning house and recalled some of the odd management decisions made by the AI is if you have considered switching to OOTP 6 or 6.5 for the simulation. I know that the story was meant to expand on ITP and the things you can do with it, but I think at this point that realism in the sim has got to be a concern. There are only so many circumstances you can come up with to explain away the AI's sometimes perplexing decisions. I just wonder if the thought of making a switch has even crossed your mind.

I don't think 6.5 is compatible with ITP. I think OOTP5 is the only one where you can shuffle .lg fiiles back and forth. Also, I'm still determined to test ITP the rest of the way. Part of what makes this dynasty unique, IMO, is that it is all ITP. It's the only one (right now).

Thanks again for the great comments, everyone. I promise the off-season won't take so long this time. The wedding, some investment opportunities, the all-important arbitration period (the Magic Man is back in force here) and then it'll be 2009.

[Rasmuth]

good job, man...

[Tib]

Chapter 44

The Big Inning

Gwen and I got married on November 8th, 2008. Moose was my best man. Yoogie, J.R., Bobby Frisina, Von Jones, Joel Kral, Flash Richards and Gwen’s brother Glenn were my groomsmen. My sister Jen was one of Gwen’s bridesmaids. She wore a peach colored dress and two inch heels and hated every second of it. J.R., her escort, didn’t seem to mind.

Many of the Comanches were there and some of the Knights. The Squires were there. Stump Wallace was there. John Grier was there. Jackson Majkowski was there. Theo Garner wasn’t.

“Can’t make it, kid,” he had said on the phone. “Like to but can’t. I’m stuck in Mexico City evaluating talent, looking for the next Davey Driscoll. Ha! Sorry, kid, but hey, good luck and all that happy horse****.”

Our folks were there, of course. They got along very well which was a big relief to me. I considered it a good omen. Not that I’m superstitious or anything, but I’ve been known to practice certain rituals…

The wedding itself was a small affair; just Gwen and I and our parents and her eight best friends and my eight best friends and 206 other people. I think Gwen invited everyone she had ever spoken to. Me? I didn’t even know 206 people.

I remember standing quietly in the anteroom of the church listening to the beautiful soothing sounds of Brahms play on the pipe organ. It didn’t help. I was still nervous. As my groomsmen shifted patiently from foot to foot, I thought, Yesterday I was running around town like a madman trying to finish a thousand leftover tasks. What happened? Today everything is taking forever. Suddenly the minister entered and with a single loud clap announced that it was time. He exited and soon after my teammates began to file out into the church. Soon it was just Moose and I.

As the last minutes of my life as a single man ticked by my nervousness increased. What if I’m in over my head? What if I can’t give her what she needs? Then I felt something drop into my back pants pocket. “What are you doing?” I said to Moose, feeling a lump in my pants where no lump should be.
Moose only smiled and held up a small empty plastic baggie.
“Not that you’re superstitious or anything,” he said.
“What did you do?” I said angrily.
“I put a handful of dirt in your back pocket.”
“You what? Why did you do that?” I said, grabbing the lump. Moose liked to joke but this wasn’t funny.
I looked at Moose expecting a cackle of laughter, but he was serious.
“This is the Big Inning,” he said.
“The what?”
“The Big Inning, the time when things happen. The Big Inning – the beginning. Get it?”
“Yeah I get it. So?”
“So no bad bounces,” he said. Then he gave me a smack on the arm, turned on his heel and walked into the church.
Good old Moose. He always knew exactly what to do.
“No bad bounces,” I repeated, and with a deep breath I followed.


The reception was in the Tom Watson Ballroom at Shoal Creek Country club in Kansas City. Very nice. Very expensive. Even though I was due for a significant salary increase, I was still only making the league minimum. Gwen’s salary was decent, but I was still mindful of the cost. I told myself to lighten up; I’d probably get at least seven or eight hundred thousand out of arbitration. Gwen was beautiful and this was her day of days. Let her have it, a little voice said. So I took a deep breath and tried to relax.

Gwen and I met and mingled and danced and had a great time. I begged off another dance and made my way to the bathroom. I walked in to see Von Jones hand Moose a small baggie of pills.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Looking at your buddy’s workout supplements,” said Von.
“Vitamins, protein, that kind of thing,” explained Moose, holding up the bag as if for my inspection.
“You trying to get bigger, Moose?” I said. “Six-five two forty isn’t big enough for you?”
“Just trying to get an edge, you know?” said Moose nervously. “Maybe get a little faster. A little quicker. I’m just trying to get where you are. Von here was telling me about all the stuff you guys use.”
I sobered up in a split-second. “And what stuff is that?”
“****, Davey, you know what he means,” said Von.
“Well, I don’t use anything. Do you, Von?”
Jones gave me a quick hard look. “Supplements. Power pills, carbo pills. You know. Not the heavy stuff. I don’t need that ****.”
“I hope not,” I said. “It’s illegal.”
“Hey, go enjoy your wedding, all right?” Von retorted. “We don’t need you policing us right here in the goddamn bathroom.”
“It’s my goddamn bathroom, at least for tonight,” I snapped back. “I don’t want any back door deals going on. What if my father had walked in? Or Gwen’s?”
They were silent for a moment. “It’s done,” said Von.
“Good. Can I take a leak now?” I walked between them. Behind me I heard them leave. Somehow I knew it wasn’t done. Somehow I knew it was far from done.


Gianni Bassone was waiting for me at the head table when I returned. In his hand he had a large manila envelope.
“Put that away!” I said. “Do you want Gwen to see?”
“Sorry, bud,” said Gianni. “Is there somewhere we can go?”
“The men’s locker room,” I suggested. We made our way downstairs to the golfers’ lockers where Gianni took a large map from the envelope and spread it out on the bag room counter. At the top in an elegant cursive font it read Castle Cove: A Planned Luxury Community.
“Here it is,” he began, “the real estate investment of the decade. Totally enclosed, professionally landscaped estates. A golf course, jogging trails, an equestrian center, community pool, six parks, two lakes with docks, a private beach and every home on at least one acre. I’m so glad you decided to go in with me on this, Dave. You won’t be sorry. So, lot 34 was it?” he said.
“Yep.”
“Okay,” he said, making a small pen mark on the map. “It’s yours. And the others?”
I recited from memory. “Lots 14, 21, and 42.”
“Great, Dave. They’re yours. And what about the investment block?”
“I’m going to have to pass.”
“It’s going to pay, Dave. Twenty, thirty, maybe as much as forty percent,” Gianni warned.
“I know, buddy, but a house is a real thing,” I said, trying to sound educated. “I know about houses. I don’t know about investment blocks and speculative capital and all that stuff. I just want the opportunity to give my wife a beautiful home and have a solid investment for the future.”
“Four houses is quite an investment,” said Gianni.
“You better be right about arbitration,” I warned back. “Or I’m going to have a very big problem.”
“It’s in the bag, Dave. Dad wants to keep you. Stump wants you. You’re staring at one, maybe two million. Just let the arbitrator do his job, okay?”
“Okay.” I got out my checkbook and started writing.
“You’re going to be a very rich man, Dave.”
“I just don’t want Gwen to worry about money. Ever.”
“See?” said Gianni when I handed him the check. “It’s been four hours and you’re already a good husband.”


Jackson Majkowski stopped me as I came up the stairs. “Dave!” he almost yelled. He was drunk.
“Magic Man! How do you like the party?”
“Fantastic. Gwen is looking gorgeous.”
“Thank you.”
“I’d hit that.”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing. What is this? Moonshine? Damn, you bunkins can party.”
“It’s some stuff I brought back from the Bahamas last year. And what’s a bunkin?” I said.
“Never mind. Look, I gotta go. There’s a flight to New York with my name on it, but I wanna get you caught up on your sishation.”
“Situation?”
“Thas’ what I said. Now you are up for arbitration this year, right? I know Chicago does not want to pay you a lot of money. They are going to try to low ball you. But I know something they don’t and I am going to put a little pressure on ol’ Don Bassone.”
“What do you know?”
“Iss a secret. I can’t tell you.”
“Oh.”
“Baltimore wants your rights. Called my office yesterday. The whole Terry Ruddy fiasco left Garner with egg on his giant angry face. I told them you wouldn’t sign for less than five million.”
“Five million dollars?” I nearly shrieked. “Per year?”
“Shhh! Iss a secret!” replied Majkowski, holding his drink to his lips. “Yeah. Ten million over two years. Don’t be surprised. You’ll prolly make a lot more than that before I’m done with you. Now listen: the Comanches want to get you for 1 to 1.5 million. They will, too, if the arbitrator has nothing new to go on. But when I hit’em with Baltimore’s offer – boom! You’re in the money.”
“But what if Chicago sells me to Baltimore?”
“Well. Then you’re ten million richer.”
“But I don’t want to play for Baltimore!” I said. “Hello! In case you didn’t notice I got married today to a beautiful girl who has put her career on hold for me. She’s transferred to her Chicago affiliate to start over. I don’t want to leave Chicago. I just kind of agreed to buy a house here.” A lot of houses, in fact, I thought.
Jackson Majkowski looked at me like I’d just stabbed his mother.
“You’re going to take a nine million dollar pay cut? At the age of 24?”
“I told you I didn’t want to keep moving around,” I said. “You remember that, right?”
“I didn’t think you meant it.”
“Well I mean it! Get me what you can. Use Baltimore as leverage. Whatever. I want to stay in Chicago, okay?”
The Magic Man shrugged. “Okay…” He snapped his fingers and his two escorts appeared and each took an arm. “I’ll send you the paperwork,” he said as he left.


We honeymooned in the Bahamas where I did not get into any trouble. I still played golf. We still went shopping and snorkeling and parasailing and dancing. We also spent a lot of time indoors. When we returned there were 26 messages on my – our phone. One was from Moose asking me to call him. One was from John Grier thanking us for the invitation. One was from Jackson Majkowski. I called the Magic Man while Gwen went to the mailbox.

“Jackson Majkowski’s office.”
“Hi, Elaine, it’s Dave Driscoll. Is Jackson in?”
“Is he ever in, Dave?”
“Well, no. Not hardly.”
“And today’s no different. He’s at the winter meetings in Florida. Hold on and I’ll connect you via satellite.”
“Okay, thanks.”
There was a click and a beep.
“Yeah.”
“Jackson?”
“Dave? How was Bermuda?”
“The Bahamas.”
“Whatever.”
“It was great, thanks. The weather was--.”
“Did you get my package?”
“Package? Uh, no, I don’t think so.”
“Huh. I sent it FedEx yesterday. It should be there.”
“I’m not sure --.”
“Call my office when you get it. Talk to Raymond. He knows everything. Gotta run, Dave, the Lumberjacks are dicking me around on a multi-year for Terryll Brinks. Talk to ya.”

Just then Gwen came in with the mail. FedEx had arrived. In a matter of minutes I called Raymond to tell him I would accept the 1-year $2.5 million arbiter’s ruling.

It looked like I would be able to afford those houses after all.


Next: Chapter 45: Pressure

[Y0DA55]

Originally Posted by Tib

“The Big Inning, the time when things happen. The Big Inning – the beginning. Get it?”

I loved this line.

Originally Posted by Tib

I walked in to see Von Jones hand Moose a small baggie of pills.

This could get interesting. Although I think I have a good idea of where this is going, I'm interested to see where you take this storyline within the realm of ITP.

I'm still loving this story Tib! Good to see that you are setting up some more storylines.

[jaykno14]

Best wishes to Dave and Gwen Driscoll!

[WWBL Commissioner]

who would have thought the magic man would be drunk at a party

[Tib]

Okay folks, this will be the first post-OOTP meltdown ITP Dynasty entry. For those who don't know what just happened, the OOTP Boards took one on the chin, electronically speaking, and many of the recent posts, threads and Dynasties suffered irreparable damage or were lost to Oblivion entirely.

Such is not the case with Short Hop. I always cut and pasted my chapters from Word, so none of my work was lost. However, I am going to have to re-post Chapters 45-47, which I will do in the coming days.

I want to thank everyone, from the anonymous readers to the regular posters and everyone in between who support Dave and his very long story. It means a great deal to me. I wrote for years and years and never had the guts to expose my work to outside perusal, much less scrutiny. The overwhelmingly positive reaction to this project was far, far more than I hoped for. I want everyone to know that it'll take more than an internet tsunami to douse my commitment to continuing Short Hop until the end, whenever that may be.

Thank you all very much.

[Tib]

Chapter 45

Pressure

I should have been happy. I should have been the happiest man on Earth. I had a beautiful wife, a new house (four in fact), a starting spot on one of the best baseball teams in the country and a two and a half million dollar contract, but by opening day the weight of all that money, along with all the expectations that came with it, began to bear down on me. Granted, my arbitration went about as well as it could have, and many other players got less than they deserved, but Hal Fitzwalter’s advice still echoed in my head: “See, money don’t weigh very much. A lot of money can weigh as little as a piece of paper. Expectation. Now that can weigh more on a man than all the money in the world.”

It wasn’t just the money; it was the feeling that now I had a duty to earn it. I was being paid almost ten times what I had been paid before. How much better would I have to play to satisfy the people who gave me that money? When I was making the league minimum it was so easy. I never thought about money because everyone made more than I. I was free to play baseball. I flew under the radar and I liked it that way. Now I had gone from flying under the radar to being on everyone’s scope. I’ll tell you something: when a picture of you appears next to a headline that says Is he worth it? it makes you think. Majkowski told me not to worry and he was right, except that I was too inexperienced in the business of professional baseball to be calm. Jackson said arbitration money is the best kind of money for guys like me because it’s money already earned; a player is being paid based on his past performance. That made me feel better until he said that although the philosophy of arbitration may make me more comfortable, it’s no way to plan a future. “Guaranteed long-term contracts,” he said, “are the flip side of arbitration. They represent a shift in power, from team to player, from a team not willing to pay you to a team not willing to let anyone else pay you.”

It was very confusing. Gwen helped me get my mind around having so much money and the new responsibilities and freedoms it created, but I thought about the money all winter. She decorated our new house (and the three others I bought). That cost money. We both bought new cars. Those cost money. I had to increase my insurance now that I was “worth so much”. “Four months ago I was worth $300,000,” I said to my insurance guy. “Tell me again why I need a $3 million policy?” Then there was my “proportional contributions” to the CBAPA retirement program. I used to pay 30 dollars a month. Now I paid $250. Then there was my $1600 per month housing association fees, not to mention Jackson Majkowski’s ten percent agent’s commission (plus another two percent in “associate’s fees”, whatever they were).

Money. Money. Money. It all adds up. Hal Fitzwalter was a smart, smart man. I should have taken his advice more to heart. Maybe then things would not have become so out of control. All I know is: on June 24th of 2009 at precisely 11:09 PM I sat alone in my new Cadillac in the Comanches’ players’ parking lot asking how my life could have gone so terribly astray.

And one other thing: money doesn’t make time move any slower.

Doc Caswell retired in January. I read in Baseball Insider he had been offered a non-roster invitation from the Phoenix Ravens but turned it down. He and his wife Jeannette were starting a real estate business in Columbus, Ohio. I called to wish him well. He told me to call him anytime. I’m not sure he expected me to take him up on that.

2009 also marked the end of three great careers. Tony Kuo, George Suarez and Timo Ortiz all retired. Fittingly, five years later they would be enshrined together in the Hall of Fame. As if to balance the loss of these talents, several young stars received record arbitration awards. Von Jones ended a difficult negotiation with Cleveland and was awarded the largest arbitration contract in history: 1-year, $5.1 million. Hannibal Carreras earned the largest arbitration award in Kansas City Knights history: 1-year $4.7 million. Reliever extraordinaire “Sly” Steve Gribble earned a 1-year $4.8 million deal.

Arbitration does not always settle disputes; sometimes it creates them. A month before spring training and only three days after he signed a $1.9 million arbitration deal, Joel Kral was traded from New York to the Los Angeles Colts. Joel never forgave the Admirals. He felt they were using the arbitration process to lowball him and drive down his cost in the hopes of trading him. The irony of a small town guy like Joel Kral playing in the two biggest markets in professional baseball did not escape him. “I’m carrying a map of Chicago in my back pocket,” he told me. “Just in case.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” I said.

Acquiring Joel Kral was only one of several moves the Colts made that offseason. They also signed Dave Fountain; that’s right, Dave Fountain the all-star who was playing for Atlanta when I came up. And they weren’t done yet. Making good on his promise to “get out of KC if I can”, a disgruntled Bobby Cardenas signed a long-term deal to man the dish for LA. All of a sudden the Colts had two Squires and were looking pretty good.

Three of my Hinesville teammates were released; Mark Kearse from Philadelphia, Don Takahiro and Cristobal Ayala. I was told Mark became a high school coach somewhere in California. Don went back to San Francisco to manage the family software business. Cristobal Ayala started a different kind of business altogether. Doug Acheson’s son Mike was also released by the Houston Cougar organization.

Closer to home, free agent Ron Holleman signed with the enemy; a 5-year deal with Cleveland worth $26 million. $26 million -- now that’s a real problem. What the hell was I worried about?

I injured my throwing hand in spring training. It didn’t prevent me from playing but it sure hurt like hell when I threw or hit. I couldn’t grip a bat. My average plummeted. The trainers gave me cortisone wraps and acupuncture treatments every day for almost a month, but the pain wouldn’t go away. X-rays were negative for a break, so the diagnosis was nerve damage. The thought made me cringe. I knew that sometimes nerve damage didn’t go away. I had a terrible spring, which only increased the pressure I felt.

Chicago’s season started badly and got better. My season started badly and got worse. In early May we wallowed in fourth place, 6 games under .500, and our pitching staff struggled to keep men off base. Steve Rosson triggered some heated and long-overdue conversations the day he set three league records against us in a single game. It was an ugly locker room after that game, full of tension and selfishness.

The political climate of the team was like the climate of the city itself: sometimes hot, sometimes cold, but never predictable. I arrived the previous year during the push to the playoffs. Everyone had a similar goal. This season the fragmented nature of the clubhouse showed itself. I didn’t realize just how much division there was. Some guys played for themselves. Some maintained a distance that revealed a lack of trust. Some exerted their influence, trying to establish certain lineups. Others complained about playing time. Still others, those without influence, searched for stars to cluster around in the hope of acceptance. It’s not that guys weren’t professional or wouldn’t stand up for a teammate. We lacked cohesion; the type of cohesion that prevented bickering. This was not the team that almost went to the Continental Championship. This was the team that lost to the Washington Sentinels because they didn’t like each other.

On top of my frustrating injury, the arguing and overt positioning taking place really saddened me. This is not what I imagined a team should be. It certainly wasn’t the type of situation I hoped for when I arrived. Some players were actually glad when Von Jones broke his foot and was out of the Hammers’ lineup for 6 weeks. Is it any wonder I was treated the way I was when the Castle Cove scandal hit the city?


I was not unprepared. Trouble had been brewing for some time. Shortly after the New Year Gianni Bassone informed me that he believed someone within our investment group was siphoning finds from the general account for personal use. He told me he believed it was either Don White or Chuck Basera, two Bassone Enterprises investment managers. Because of the terms of the settlement, many of the Castle Cove financial records remain sealed by court order. I cannot go into too many details about what happened to the Castle Cove money. The truth is: I’m not sure I understand it all, anyway. This fraud was engineered by two very smart people and the paper trail was expertly misdirected to camouflage the thieves and implicate people like myself and Gianni Bassone.

Basically what happened was that White and Basera sold houses and investment blocks to buyers and investors without proper authorization using fictitious corporations, forged documents and false credentials. A portion of the accumulated cash was placed without authorization into special secured accounts (accounts with investors’ names on them – including mine) to make it look like embezzlement. White and Basera made off with the rest of the money, approximately $17 million. Everyone who bought a home was victimized, including me, but because I was also an investor I had to explain what a half a million dollars was doing in an account that (supposedly) only I had access to. Without the full monies in the investment pool the financing fell through. The F.B.I. was alerted by the huge number of defaults and seized Castle Cove Properties, it’s assets, it’s business records, it’s offices, and the offices and records of a half dozen other businesses, some real and some fraudulent. Castle Cove became one giant crime scene.

All real estate transactions were suspended. It was two months before the FBI cleared the smokescreen and Gwen and I were able to resume our house payments. For many it was much longer. Seven independent contractors were forced to declare bankruptcy. Many families lost their downpayments and their homes when Castle Cove Mortgage and Loan was discovered to be nothing more than a post office box. I lost two homes of my own, a value of more than $1 million. It was money I couldn’t afford to lose, though at the time I still believed it was all a misunderstanding. It was only when White and Basera were arrested trying to enter France with falsified passports that I knew it was much worse than that.

The story broke in the Tribune on May 20th, a day after a 13-2 drubbing by Boston and while I was in the middle of a 2-20 slump. I was hitting .182 at the time. At first I had support; at least I had earned that much from my friends and teammates. But when the details started to emerge they became more distant, sometimes hostile. People who knew me bought in and recommended others to buy in. People I knew lost money. People I knew lost homes. As a well-known person I was made the focal point of many articles and much innuendo. For example, it was falsely reported that I had taken steps to protect my “allegedly embezzled funds” from the FBI investigation. Not true. The FBI, not me, froze the account to prevent the suspects from accessing my account from afar and taking the money. It was said I took a sizeable amount of “loot” to the Bahamas on my honeymoon so I could hide it away in a private bank. Not true. Every transaction I had for the previous two years was researched and produced for the FBI, who was satisfied. People still didn’t believe that such fraud could have gone on for as long as it did. People didn’t believe that Gianni Bassone was just my friend. People whispered about organized crime. People whispered my name.

The media was not satisfied. They had everyone convinced I knew more than I did. They were convinced my association with Gianni Bassone meant more than it did. People called my friends, my family, even the Squires (who all defended me – even Von Jones).

No one would sit next to me on the bench. Believe it or not it’s true. My wife can show you the video tape. She had to edit it every night for the WCHX sports segment. She was forced to watch me sit alone on the bench night after night as the Comanche announcers dutifully reminded viewers that no charges had been filed against me as yet. As yet. That’s the part that got her. Like it was only a matter of time. It hurt me deeply to know that she was being dragged into this only because I wanted to provide for our future and give her a home in which to raise our children. It hurt me that her professional reputation was being damaged. It hurt me that she had to hear some of the things that were said, had to endure the rumors. This was not the kind of notoriety she was hoping to generate when she gave up everything to marry me and transfer to Chicago. I give her credit for keeping me sane during those terrible months. In spite of the mounting pressure and the horrible pregnant silences during conversations with her coworkers she maintained an unflappable calmness and resolve. Together we got through it. Or maybe I should say she got me through it, because I was a wreck.

Through May and into June the pressure increased. I was made the target of a lot of anger. I became someone not to be seen with. I began to notice I was dressing and walking alone to and from the stadium. No longer were there kids and other autograph seekers hanging around my car. Now it was news magazine shows of dubious character and protestors of dubious sobriety. Someone threw feces on my car. Profanity was hurled at me, both on and off the field, wherever I went. At one point I asked my lawyer, “Didn’t any other well-known people buy into Castle Cove?”
“Yes,” he said. “Gianni Bassone.”

Gianni received twice the vilification I did, undoubtedly because of his family history. From the moment the wave hit he was sheltered as much as possible by his family’s lawyers. In fact, he and I didn’t speak for about a year after Castle Cove happened. Our friendship didn’t survive the tide. Many friendships didn’t. Some marriages didn’t. Futures were drowned. It was a horrible time.


I could hardly think about baseball. With each day the pressure increased and each day it was harder to concentrate on playing. I lost focus. I lost the innocent joy of simply playing the game. I forgot my positioning, my strategies. My reactions were robotic, mechanical, showing nothing of the confidence and instinct that marked my career up to this point. The bat felt alien in my hand. I moved all around the box trying to find one comfortable place. There was none. My average continued to lose weight, like a malnourished prisoner. My glove was no longer a part of me; it reverted back to a simple tool hanging off my left arm – a thing. On ground balls (and I hit far too many of them that year) I would cross the bag and want to just keep running – just run and run out of the stadium and out of baseball to a place where no one knew or cared about Castle Cove.

On June 24th, after my prolonged slump reached its third month, I was called into Stump’s office.
“How you holding up?”
“What do you think?” I said. “Sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I just got off the phone with Gwen. Indictments are tomorrow and nobody will tell me if I’m going to be one of them.”
Stump ignored both the comment and the apology. “Yeah. Look, Hop, this thing has got you all out of whack. You know that and I know that. Pangle’s been hitting the snot out of it so I’m going to give him the next few starts.”
Of course. Why not? “I understand.”
“The team is making a change. The brass thinks you need to find your swing, find your rhythm. You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately with this thing and let’s face it, you don’t have the focus or the concentration you did last year.”
“My hand…”
“Your hand is not the problem. Hell, you could hit .250 with it tied behind your back. You’ve got to get past this thing. Up here.”
I looked up at him, looked him right in the eye. “You sending me down?”
“At least for a week or two. The team thinks -- we all think -- you need to get away from here for awhile.”
“You don’t want me in a Comanches uniform when I’m indicted, is that it?” I said angrily. “The team doesn’t want me walked away in handcuffs with my uniform on, right? ‘Send him to Des Moines; we can’t have him arrested here’, right? Is that the plan?”
“The plan is for you to get your head straight.”
“And Des Moines is the place to do it? Is Des Moines the magic land where all my dreams will come true, Stump? This is ****,” I protested, pounding my index finger on his desk. “I’m being exiled for something I didn’t do.”
“That’s where you’re right,’ said Stump. “And as soon as you start doing it you’ll be back here. I promise you that.”

June 24th. 11:09 PM. I sat in my new Cadillac wondering how my life had gone so terribly astray. I sat with the engine running and my windows down, listening to the ell growl at me every three and a half minutes. I wondered if I was going to be arrested. I wondered how I was going to tell my wife that in the morning I had to drive to Iowa.

[Tib]

Chapter 46

Lights Out

There’s nothing wrong with Des Moines. It’s a fine town, bigger than your think when you drive in. There’s nothing wrong with the Tomahawks or their fans. All nice people. It’s just that I had no intention of staying longer than I absolutely had to. I felt I was being banished and I was determined not to be happy about it.

Gwen was shocked and very upset at the news of my re-assignment. She and I had a long conversation. Together we got our heads straight about what was happening and why. We didn’t like it but we acknowledged it and determined to make the best of it. She agreed that sending me to Des Moines was a cheap move by the Comanches to soften the impact of an arrest. She also agreed with me that the Chicago front office were cowards. We decided not ever to forget that.

I suppose under the circumstances I shouldn’t blame them. Hindsight being what it is, I understand why they did what they did. But even so many years later I don’t have to be happy about it. Others showed their support. Many fans stuck by me. There were sportswriters who stayed in my corner. The folks at Cobblestones never gave up on me. I can’t tell you how much that meant.

Cliff called me. At one point I blurted out, “I can’t believe how powerless I feel. The more I shout that I’m innocent the fewer people believe me. It’s like I’m dirty or contagious or something. I don’t know. It’s like I can’t be trusted.”
“I understand,” said Cliff quietly.
“What do I do, Cliff?”
“When they shout at you, whisper back,” said the deep voice. “When they call you names, be polite. When no one will believe you, believe in yourself. Right now is when you find out who your friends are. You’re in a hardship. Ain’t nothing to do but conduct your business as best you can.”
“I am and no one is listening.”
“You can’t make people listen, Davey. You can only do what you can do.”
“And then what?”
“Then you move on.”

I wrote my dad immediately when the news broke about Castle Cove.


From: Dave Driscoll (ddriscoll@CBPA.org)
Sent: May 20, 2009 08:31AM
To: Don Driscoll (dondriscoll@familynet.com)
Subject:

Dear Dad,

Things are getting worse. The FBI has requested all my financial records from the past two years. I have no problem giving them what they want. It’s the press. They’re all over me. Remember a month ago when I told you it looked like I’d come out okay? Not a chance. There are reporters on my front lawn! They harass Gwen on her way to her car. They follow her to work. I’m getting hate mail. I’m being sued by several families who bought into the development. I can’t take much more of this.

I did what you said. I have been speaking through lawyers for a month now but no one seems to be getting the message. They think I’m hiding behind a hired mouthpiece. Gwen and I can’t go out and we feel like prisoners when we stay in. The investigators won’t give us any sign that we’ve been exonerated. This limbo is so hard to endure.

I’m hitting .192. The guys won’t talk to me if the press is around. I can’t concentrate. What do I do?

Dave



From: Don Driscoll (dondriscoll@familynet.com)
Sent: May 20, 2009 07:47PM
To: Dave Driscoll (ddriscoll@CBPA.org)
Subject:

Dear Dave,

Hold your head up. Things will be okay. You didn’t know this would happen when you bought those houses. If you had known, wouldn’t you have bought an investment block as well? But you didn’t. I think the FBI knows this. They may be keeping pressure on you, perhaps to shake out Gianni, but I think it’s unlikely you are a suspect. They’re looking for those other two guys, believe me. People who run multi-million dollar real estate scams don’t often buys houses and move in.

As for the reporters and the public, meet every challenge like you always have – head on. Maintain you decorum at all costs! Do not get ******ed into arguments. Be professional. Don’t raise your voice to the press. Don’t issue any impromptu “statements”. Do not hand them the nails to your coffin, so to speak. Look them in the eye, tell the truth, and repeat that truth as often as necessary.

I must say it’s upsetting how far the Comanches have retreated on this thing. I think you should have more support than you’re getting. Isn’t there anyone in the front office who’s on your side?

Stay strong. And don’t worry about your mother. She’s a tough cookie.

Love,
Dad


I’ll tell you: good advice is worth a million dollars.

The night before I left I called my lawyer. I told him about having to drive to Iowa in the morning. I didn’t want my leaving to appear to be a flight from justice. He said he’d call the agent in charge. He called me back fifteen minutes later to tell me I was not going to be indicted. Apparently it was clear to the FBI from the start that I was being set up. “And here’s something else that’ll hit the papers in the morning,” my lawyer explained, “White and Basera were just arrested trying to enter France.”


Mine was the only Cadillac in the Des Moines Tomahawks player parking lot. The press was waiting for me when I got there. They were at all four games I played. On the 27th, after hitting .429 with an OBP of .636, I was called back to the active roster. Funny, that was the day the FBI officially closed their investigation.

Good news awaited me back in Chicago. First of all, no one was camped on my lawn when I pulled up. Secondly, all the lawsuits against me had been dropped. Thirdly, I had a message from Yoogie.

“Davey, sorry I haven’t spoken to you in a couple of weeks but I’ve got some news. I know this won’t be as big as you coming back to Chicago – congrats, by the way, we knew you were innocent. Guevara and I have been called up! We’re finally Generals! I’m calling you from Atlanta right now. Dave is right here with me. I’ve been in two games already and gotten my ass kicked both times, but I don’t care! What? Oh. Guevara says to say thanks for everything, whatever that means. He’s a little gay that way sometimes. Kidding, man! Ow! ****! Lay off! Anyway, we’re here. Now if we can only get Moose up here it’ll be a real party. Take care Dave. We gotta go. Some of the guys are taking us to breakfast. It’s some kind of team tradition. We gotta eat in our pajamas. Weird. Anyway, see ya!”


I wish I could say I came back with a vengeance but I didn’t. I continued to struggle at the plate. Never mind that my hand bothered me almost every day, opposing pitchers seemed to have my number whenever I came up. I started changing my approach, but that only made things worse. I had eight hitless games the first two weeks I was back. The team wasn’t doing much better. My teammates now felt safe to be around me but they still didn’t want to be around each other. I’ve never been part of a more fragmented group. We’d win five, then lose six, then win four, then lose four. We’d have loud arguments, then have a drink at Cobblestones together like nothing happened. One night Tafoya would be sitting at Willie’s table smoking Willie’s Cohibas and laughing and talking with him in rapid-fire Spanish all night long, the next night they wouldn’t be on speaking terms at all. We’d have a bad game and suddenly the loss was everyone else’s fault.

Our starting pitching was good, but our bullpen was victimized on a nightly basis. As a result, the bullpen took a lot of the blame. Sean Segundo had only 14 saves at the all-star break. Some of the team began calling him Sean “Segund-best” behind his back. I was saddened by it all. I felt like standing up one day and saying something profound about teamwork and helping each other but I was intimidated by the veterans who ran the team. I didn’t think they would take such comments to heart but rather see them as a challenge to their leadership. I believed my lack of production would have been used to “put me back in my place”, so to speak. I didn’t want to be shunned again, so I stayed quiet. Stump Wallace was even intimidated by them, I think. So I vented to the one guy I knew I could trust.

You probably remember Otis Parikh as Otis Garfield, the All-Everything sophomore outfielder from South Carolina who led the Gamecocks to their only College Baseball Championship appearance. As an all-conference defensive back, Garfield had size, speed, and an ability to hit both receivers and baseballs, but unlike most college athletes of the day Otis was not looking for easy money. In a move that left college draft pundits scratching their heads, he transferred to Northwestern to pursue a degree in business management. Although he remained firmly in the plans of many teams, Otis finished his collegiate athletic career in relative obscurity.

In college he met the beautiful Daya Kalyani, whom he determined to marry. Alas, she would have nothing to do with him. After he graduated and was drafted by Cleveland in the first round, Otis moved away to join the Hammers’ A-ball club in Altoona. Undaunted by distance (and an admonition from Daya’s protective father), Otis continued to pursue Daya from afar. As fate would have it, Daya’s pediatric residency was in Columbus, the home of Cleveland’s AAA farm club, the Cobras. And as these types of stories go, once Otis reached AAA he tripled his efforts. He eventually won Daya’s heart. He also discovered Hinduism. He converted at the end of his first year in Columbus. To reflect his new beliefs he asked Daya’s family to bless him with a new surname. Daya’s father suggested the Hindi word for “gate-crasher”, but relented under pressure from his wife. The Kalyani women (who were quite wise and had been watching Otis very closely) chose Parikh, which means “playful spirit”.

It was the perfect name for him. Throughout my career I’ve played with many, many players who loved the game, but I’ve never played with anyone who took as much joy from it as “Happy” Parikh. It was like he was born to be on a diamond. While the rest of us looked tired, or showed signs of fatigue, Otis remained jubilantly energetic. He would shout encouragement from left field like a kid in a Pony League game. He led cheers from the dugout. Every inning he gave his warm up ball to a child in the stands. He was unfailingly, unflaggingly happy to be playing the game he loved. And fans loved him for it. In an era of big money and bigger egos Otis Parikh stood out as the one player you could root for without the fear he would be arrested, fail a drug test or otherwise besmirch the game. Is it any wonder I sought him out?

We used to sit together at Cobblestones. The restaurant would gladly have given him his own table but he refused, preferring instead to sit where he could find an empty seat. I found that while the other stars on the team jealously hoarded the seats at their tables, Otis found two dozen empty seats waiting for him each night, reserved by fans and press in the hope he would sit with them. Eventually, the lure of an invitation to a Big Table was not so tantalizing. For me, the shiny glow of attention and privilege began to wear off and the dull grey shadow of team politics began to darken everything. Looking around Cobblestones, watching Otis move about shaking hands and giving quotes, I realized something: influence doesn’t come from how many seats you have at your table; it comes from how many seats you have at the tables of others.


I kept an eye on league transactions, trying to spot if Moose made it up to the Generals, but it didn’t happen. Something else did, though. Kansas City traded my former teammate Hannibal Carreras to Atlanta. I was not surprised. KC had a limited budget and Carreras was going to be expensive to keep. It meant J.R. was going to have a tougher time cracking the General’s lineup, but he might still make the 40-man roster. What really surprised me was who went to Kansas City: a couple of decent pitching prospects and a quick little shortstop with potential named Lino Lopez.

When I read it I felt a pang of shock and a little needle-prick of fear (of what I wasn’t sure). It surprised me. I still felt the adrenalin rush of competition with him, even almost six years later. After all, Lino’s speed and power made me expendable in Atlanta. Now he was treading the same ground I had called home, the same ground as my hero Horatio Munoz. It was like he was stalking me, bearing down on me again. Well, I thought pettily, at least he won’t be wearing number 4.

In mid-July my road roomie Sean Pangle was dealt to San Diego, a move that took a big load off my mind about the trade deadline and convinced me Chicago was serious about keeping me. I responded by going 3 for 7 with 3 stolen bases and 3 walks in a weekend sweep of Boston. Shortly thereafter J.R.’s prospects brightened when Atlanta traded future all-star Gabriel Zuniga to Kansas City for ace Sebastian Pena.

The same day Rob Sieber got his 2,000th hit I learned Flash had been beaned by Denver’s hard-throwing Jimmy Wagner and was going to be out more than a month with a broken cheekbone. I called him at his apartment when he got out of the hospital. His voice was muffled by the faceplate he was forced to wear but he was still Flash.
“The son of a bitch was coming for me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I do,” came the affronted response. “I was two for three already and he was moving me off the plate. ****ing Wagner. The cock****** can’t handle me so he drills me. ****.”
“I saw it on The SportReport tonight. It looked pretty bad. They said you were knocked out for almost two minutes. They said you could suffer vision loss. They said they had to x-ray for blood clots.”
“Yeah, thanks, man. Like I didn’t already ****ing know that. ****, I thought you were calling to cheer me up. ****. Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know? Tell me the number of that ****ing secret Bahamas bank account you’re supposed to have.”
“Come on, now.”
“Come on, what? I’m eating tomato soup through a mother****ing straw and you’re playin’ ER with me. ****. Besides, there weren’t any blood clots. I am seeing stars, though. ****, Dave, that thing came at me, you know? It was big as the ****ing moon by the time I even thought about getting out of the way.”
“Sorry about that, man. I’m sure you’ll get better.”
“Oh, I’ll get better. Wagner better not come out of the ****ing bullpen when I get back. He better not look in my direction. I’m going to give this whole ****ing league one big mother****ing bitchslap when I get back, that’s for damn sure. Hey, man, thanks for the call, though. I appreciate it. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to use this piece of **** straw to suck up the rest of my mother****ing dinner.”


Ten days later, as the final hours of the trade deadline moved slowly away like the last cars on a very long train, I was leading off for the first time in a month. Trade rumors had faded and now I was focused on finishing strong. To me it marked the beginning of a new season. Otis Parikh told me it was a time to forget about the frustrations of the past and explode out of the gate. Boy was I ready for that. I faced off against Cecil Gassoway. Gassoway was a tall thin left-hander with a slingshot delivery that left very little room for error. He threw hard, very hard. He had also walked 44 men in 70 innings of work. As I dug in I remembered thinking, See it. Hit it. See it. Hit it. Gassoway wound up and fired.

I remember seeing the ball come off his fingers. I remember seeing the distinct spin of a left-hander’s release. I remember thinking it was moving too quickly, rising too fast. It was coming right at me, coming impossibly fast. I remember thinking it looked as big as the ****ing moon.

That’s the last thing I remember.

[Tib]

Chapter 47

Expectations

I woke up in the ambulance, my head propped on a pillow. Gwen was there, holding my hand. What am I doing in an ambulance?, I thought groggily. One of the paramedics said, “His eyes are open.” That’s when she looked at me. If you could have seen the look on her face, full of concern and joy and fear and relief – my God. It was scary to see her looking at me that way. What the hell happened? I thought.

I wanted to speak but when I tried the left side of my face exploded in a wave of pain that darkened my consciousness. The slightest move of my jaw was enough to cause an excruciating stab that rang my skull like a bell. I couldn’t move my head without wanting to cry out. Oh my God, I thought. My neck is broken. Blood roared in my ears and I realized I couldn’t see out of my left eye. With my right I could see buildings passing by through the ambulance window.

Gwen leaned in and said, “You were hit by a pitch. You were unconscious for three and a half minutes. We’re on our way to the hospital. Can you speak?”
I could only stare back. No.
“Do you remember anything?”
No.
“Okay,” she said, nodding as if she heard me, trying to get a handle on it. She is a great gatherer of facts and processor of possibilities, my wife. One of the medics leaned over to her. “It’s not uncommon for head injuries of this kind to cause -- .”
“I know,” she interrupted. “I know what they cause.”
IV tubes rose from my arm like puppeteer’s string. I pointed to my face, to my eye. She knew what I meant.
“You have a fractured cheekbone. Possibly an eye socket, too. At least, that’s what they think it is. You probably have a concussion. It missed your eye by an inch.”

We lost the next four games, one for every day I was in the hospital. Dr. Martin Rinzler, our team physician, came in to for a final visit on day four. “What’s the news today, Doc?” I said.
“Good news, Davey. And bad,” he replied in his soft German accent.
“What’s the bad news?”
“Don’t expect to be playing ball for at least two months. The team put you on the 60-day DL. You’ll have a lot of healing to do, even after I clear you from your concussion. It’s the kind of healing you can’t do while playing baseball at this level. The risk of re-injury is too great. If you get hit like that again it could mean loss of vision and possibly the end of your career. How’s that for bad?”
“Jesus. That’s pretty bad,” I admitted. It was, in fact, worse than I expected. One thing about Rinzler: he respected players enough to tell them straight.
“The good news is your eye has responded well and there should be no permanent damage,” he continued. “With rest you should regain all of your sight. Your cheekbone should heal just fine, although you may experience some discomfort while it heals. You’ll be eating soups and applesauce for a while, but you’re going home today.”
“Doc? Two months. That’s right at the deadline.”
“I know. It’s bad timing. I think you should not expect to make the playoff roster.”

I didn’t make the playoff roster. I didn’t make the active roster. The only roster I was on for the next two months was the Disabled List. I stewed at home, sucking soup through a straw just like Flash said. Gwen was terrific, and she had to be because I started to get a little ornery around week three. The team brought up journeyman infielder Billy Singley to platoon with Carlos Mendez at short but it didn’t work out. Between the two of them they hit only .211 with no stolen bases. That was difficult to watch, too – I wanted to help, to be there in the dugout – at least to scout pitchers for them or position them in the infield. Frustrating.

There was good news though. Jukebox signed a huge 3-year extension. Willie, Rube, Happy and Boogles all had good years. Our pitching stayed healthy. There were high expectations, but also bad news: The team continued to fragment, playing .500 ball while the Wild Card slipped slowly away.

During the first weeks I sat at home most days. I didn’t particularly wish to be seen by the public in my current condition. It was embarrassing. I had two huge black eyes, a swollen face, one white eye and one pink. I spent most of my time answering fan mail. I wrote to all my friends thanking them for the flowers and other gifts. Flash sent me an entire case of applesauce. I sent him a thank you note: Kiss my ass, Showboat. A week later he hit for the cycle against Dallas. I sent him a picture of Jimmy Wagner, a red bullseye drawn on his face, with a note: Go get’em, Flash. Bobby Frisina, Sandy and the kids all stayed with us when KC came to town. Gwen and Sandy talked. Bobby and I talked. The kids played Phantom of the Opera with my mask. It was nice.

I watched games on TV with Gwen, I did crossword puzzles. I lifted. I spent long hours on the treadmill. I read The Art of Hitting Vol. 2 five times. I tried to find a good enough reason to chuck my plastic face shield into the trash forever. And I tried hard not to put any expectations on myself about my healing. It’ll heal when it heals, I told myself. Oh, yeah, and I ate applesauce. Lots and lots of applesauce.

It took three weeks until I had healed enough to make appearances. I did a few local interviews. I did an exclusive interview for my old friend Del Harrison, still in Kansas City, for a piece he did on the psychology of sports injuries. I went to team functions and hospitals. I went to dinners and gave short semi-humorous speeches to fan clubs. I visited the team during homestands.

People were nice to me, but after hearing “What did it feel like to get hit by a 96 mile per hour fastball?” five hundred times it started to get old. Soon I looked good enough to appear nearly normal on television. That’s right: television. In the hope of paying back Gwen for all her help and care I did an on-air interview during the six o’clock sports segment. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but I liked it. I was a little nervous at first but it left me with a strange kind of exhilaration, not unlike the feeling I had when I was drafted – a kind of open-ended excitement. Plus it helped Gwen. “What’s the point of having a ballplayer for a husband if I can’t use him to further my career?” she explained to the station manager.


On September 15th I went out to Cobblestones to visit with Happy and unexpectedly ran into Bill Singley. A short talk turned into a three-hour scouting and positioning conversation. It was early morning when I got home. When I walked in the door there was a note from Gwen.

Hi sexy! Come in the bedroom.
“Well, well, well,” I said to myself. I went to the bedroom. On our closed bedroom door there was another note.
Get in bed.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said to myself. I went in. Gwen awoke and sat up in that sexy half-asleep way she had. “Hey,” she whispered. “Hey,” I whispered back, giving her a kiss. I got in bed. When I pulled back the covers there was a note on my pillow.
Look under your pillow.
“What’s going on?” I asked. She only smiled in that enigmatically sexy way she had. I looked under my pillow. There was nothing there but a big white Popsicle stick.
“Are you trying to tell me you had ice cream for dessert?”
“No, Dave. I’m trying to tell you that I’m pregnant.”
“Oh, my God,” I said to no one in particular. She laughed.
I kissed her. It was the best kiss I ever gave her.


Chicago won seven in a row down the stretch, scoring 93 runs in those games, but lost the last five and faded from the already distant playoff picture, finishing 78-84 – one game back of John Grier’s resurgent Kansas City Knights. The Comanches were out of the playoffs but the Chicago’s other team, the Chiefs, led by Wes Schmidt, were the monsters of the Mutual League, destroying Atlanta and Phoenix on their way to the championship. In the UL Ross Watts and the Sentinels were favored but fell to the Admirals, who in turn fell to a red-hot LA Colts team led by a man now called The Quiet Giant, none other than my good friend Joel Kral. Gwen and I went to every one of the six games. Joel visited often during the series when it was in Chicago. When all was said and done the Colts won their first championship and Joel went 9 for 21 (.429) with 3 homers and 8 RBIs. He was named the Championship MVP. Not bad for a country boy.

He sent us a note from LA in the days after the championship.

Dear Gwen and Dave,

Things are still crazy here. I like the city but I am also looking forward to spending some time on my new farm. It may not seem like it but a farm is actually a pretty quiet place. The sounds of nature are easier to listen to than the sounds of a city. And I’ve always liked the morning cold. In the Bigs you don’t have to get up until eleven sometimes. It’s like two different worlds – the baseball world of planes and stadiums and hotels and the world of a country farm. There are times, especially now, when I really miss it. A farm doesn’t care whether or not you’ve lived up to your expectations.

It’s hard to believe we won the thing. Chicago was so tough. Now that the Colts did it I know that one day we’ll all get our rings. I think we’re too good not to. I can’t believe I got mine first, of all of us. I guessed it would have been you or Flash or Von by now. I don’t know what you’re going to do with yours, but I’m going to put my MVP Trophy on my parents’ mantle right next to my State Fair Best of Show. I promised them when I was seventeen if I ever won one they could have it and, well, a promise is a promise.

Thank you both for coming to the games and for your hospitality during my stay in Chicago. It is a great city – one I wouldn’t mind playing in if I could play with Dave. I’m so glad all will be well with your eye, Davey. I look forward to having you throw me out next year. Congratulations on the baby, Gwenny. I will be expecting a call come April (20th, is it?).

God Bless you and keep you (all three of you!),
Your friend,
J.K.

P.S. If you are thinking of names for boys, I have always been partial to Joel.

[Tib]

Chapter 48

Of Fathers and Sons

Damon Clifford Driscoll was born on April 22, 2010. He was wet, bald, and pissed off.

Funny, everyone else was happy about it.

He had Gwen’s mouth and my eyes and, thank God, Gwen’s smile. When I looked at him I felt invincible. I wanted to conquer the world for him. And if I looked at him too long I got scared – afraid for him, such a small thing in such a big world. He’s relying on you, I thought. You must provide for him.

My father told me a child changes everything. I knew that the way you know it’s dangerous to hang glide without ever hang gliding, but I didn’t really know what he meant until Damon was born. The doctor shook my hand afterward and said, “Congratulations, Dad” and that’s when it hit me: I am responsible for another life. I was responsible for Gwen, too, but that was a partnership between adults. I realized that the pregnancy was the easy part; nine months of suspense and expectation, like the slow climb up to the top of the roller coaster or the slow burning of a long fuse. Having the baby was like – bang! – here’s your future, wrapped in a little blue blanket! It was the first of many nail biting moments.


I must mention here one other aspect of my career: endorsements. I was never on any “A” list for product endorsements, but I had my share of interest from companies. When I was new to the league I couldn’t get anyone’s attention. The Magic Man’s office told me I was just not a high profile player. “But I’m in the top 5 in a lot of categories,” I said.
“Yeah, defensive categories,” they said. “Besides, companies don’t want top five. They want number one.”

Anyway, when Damon was born I was taking a few days off to nurse a bruised finger (hit by another pitch the third week of the season -- go figure) and I received a call at the hospital from the Magic Man congratulating me on my two new babies.
“Do I have more than one?”
“Yes!” came the reply. “You are now a paid spokesman for Chicagoland Ford and their affiliated dealerships.”
“Great. Is the money any good?”
“No, it’s crap, but it’ll keep the rugrat in diapers.”
“Well, it’s a start,” I said.
“It’s a day of starts, eh?” said Majkowski.
“That’s the truth.”
“Speaking of starts, I’ve got to get to the tee. Wish me luck, Davey, Riviera’s always kicked my ass.”
“Good luck,” I said.
“To you, too,” said the Magic Man, and this time he meant it.

The 2010 season marked the beginning of a run of endorsement contracts for me. Chicagoland Ford, State Farm Insurance, Web Gems baseball equipment and Bayer Aspirin. As one Bayer exec explained to me: “The way you handled yourself after getting hit by that pitch was great. All the appearances you did, and the way you handled yourself on television – it was class all the way. We thought it was a perfect fit for our product.”
“You’re not going to make me do something corny like sit up from a stretcher holding a bottle of Bayer aspirin, are you?”
“No, no, no,” he said. “Absolutely not.”
“Good.”
“No, you’ll already be in your hospital bed.”

Endorsements are terrific when you’re raising a family. They provide the extra money to pay for college funding and extra life insurance and hearing specialists. Of course, certain off-field demands are made upon you, like appearances at corporate events, radio and television commercials, and for the precious few at the top of the game, the responsibility of their own product line. Endorsements provide.

I had both a bat and a glove named after me during my career, though I don’t know why they did the bat; I must have switched bats a dozen times. A glove called the Short Hop Special in one thing, but a bat called the Driscoll Short Hop Model? What sense does that make? I was known as a capable hitter, but certainly not a marquee name. I’ll never understand advertising.

Gloves were a different matter. I was very specific about my leather (and it had to be real leather – none of that Virtual-Leather stuff). It had to have a web with some daylight in it so I could see the ball – no fully woven pockets. It had to have double finger stitching and water-resistant leather ties. The palm piece had to stop just short of the bottom of the heel of my hand, right before the wrist; it had to look like it was about to fall off. And it absolutely had to have a Munoz pocket.

Not many players in my day used a Munoz pocket, but I did. It was a tricky, difficult to use feature, not for the easily discouraged. But before I tell you about the Munoz pocket, and because I’m talking about fathers and sons in this chapter, perhaps I should tell you about Horatio Munoz.

Horatio Osvaldo de Honorio Munoz was born in a small town in the Dominican Republic September 13th, 1966. He was the youngest of six, the offspring of respected shoemaker Honorio Munoz de Calpa and his seamstress wife Orchida. It was a busy household; the Munoz family used an enclosed patio as the base for both their businesses, the running of which clashed daily with the responsibilities of raising six mischievous children.

Horatio was like any other boy his age -- until, that is, he started playing baseball. Like many CBA players before him, Horatio excelled at an early age. His speed, defense and ability to get on base – to fool fielders – manifested by the time he graduated from San Miguel el Defensor grade school. When their work for the day was done – which wasn’t very often – Horatio’s parents would watch his games. Unsatisfied with the poor quality of Horatio’s hand-me-down school equipment, Honorio Munoz made a glove for his son (“the way it should be done”) stuffed with bits of unused thread and stitched together out of scraps of shoe leather. He built into it an especially deep round pocket, like a fisherman’s net, because “fish and ground balls are slippery”. The Munoz pocket. It was an atrocious looking glove, made up of a dozen different colored pieces of leather, stinking of shoe polish and tied with shoelaces. Horatio hated it, but it was a good glove, better than any he had used so far. It was hard to get the ball out; you had to flare your fingers wide open to get to the ball. But the ball, like a fish in a net, did not pop out once it went in.

By the time he was 16 he had attracted almost all the CBA’s Latin American scouts. All save one.

Bartolomeo “Barto” Oveia was the Caribbean scout for Horatio’s favorite team, los Legendarios de Los Angeles, the L.A. Legends. Oveia wasn’t impressed by Munoz. Besides, he came to town to look at Wilfrem Ochoa, a power hitting right fielder. The Legends already had a good shortstop in Lance Kelly; they needed a home run hitter. But as fate would have it, Oveia sat next to the proud father of a scrappy, quick, quiet little infielder named – what was his name? – who just happened to be taking a rare afternoon off to watch his son play. When the elder Munoz learned that Oveia was a scout he filled his ear with stories about Horatio.
“Gracias, senor,” Oveia interrupted gently. “But I am here to see Ochoa.”
“My mistake, senor,” replied Honorio Munoz a little too politely. “I thought you wanted to see talent.”

Horatio had a good game. Oveia remembered the proud father – he had one once himself – and the name of the young man (Munoz, wasn’t it?) found its way into his weekly reports. Two years later Oveia signed Horatio to a developmental contract, a “fighting chance contract” they used to call it, and the young Munoz traveled to Oxnard, California to begin his career with the Ventura Whitecaps. Two years later Munoz made his CBA debut as an expanded roster 20-year old during the end of the Legends’ 1987 season.

He played in 12 games. He never batted. When the offseason came the Legends placed him on the Rule 3 waiver sheet. It looked like it was back to the Dominican and a career in shoemaking for Horatio, but the Kansas City Knights took a chance. They grabbed him up, not because they were convinced of Horatio’s potential – far from it. They took him because Bartolomeo Oveia, on a holiday weekend, talked for five minutes with KC’s Latin American scout Arnoldo Carrasqua at a dog track in San Juan, Puerto Rico. The Knights needed depth at shortstop. “Do you know who might be available?” “Oh, I know of one youngster, just a pup really, who just went on the wire only yesterday…”.

The rest, as they say, is history.


My point here is that fathers provide. That’s what they do best, perhaps. When something is needed, fathers go get it. When something has to be done, fathers do it. When something needs to be said, fathers say it. When your son is using a terrible glove you build him a new one, a better one, the best one you can. Why? Because you are a shoemaker and gloves and shoes are made of the same thing and how hard can it be? When your 15-year old son begs you for a Horatio Munoz autographed model glove -- “complete with patented Munoz Pocket Technology!” – you find a way to get it for him even though it was a bad month and your commissions have dried up. When he begs you for a year to send him to San Diego to the very expensive Horatio Munoz Baseball Camp to see his hero, you get him there even though you can’t really afford it. Why? Because now you are a regional manager, responsible for 50 people in an office, and that’s what you do – you handle situations and make decisions and turn “can’ts” into “cans” and “won’ts” into “musts” and how hard can it be?

You go to his games, holler and clap when he gets a hit, yell encouragement when he makes a mistake and are filled with warmth when he scores a run, runs to the dugout and turns, smiling, to look in your direction.
That’s my boy, you say to yourself.

And when you stand at the nursery room window and stare for 22 straight minutes at the boy you will raise, you worry about providing. In my case money was not the issue like it was for my father, though we never lacked when I was growing up. I wanted more than anything to give him a boyhood as good as the one my father gave me. I imagined playing catch in the back yard, his first wobbly attempts at bike riding, wrestling in the living room (“watch out for the coffee table!”) – all the clichéd things you see on television commercials. Corny as they were, I wanted to experience those things. Why do we become fathers if not to fulfill for our children the dream we lived when we were younger? Or perhaps it was just the dream we saw on television. It doesn’t matter. It’s still a good dream.

I feared failure, too. I worry too much, I know, but I’m not sure you can worry enough when it comes to your children. There’s fear and there’s fear, you know?

So there I stood, at the nursery room window, phone in hand, the ink of my first endorsement contract not even dry yet, wondering what demands were going to be placed on me, wondering if I could do as good a job of handling them as my father had. And I didn’t know it at the time, but I was already handling them. The worry, the wondering, the flinch before the plunge, those are all the first steps toward taking responsibility for another life. The preparation for problem solving, the instinct to protect – these are the building blocks of fatherhood, the foundation that gives us the will to provide, somehow, no matter the cost.

My father put a hand on my shoulder as we stood there watching Damon sleep.
“Damon,” he said with the slight frown and nod of careful consideration. “It’s a good name. A good boy’s name.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Gwen thought of it.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. Clifford was her decision, too.”
“Really?”
“Well, I told her it had to be either Milo or Clifford.”
“Milo? That’s unusual,” said my father.
“It certainly was,” I said, lost for a moment in the memory of a landfill in the Bahamas.
“I like Clifford, too,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Have you heard from Cliff?”
“He called. He’s doing good.”
And we stood for a moment.

“You know,” my dad said, “I wanted to name you Horatio.”
At this I turned. “Really?”
“No, of course not. You were named after Dave McAllister.”
“Dave McAllister the baseball player? The Hall of Famer?”
“No, Dave McAllister the bowler. Of course the Hall of Famer,” he said.
“I thought I was named after mom’s brother,” I said.
“Don’t ever tell her. It’ll upset her.”
“Fair enough. I didn’t like Uncle Dave anyway.”
We stood for a few more moments. The nurses came and went.

“You have to wash under his neck,” said my dad.
“What?”
“Under his neck. The milk dribbles down and dries under his chin so you have to make sure to wipe his neck.” He made dribbling-down-the-neck motions with his fingers.
“Okay.”
“And you have to let him cry himself to sleep. Not at first, of course, but eventually. You won’t want to, but you have to, sometimes. Otherwise he won’t be able to get through the night without you.”
“How will I know when?”
“You’ll know.”
“Okay.”
“You have to know when to let them cry and when to pick them up. It’s a tough call. It’s tough because all you’ll ever want to do is pick them up and hug them and keep the world away from them for a little while longer. But you can’t. You just can’t. The world comes and gets them. So you prepare. You prepare yourself and them, too. You have to provide them with the tools to make it on their own.”
“And once they’re gone, then what?”
“You pray the world doesn’t swallow them. You hope they carve out a place of their own, a safe place where they can be happy.”
And we turned and smiled at each other. I nodded. “Okay,” I said.
“Then you wait for grandchildren.”
“There’s a lot to know about this fatherhood stuff,” I said.
“You know that long term contract you’ve been wanting?”
“Yeah?”
He turned and nodded at Damon. “You just got it.”

[canadiancreed]

Originally Posted by Tib

Okay folks, this will be the first post-OOTP meltdown ITP Dynasty entry. For those who don't know what just happened, the OOTP Boards took one on the chin, electronically speaking, and many of the recent posts, threads and Dynasties suffered irreparable damage or were lost to Oblivion entirely.

Such is not the case with Short Hop. I always cut and pasted my chapters from Word, so none of my work was lost. However, I am going to have to re-post Chapters 45-47, which I will do in the coming days.

I want to thank everyone, from the anonymous readers to the regular posters and everyone in between who support Dave and his very long story. It means a great deal to me. I wrote for years and years and never had the guts to expose my work to outside perusal, much less scrutiny. The overwhelmingly positive reaction to this project was far, far more than I hoped for. I want everyone to know that it'll take more than an internet tsunami to douse my commitment to continuing Short Hop until the end, whenever that may be.

Thank you all very much.

good to see that this is back.

and why isnt this published yet?

[Tib]

Originally Posted by canadiancreed

good to see that this is back.

and why isnt this published yet?

Let me finish it first!

[Faroo6]

damn, thought we were getting something new

[Faroo6]

bump, for a possible new chapter.

[The Funk]

Fantastic stuff Tib, still a joy to read from beginning to end, especially when you have a few chapters to read in one go!

Originally Posted by Tib

I was not unprepared. Trouble had been brewing for some time. Shortly after the New Year Gianni Bassone informed me that he believed someone within our investment group was siphoning finds from the general account for personal use.

Should that read funds?

Originally Posted by Tib

"...We gotta go. Some of the guys are taking us to breakfast. It’s some kind of team tradition. We gotta eat in our pajamas. Weird. Anyway, see ya!”

Brilliant!

Originally Posted by Tib

Damon Clifford Driscoll was born on April 22, 2010. He was wet, bald, and pissed off.

Funny, everyone else was happy about it.

Nice, Douglas Adams could have written that.

[Faroo6]

What is it Lassie, Tibby fell down a well. OH NO!!!!! Quick Lassie go get Tibby.

[Tib]

Still here. Finishing up Field Training. Soooo busy right now.

Also, just discovered City of Heroes and it's taking a lot of my free time right now. I always loved comics and, well.....

Worry not, Dave will be back soon.