SHORT HOP - My Career In Baseball by David Driscoll

[Tib]

Rollercoaster, Part One

Baseball is a game of constant change. Lineups change with every new starter. Starters throw different pitches in different locations for every different count and every changing batter. There are different pitchers for every situation, countered by pinch hitters selected to oppose them. Fielders change positions based on changing defensive objectives. Batters change bats and stances. They change their approach at the plate based on count, outs, runners, inning and situation. Pitchers change their pitch selection for the same reasons. Managers must consider all these variables and calculate successful outcomes from all this changing data. Throw in the randomness inherent in striking a round object with another round object and you have the rollercoaster that is baseball.

Yet, like a rollercoaster, baseball craves its own limits. Somehow, we can put up with all the direction changes and unexpected highs and lows as long as the cars stay on the track. It’s the illusion of control: “If we have limits, everything will be fine”. The traditions of baseball, those unchanging rules and rituals, the limits we put on conduct and chaos, are defended with passion and determination, as if this alone will avoid total disaster. But for every argument against change there are five examples why it is inevitable. For every defiant refusal to accept the evolution of the sport there are five players who push those conventions aside and find a new path to the future. Granted, it’s not often a future all of us want, but without those guys we’d still be using wooden bats and our eyes alone to determine the strike zone.

The 2015 preseason was about the conflict between change and sameness.

The carnival ride that was the 2015 season began in December with a slew of retirements. Bootsy Morales retired. Bobby Frisina retired. Dave Fountain retired. Bill Katz retired. These were not entirely unexpected. Bootsy was having issues with his knees and didn’t want to move to first, even though teams were interested in him there. I’ve always believed catchers are born and not made, and I guess Bootsy’s decision proves my point. You know, when three generations of your family are catchers, maybe you just identify yourself as a catcher no matter where you play.

Bobby Frisina refused reassignment and Washington released him. As we know, KC offered him a spot in the booth and he took it with enthusiasm. The idea of remaining in baseball without the grind on his body was appealing to him. Plus, he was back home and the hours as a broadcaster were better. And he had three teenage kids, one starting college. And a wife who missed him. Once he was the face of the franchise, now he’d be the voice of the franchise. He’s been there ever since.

Dave Fountain was the starting shortstop for the Generals the year I was drafted by the team. Although we have become good acquaintances since we retired, I always needle him that if he wasn’t so good I wouldn’t have been traded my rookie year. He always tells me he won’t apologize for being good and that he didn’t even know who I was and if he did he still wouldn’t have cared.

Bill Katz and his steel cable ligaments finally wore out. He began having elbow problems that surgery couldn’t fix and after sixteen seasons he decided he wanted to be able to play catch with his eventual grandchildren.

On an up note, Dave Guevara and Von Jones both got married, Dave in early December and Von in February. The weddings were mini reunions of my teams in Hinesville and in KC. It was great to see each other off the field. Flash, Jukebox, Yoogie, Bobby Nitta, Joel Kral (who welcomed his first child in late January), Frisina, Boogles. We were growing up, you know? We weren’t kids anymore. Well, Jukebox was still a kid in many ways. The only one missing was Moose. Von sent him an invitation, but he was a no show. No one knew exactly what he was up to.

The holidays were a kind of lull that year, a weird kind of limbo. You know how rollercoasters often travel slowly as they set up for the next set of speedy curves? Like that. Damon was four and Molly was two and were old enough to make requests of Santa Claus. I built my first playhouse and tricycle, though judging by how much happiness it brought, I think the playhouse was also a gift for my wife. Damon immediately tried to get the tricycle airborne. I told him he was not to jump it off the patio steps anymore, even if it was fun to crash in the snow.

I bought him his first baseball glove that Christmas. It was a new glove, just on the market, named after one of the best fielders in the league -- a masterpiece of design called the Driscoll Pro Series. Real cow leather, not that genetically engineered stuff from China. Signed by Dave Driscoll himself. Damon wore it for pictures, dropped it under the tree, and went right back to the tricycle. My father laughed and laughed.

“What’s so funny, grandpa?” I asked him.

“You got a Legends cap from Santa when you were four. You threw it in the garbage.”

Another aspect of the holidays when you’re a Big Leaguer is end-of-year endorsements. Product endorsements typically end when the calendar year ends, so December is a big month. Thanks to the Magic Man and his talented cadre of motivated representatives, I signed extensions with Baseline Sports (makers of the Driscoll Pro Series), Mirano Eyewear, Relvig Pharmaceuticals (makers of Glacier Mint muscle rub), and Kinetiq, makers of the Spring-Lok baseball swing trainer. I probably should also have signed with a crystal ball manufacturer, because the season’s prospects began to look cloudier the closer we got to Opening Day.

In early February the first trades and signings were announced. Nick St. Laurent, who played so solidly for us, went to Seattle with catcher Alvaro Aceves for center fielder Lane Fenn. Seattle also signed Dave Guevara to a 4-year contract. Moose went into arbitration for the second year with Montreal. This was a rarity because most players who go to arbitration are caught between the team’s lukewarm commitment to them and a poor economic situation. Arbitration usually means a new home the next season. Two arbitration contracts in a row means the player has received no interest from other teams and thus has no leverage. Moose was very clearly stuck, at least for this year. The weird thing was, he got $2 million. In arbitration. It was a victory for his market value, but a strange backhanded compliment, and not from the Blue Sox but from the arbiter. It was as if the arbiter was telling Montreal, “You should have signed him.”

But perhaps the most concerning news during the off-season was the Comanches going into arbitration with eight players, four of them pitchers, three of them starters. Not exactly a vote of confidence. In fact, word was that after spending over $60 million on players the last four years and getting four marginal seasons (not to mention the continued expense of a new stadium) Chicago was now skittish about spending money. Perhaps skittish isn’t the right word. Cautious might be a better word. That was the word Fontillion used when he talked about the precariousness of the team’s negotiations with so many of their current players. In the end everyone signed, including St. Laurent, who was traded later that day to Seattle. I suppose the team was happy. They saved millions, but now had six not-so-happy players with one-year contracts. Whether I stayed with the team or not, there were going to be big changes in Chicago next season.

And all this still meant the 2015 rollercoaster was only just starting out of the terminal, gliding through the first gentle turns. And, like being on a rollercoaster, I was excited and a little nervous. Unlike other seasons, this year I would have more attention on me from teams thinking about making me an offer, should I file for free agency. That was good. I could strengthen my situation by playing well. Having three starting pitchers, our starting third baseman, and one of our best relievers on one-year contracts was worrying.

In the pocket of my travel coat Gwen found the pin drive Hal gave me. We popped it in the TV and watched it. It contained about fifteen minutes of palm com video of me playing in high school.

“You were a spaz,” Gwen observed.

“I was not a spaz.”

“You were spazzingly energetic.”

“I loved the game. I wanted to win.”

“Were you on cocaine? Because it looks like you were on some form of juvenile cocaine.”

“I will not apologize for being competitive. I used to get very fired up for games.”

“Well, you certainly look fired up. You look like you fired up right before this game.”

At the end was Hal interviewing me. “Can you state your name, position and school for me?” said Hal’s voice.

“Dave Driscoll. Shortstop/pitcher. Mount Rose High School. Mount Rose, California.”

“Class of?”

“Two-thousand two.”

“Have you made a decision yet on school?”

“Not yet. We just started talking to schools.”

“Which schools?”

“Cal Lutheran, UCLA, Texas A&M, and, um, Fullerton, I think.”

“Have you spoken to any Big League teams yet?”

“Just you and the Mammoths. Oh, and San Diego.”

“What do you love about baseball, Dave?”

“Competing. Seeing if I’m better than my opponent. Making plays when they have to be made. And winning.”

“Would you like to say anything to the Atlanta organization?”

“I guess I would say that I know breaking into professional baseball is kind of a rollercoaster. Some grab the sides and hold on for dear life. Others throw their hands in the air.”

“And which one are you?”

“This baseball thing is a huge risk,” my young self said. “My instinct would be to grab on and hold tight, but I’d throw my hands in the air because you can be either scared or excited in life and I’d rather be excited about my future than scared of losing it.”

“Good answer,” said Hal’s voice.

“Good answer,” said Gwen at almost the same time.

Then my dad walked in the room smiling. “Hey, Rollercoaster Man, your son just threw his new glove in the garbage.”

[Tib]

Rollercoaster, Part Two

Do you believe in omens? I don’t, but by God sometimes I think I must be mistaken. I had a double and two RBIs in the first game of the season. We were crushing KC 7-1 in the 5th en route to an opening day 11-3 victory when I drove a ball into the right center field gap and hit second at full speed going for three. It was going to be close. Milt Benofski, our third base coach, went to his knees, slapping the ground with both palms, yelling at me to get down. I dive, stretch as the throw comes in.

Safe! A triple. The crowd erupts for me and I try to get up to brush the dirt off, but I can’t straighten up. Pain hits me, wrapping around my waist like a loop of hot barbed wire. Louis Schooley comes in to run for me as I’m escorted off the field. Pulled abdominal muscle. Out for two weeks.

First game of the season. And the rollercoaster goes up and down, up and down….

I stayed home the rest of the week and for our first road trip to Miami and Washington. The team went 7-7 without me. On April 13th, during the rubber game in Washington, Glenn Maurice slid into the rain tarp down the left field line going after a foul ball. The ball bounced into the stands and Glenn collapsed, curling up into a ball himself. His left leg went under the curve of the tarp and had twisted back upon itself. Torn posterior cruciate ligament. Season over.

Five days later at home against Boston Steve Moronta fell to a knee after a pitch to Gary Shadrick. He walked gingerly off the field to the trainer’s room for x-rays. A ruptured disc in his lower back. They said the vertebrae were misaligned by almost two centimeters. Season over. Back surgery necessary, for the second time in his career. A week later the 34-year old retired.

Meanwhile, Ross Watts hit his 500th homer and the team traded Louis Schooley (who hit .241 as my replacement) to KC.

On May 1st I had been back with the team for about two weeks, raising my average to .323. We were 15-12, a half game out of first place and were playing a struggling Detroit team. I was 2 for 2 with a double when I aggravated a hip muscle on a swing. I ran out the grounder but had to come out. The strained muscle cost me another two weeks. Tim Marucci, the team’s first round pick in 2012, took over for me, getting seven hits in the next four games and helping the team to first place in the division (18-12).

And the rollercoaster goes up and down….

I came back in mid-May, and just in time, because Ramon Guerra, my sometime backup, got hit on the hand by a pitch and broke a finger. Even with me hitting well at the top of the lineup we still went 4-8 and dropped into a tie for fourth place. We rebounded at home against first place Dallas by taking two of three. Me and my New Data ceramic bat hit a 427-foot homer. My muscles had healed, but my long-suffering knee was flaring up now. I also had nagging pain in my shoulder and left wrist. Nothing to take me out of a game, but these aches were bothersome. Marucci’s nine game hitting streak was also bothersome because Thune was starting him at short on Sundays.

Nothing says, “You’re getting old” like “Gonna get you some rest, Davey.” At least he didn’t tell me “the front office wants to take a look at him.” With me in the last year of a contract I expected Chicago might try something like that. It was the way business works in the Bigs. As the team hovered around .500 for most of the next month, I got subbed early, usually in favor of Marucci. At the end of May I was still hitting .326 with 7 steals and 6 errors. Gwen kept telling me to keep it up. “You’re strengthening your case,” she would say to me.

On the first day of June Sam Dixon, one of our best relievers, was shut down for the season with elbow problems. Two weeks later Daniel Miller, one of the arbitration starters, tore a wrist ligament and was gone for at least nine weeks. This season was turning into a bloodbath, and we couldn’t afford to lose anyone else. One of the few remaining starters we had, Ron Hoyos, was having a rollercoaster year of his own. He was 4-4 for the season and had given up 27 earned runs in his five May losses.

In mid-June Hoyos’ freefall continued (11 earned runs and four homers allowed in two starts) and the team seemed to take it as inspiration to play poorly. We closed out June 3-9 (37-39 overall). I knew it was bad when I was getting attention for my hitting (.294 and .421 the last two weeks). I had been working hard on my swing, trying to overcome the nagging pains, and it was paying off. As the All-Star Break approached, I felt I had earned a part of the conversation.

No Comanches were selected for the All-Star Game, not even Benji Gillingham, who was hitting .327. In fact, the only shortstop selected in the UL was Mario Rowlett from the Colts. I was told I got votes, but not enough, apparently. Ah, well. It would have been nice, but it wasn’t what I played for.

You know who made it? Steve McCammon. Arbitration Steve McCammon who the Blue Sox didn’t think was worth the money, who was leading the team in hitting (.327) and was fourth in the league in average and runners thrown out stealing. I wanted to call him and tell him to kick ass out there, but I realized I didn’t have his contact information. I could’ve got it from the players’ union, but I didn’t.

And the rollercoaster goes up and down…

We were nine games back of Denver, and in the middle of a five-game losing streak when the Break came. I confess I need the rest. What I didn’t need was seeing Rafael Nieves when I got back. Nieves was a 3rd rounder in 2010 who was moving up the ranks very quickly. Quick bat, good defense, speedy. Sound familiar? When I didn’t get the start in our second game against a 33-48 Kansas City team I went into Thune’s office. I was a teensy bit peeved, not that he could tell…

I placed my palms on Thune’s desk. “You know I’m good, right?” I said.

“Sure, Davey.”

“I mean, I’m all healed and everything. I’m hitting .294.”

“I know.”

“Nine steals.”

“I know.”

“Ten errors. Ten.” I held up ten fingers in case he forgot how many that was.

“I know,” said Max, throwing up his hands in surrender.

“So what’s going on? Is there something I should know about, skip?”

“Nope. You’re still my guy. It’s just that Nieves has hit at least .340 at every level so far. The front office just wants to take a look at him.”

Son of a bitch. “Should I be worried?”

“Nope.”

“Should I? You won’t hurt my feelings.”

“No,” said Max Thune. “You should not be worried.”

It turned out I really shouldn’t have been worried about Rafael Nieves because the team was the bigger issue. We were tanking big time. We lost the next six games to run our losing streak to eleven. All of a sudden it was mid-July and we were 13 games back. Ron Hoyos, our best remaining arm, was 5-10 with a 6.82 ERA.

And on July 29th, in case we needed reminding, the team was 44-57 and in last place, hurtling toward a trade deadline with seven players under arbitration contracts and one lame duck shortstop. I realized if I was ever going to be traded in my career, it was going to be now. My offensive numbers were up, my defensive numbers were up, my contract was up, and Rafael Nieves was up.

Lane Fenn, Matt Nuttall, Bartolo Gomez and Harold Dwyer all went on the block. My name did not appear. Apparently, Max Thune was right when he told me I didn’t need to worry. Nuttall was traded to Boston for pitching. We got Ron Bankston from the Cougars to replace him. Baltimore traded for Ken Heuser, prompting six-time All-Star shortstop Terry Ruddy to speak with Theo Garner about his future with the team. Baltimore released Ruddy later that day. I nodded to myself when I read it. “Spoke with Theo Garner about his future with the team.” I knew all too well what that meant. The thirty-eight-year-old future Hall-of-Famer refused assignment, of course, and retired, taking his 2,865 hits, four Defensive Ace awards, and three championships with him. Good luck replacing Terry Ruddy, I said to myself.

On July 30th Al Gills became the all-time hits leader in the CBA, blooping a weak single over first base for number 3,177. Forty-three-year-old Al Gills, who three seasons ago still believed he had something to offer.

A day after the deadline I got a call from the Magic Man. “Heuser and Ruddy are off the market now,” he said by way of greeting.

“I read that.”

“They are shortstops, you know.”

“A fact not lost on me.”

“Mario Rowlett will sign an extension in the next two days. So will Bozek. That’s two more off the market.”

“I know.”

“That leaves you and Pangle and a bunch of guys nobody knows. You need to make a decision, bud.”

“I know. I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Thinking time’s over. You can’t wait much longer. Early extensions will be signed in the next four to six days. If I don’t get a call from the Comanches by Thursday I’ll know they’re going to stonewall you while they go after Pangle. We’ll have to file.”

“Jesus. The season’s still going on.”

“This is the business, bud.”

“I’ll talk to Gwen.”

“Don’t take forever.”

Forty-five minutes later I got a call from Fontillion. “I just wanted to call you and tell you we still have you in our plans, Davey.”

“That’s good to know,” I said in my best non-committal voice.

“But we have particular financial problems in front of us with so many players under arbitration contracts. We are working around the clock trying to anticipate future salary expenses.”

“And?”

“And we’re setting some money aside for you.”

“That is also good to know.”

“Of course, you can do whatever you feel is best for you. We realize that. But we hope you will consider staying in Chicago. You’ve been good for the team. A solid presence, etcetera.”

Etcetera? “So are you calling to talk extension?”

“Actually, I’m calling to tell you that the team is not prepared right now to offer an extension in the amount you deserve. Do what you must, but let’s at least see where we are at season’s end.”

“Keep my options open with you, you mean.”

“Yes. If you can. If you want to, I mean.”

“I’ll talk to Gwen and let you know.”

“Thanks, Davey.”

That night I got an unexpected reaction from my wife. “They are playing you.”

“In what way?”

“You are the hedged bet. If they go after Pangle they are going to have to spend money. A lot of money. That means another eight-man arbitration circus might kill their budget. If they get killed in arbitration before they get to Pangle, they’ll have you waiting in the wings for half the money and a family already anchored in Chicago. Either they get some pitching and you or Pangle and no pitching. Either way it doesn’t look rosy for their chances at a title.”

“But free agency,” I said. “I’ve never done that.”

“You’ve been in negotiations before,” said Gwen. “And you’re making a strong case for yourself this season, like we talked about. What’s the problem?

“We have a life here,” I said. “Your career is here. I don’t know about having to start over. I could sign and stay in Chicago and cruise into retirement and you could continue your career here.”

“Forget about me for a second. Is that what you want? To cruise into retirement?”

“No,” I admitted. “I want to win a championship.”

“And do you think Chicago is ready to win a championship?”

And wasn’t that the golden question? Wasn’t that the question I was afraid to ask myself? I realized I had to decide how I felt about Chicago’s chances to win. In fact, in that moment I realized I had known the answer for more than a year.

“No,” I said. “They don’t have the money for all the pitching they’ll need and Pangle, too. That means they’d be satisfied with me and whatever mediocre pitching they’ll get in arbitration, and that’s not how to win a championship.”

“I agree,” said my wife. “Plus, you’d probably just go insane waiting for a team like that to win.”

“Probably,” I admitted. “But what about you? Your career?”

“My career?” said Gwen with a sly smile. “Let me tell you about my career. GCC, who owns my station, is owned by Valor Communications, which is owned by the Re-Pac Group, who owns over two hundred television and radio stations across the U.S. and Canada. I have only to request a transfer and I’ll get it.”

“Just like that? To anywhere?”

“Anywhere. It’s in my contract. There’s nowhere you can play that I can’t work.” Then she gave me a peck on the mouth. “See? You’re not the only one who knows how to negotiate.”

The next day I called the Magic Man. “He’s not in, Dave.”

“I figured. Can you leave him a message, Delia?”

“That you’re filing for free agency?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I have been authorized to forward you the paperwork. There. It’s on its way.”

“Thanks.”

“I have to have it back by end of business today.”

“Got it.”

“He wanted me to tell you something else, too. He said, ‘tell Dave this is a good year to be a free agent shortstop and I will be a monster for him.’”

“Ah. Okay then.”

“And Dave?”

“Yes?”

“Tell your very smart wife hello for me.”

“I will. Thanks, Delia.”

I hung up the call, put my phone back in my locker, and sat quietly on the bench for a moment before finishing dressing for batting practice. What have I just done?

Max Thune walked up to me. “Hey, Davey. We’re going to give Nieves a few more swings tonight, okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “I understand.”

What have you done? I’ll tell you what you’ve done, I said to myself. You’ve done the only thing you could have done, if you want a championship.

And the rollercoaster goes up and down, up and down….

[Palaaemon]

Tib,

It's good to see you back at it again! When I say that you and your writing have been missed, that is a huge understatement.

I'm glad to see Davey finally wake up with help from those around him and realizes what it is that he really wants (a championship) and do what he needs to do to achieve that goal...enter free agency. For too long his thoughts of home and comfort for his family and concern for Gwen's career kept any thoughts of leaving Chicago buried deep down. Even after being given all the positive reasons for filing for free agency and reasons for leaving the Comanches, he is still questioning himself and his decision.

He is holding on tight to that roller coaster.

Have a Great day!

Palaaemon

[Tib]

Originally Posted by Palaaemon

Tib,

It's good to see you back at it again! When I say that you and your writing have been missed, that is a huge understatement.

I'm glad to see Davey finally wake up with help from those around him and realizes what it is that he really wants (a championship) and do what he needs to do to achieve that goal...enter free agency. For too long his thoughts of home and comfort for his family and concern for Gwen's career kept any thoughts of leaving Chicago buried deep down. Even after being given all the positive reasons for filing for free agency and reasons for leaving the Comanches, he is still questioning himself and his decision.

He is holding on tight to that roller coaster.

Have a Great day!

Palaaemon

Thanks for the comments, Palaaemon. You are a true Dave Driscoll fan, but I gotta tell you: the next chapter's going to kill you.

[Palaaemon]

Hey Tib!

Just checking in with you to see how you are and how things are progressing with Davey's world. Truly not wishing to put pressure on you at all, but you did leave me with a true sense of foreboding when you last said "the next chapter's going to kill you". Even with the impending doom looming upon me I am willing to accept my fate for another GREAT chapter from you for all of us to read! .

Seriously though, if life is taking priority (and God only knows how you and your family have coped this last year - I hope well) then I of course completely understand and will continue to patiently wait for the next installment with everyone else. However, if you are just slacking.... Just kidding my man. There is no such thing as slacking anymore is there?

Hope to hear from you soon. Have a good night!

Palaaemon

[Tib]

Hey, everybody (and you too P)!

Still here. Been working on other projects for the last few months. I have two other large writing projects I'm trying to put into some kind of coherent form and it's taking a lot of my time. I think if I do it correctly they might earn me a conversation about writing them for actual real actual money.

I realize this doesn't help when you're waiting for me to get back to Short Hop, but I have also been doing research to prepare for what will be big changes in the Short Hop world, regardless where Dave signs.

I will likely begin regular posting again in about a month, once I have the other projects in a form I can send to prospective publishers. I apologize for the delay and thanks for the patience.


Tib

[Palaaemon]

Originally Posted by Tib

Hey, everybody (and you too P)!

Still here. Been working on other projects for the last few months. I have two other large writing projects I'm trying to put into some kind of coherent form and it's taking a lot of my time. I think if I do it correctly they might earn me a conversation about writing them for actual real actual money.

I realize this doesn't help when you're waiting for me to get back to Short Hop, but I have also been doing research to prepare for what will be big changes in the Short Hop world, regardless where Dave signs.

I will likely begin regular posting again in about a month, once I have the other projects in a form I can send to prospective publishers. I apologize for the delay and thanks for the patience.


Tib

Fantastic!

I am glad to hear about your projects. If you think they might be something we might be interested in knowing about when they are published please let us know!

As for Short Hop, patience is not an issue man. I joke around but I do know the stresses and responsibilities that we must deal with each day. Do what you need to do. We will be here waiting for the next chapter(s). I wish you great luck with you endevours!

Have a Great night!

Palaaemon

[Tib]

Conjecture, Innuendo, and Speculation

Chicago Post-Recorder, Sports Section
August 8, 2015
“Driscoll Free Agency Underscores Team Issues”
By Rick Eimel

Chicago, IL – Chicago Comanche shortstop Dave Driscoll filed for free agency yesterday, beginning what many believe might be a mass exodus from the struggling team. Driscoll, 31, is a ten-year veteran who signed a 4-year $15 million contract extension with the Comanches in 2011. He was poised to enter renegotiation with the team after the season. With several other high-profile shortstops having already signed extensions, Driscoll becomes the first infielder of note and the first Comanche to file for free agency, a move seen by many in baseball as a vote of no confidence in the Chicago front office.

Among the best fielding shortstops in the league over the last six seasons, Driscoll has also raised his batting average during his time in Chicago. A career .252 hitter with Chicago and Kansas City, during his time with the Comanches Driscoll has averaged .277 and hit a career-high .301 last season, adding 80 runs and 25 steals. The market for Driscoll is expected to be competitive, says Driscoll’s agent, Jackson Majkowski. “There won’t be many infielders on the market with Dave’s proven numbers and playoff experience,” he said.

Reached for comment, Driscoll said the move was not a criticism of the team’s recent poor finishes. “It was a tough decision. I am thankful to the organization for giving me a great place to play for the last five seasons and to the fans for supporting me and the team. I will always have fond memories of my time here.” Asked if the filing was in response to increased playing time for young shortstop Rafael Nieves, Driscoll said it wasn’t, though he expects the team to move toward youth. “Rafael is talented and I know teams are always looking for new talent, but I feel I’ve proven I can contribute on a daily basis and I look forward to showing the league what I can do going forward.”

Driscoll’s exit will not likely be the only one. The Comanches have no fewer than nine current players, eight of them pitchers, signed to arbitration contracts which will run out after this season. Many of those players are expected to opt for free agency themselves, and that may leave the team scrambling to fill roster spots come November. The Comanches are 46-63 so far this season, 12 games back of division-leading Denver. Comanche General Manager Cezar Fontillion said he was surprised at Driscoll’s decision but remained optimistic about the team’s future. “Davey and I spoke some weeks ago and it was a very positive conversation. He never said anything to me about intending to file, so I’m not sure where this came from. As far as the off-season, the economic effects of arbitration are always unpredictable. It looks to be a robust off-season for us, to be sure. Whatever occurs, the Comanches will bring a roster full of excitement and potential, and perhaps some new faces, to all their great fans.” Fontillion’s optimism aside, the Comanches remain mired in fourth place and have not won a division title in eight years despite having one of the league’s highest payrolls. Losing Driscoll’s steady play is certainly not going to help.

So there it was. In black and white newsprint. Free agency as seen by the wonderful Chicago press, with all its conjecture, innuendo, and speculation. Not that I didn’t know this was how they were going to play it. I had a pretty good picture of the situation in my head, but what I didn’t anticipate was the reaction from teammates and the front office. I tried to be fair in my comments, but the filing was already being used by the press as a springboard to foster criticism and start debate about the future of the team. What was worse, I knew Rick Eimel. I liked him, but I didn’t like being an unwilling example of an opinion. I called him to tell him so.

“I don’t want to be made an example here, Rick.”

“You filed,” he said. “That’s news around here, Dave. The team is in a precarious situation. I wanted to illustrate that, that’s all. I mean, you’ve got to know this.”

“With arbitration, sure, but there’s still confidence here. Guys are still playing hard. You make it sound like I’m the first rat off the sinking ship.”

“Actually, I thought it made you seem like the smartest rat on the ship.”

“I don’t want you to turn a personal decision of mine into a poster for your agenda.”

“I saw cause and effect,” he said. “It wasn’t my intention to implicate that you were disgruntled or anything. I’ll clear it up in the next piece.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“But are you disgruntled?”

“Goodbye, Rick.”

The team was slightly cooler to me in the days following the filing, except for the arbitration pitchers who filed in the weeks following me and who voiced support for me. Max Thune acted like I’d just shot him in the back.

“Wish you would have come to me with these issues, Davey,” he said after calling me into his office.

“What issues?” I asked.

He made a face. “I think you know. About your playing time and the direction of the team. I’m trying to work with the front office to develop talent. Nieves is part of that. You know, it’s tough to balance all this and give the veterans playing time. Something has to give. These concerns of yours. I mean, you have concerns, okay, but putting it out in the press is making it hard for me to do right by everybody and keep the front office happy.”

“I don’t have concerns, skip. And I didn’t ‘put it out in the press’. That’s Eimel looking for trouble. Look, the team is moving toward the young guys. I don’t have a problem with that. I was one of those young guys once. I just believe I can still start and I’m in a good place in my career and the market is favorable to me right now.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Because if this is a money thing, I don’t have any control over that.”

“I know that. It’s not a money thing.”

“Then what is it?”

I paused. “Is this you wanting to know or Fontillion?”

“You know me better than that, Davey.”

“Fine,” I said. “My next contract will probably be the last one I sign. I need to make it count. This team has had its struggles while I’ve been here, but it was never money. There’s always been money. But there’s a pattern here I haven’t seen in other organizations. It’s almost like the team can’t get out of its own way. If it’s not a perfect season, the press jumps on us. It’s like a weight gets dropped on us every year as soon as we fall five games behind Cleveland, and we get trapped under it. Maybe the team really does need new blood. Who knows? But between you and me, it’s not money. It’s one thing when the press is saying you can’t win, but when the players start to believe it….”

Thune was silent for a long moment. Craig Valine, one of the base coaches said, “Who believes it?”

“I’m not saying anyone believes it. I’m saying the things that are said in this town are hard to ignore.”

“And you’ve had enough?” asked Thune. “Is that what this is? You think this kind of thing doesn’t happen in other cities?”

“Of course not” I said. “I’m saying the press is not helping.”

“So the press is mean and we can’t win and you’re leaving,” said Valine.

“We can win,” I said, “but look at the message eight players in arbitration is sending. Guys are sensitive to what the front office does. And they’re reading what the press is writing. Eight arbitration contracts? When’s the last time that happened?” The question was met with silence.

“The team is signaling big changes coming,” I continued. “And Fontillion isn’t committing money right now. It’s like he’s saving for something but won’t tell anyone what. Guys get antsy about stuff like that. The press is jumping on it, starting with me filing.”

“Antsy how?” asked Valine.

“Antsy like, ‘I’m in arbitration, so how much of that unspent money will come to me?’ It makes guys a little desperate to know their future. And what did we do at the Break? Nothing. No big moves. No commitment to the rest of the season or to a future we all can see. Fontillion’s being cagey and guys are picking up on that. You guys must know this.”

“We know,” said Thune. “But honestly, Davey, I didn’t expect you to be the one.”

“The one what?”

“The one to drive a wedge between the guys.”

“To what?”

“Look how it looks,” Valine said. “Eight guys in arbitration, like you said. Now a veteran skips town because arbitration might mean less money in his pocket. Now everyone will be paranoid about their own future. Now everyone will be wondering what the other guy’s going to get and if they’ll be any money left over for him. Makes it hard to manage.”

“Whoa, rewind,” I said. “Skipping town? How does my filing mean I’m skipping town? That’s not fair. That’s not fair to me. I told you this was not about money. And driving a wedge? That’s the press, not me.”

Valine shrugged. “Either way, this makes our job harder.”

I admit I became a tad impatient. “Well I’m sorry about that, Craig,” I said testily. “I’m sorry your job is hard. But I’m not making it harder, Fontillion is. It’s not my fault you’re working in the blind, facing forty percent roster turnover. And it’s not your fault either. I’m not blaming anyone here. I’m trying to make the most of an opportunity, that’s all. And you know what else is hard, Craig? Being a thirty-one-year-old defense first free agent in a league where the money is going to home run hitters.”

Thune held up his hands as if to call for truce. “We’re not pointing fingers here, just trying to understand if we could have made things better for you here, that’s all, Davey. Right now we’re expecting more filings and we just don’t want to see the guys get divided.”

“That won’t come from me,” I said. “I’m here to play hard the rest of the season.”

“I know you will,” said Thune, getting up to shake my hand. I felt good about that until I saw the lineup card for that night’s game. He started Nieves. I guess I couldn’t blame him.

Fontillion’s reaction was to call me the next day with several pointed questions. “I thought we were going to revisit this at the end of the season,” he said.

“I never committed to that,” I said. “I was glad you were thinking of me. That didn’t mean I was going to stop watching the market. I had no guarantee re-negotiation was going to happen. You might trade me, for all I knew.”

“Trade you? I told you we were setting some money aside for you. I thought we would talk. You should have at least told me you were going to file.”

“And hold the team ransom? I wouldn’t do that. And what would you have done? Sign me with money you don’t have?” I said. I admit I was getting a tad impatient here, too. “We both know arbitration could kill your budget. If I waited to see how much money you had left it might have been too late. If my window closes, I get nothing.”

“I understand,” said Fontillion. “I did expect to at least discuss a future here.”

“I appreciate that.”

“One other thing, Davey,” said Fontillion. “I’m hearing you also have some feelings about the direction of the team. That you’ve been critical.”

Thune.

“Not critical, just mindful of the impact of an historic arbitration situation. And I’m not the only one.”

“Did Max say something?”

“I wouldn’t tell you if he did,” I said. “But the truth is you’re making quite a roll of the dice. It’s a risk not everyone will be willing to take with you.”

“I’m aware of that. Is there anything else I should know?”

“No. This are just my opinions, and I keep those to myself now. That’s one thing I’ve learned playing in this town. Don’t trust the media.”

“Your wife’s a sportscaster though, right?”

“The other media.” We had a nice chuckle over that. It unstressed the situation.

“Whatever happens, you can talk to me,” said Fontillion.

“If something comes up I will,” I said.


Of course, after the trade deadline comes re-signing season and several familiar names made the rolls. Jukebox Viveros extended for 3 years with Cincinnati for $3 million per year. Happy Parikh extended for 3 years, also with the Barons, for $820,000 per year. And my old double play partner and all-around hot shot Theron Richard extended for 2 years with the Phoenix Ravens for $3.375 million per year. I learned one thing from following the lists: any extension I signed would not likely have been near what Jukebox and Theron were getting, which meant joining the ranks of free agency was the best move I could have made, despite the risk. This was no consolation, though. The stress of the rest of 2015 in Chicago was like having powder kegs strapped to our backs, with the press standing by with a torch. It did lead to a magnificent explosion at the end of the season, as most of you may remember.

Across the league my friends were having their own problems.

In a scary moment in late July Joel Kral caught a pitch in the face. At first it looked like it took his nose off. Instead it was moved to the side by about an inch. Out for a week. Joel was 8th in the league in slugging at the time. A grisly photo made the SportsReport. I called him and asked if it meant he had to give back all his modeling gigs. “I think they want to put that photo on my baseball card this year,” he said. Joel’s teammate Ross Watts got his 2,000th hit a week later, driving an outside fastball down the right field line for a double. Nobody dared throw inside to Ross Watts.

Five days after that, Benji Gillingham got his 2,000th hit, a seeing-eye bouncer up the middle. It was a great milestone for a very competitive guy and a nice something to celebrate for the team. We all went to Cobblestones. It was good, all of us there united in something, even if it was just to try to get him drunk. We succeeded.

Ten days later, Ron Hoyos, one of our eight arbitration pitchers, who was having a miserable year (5-12, 5.58 ERA), put it all together in Dallas and threw his first career no-hitter. I really felt it would be a turning point for him. Hoyos was not a bad pitcher. He had minimal run support and had struggled with changes he made to his mechanics. For him to no-hit the Marshals was a big deal. Rick Eimel’s headline the next day? Hoyos Fires Gem, No-Hits Dallas 14-0. Is It Enough for a Contract Extension? I saw it and just shook my head. It was like gas on a fire.

But Hoyos didn’t seem to listen, or care. His increased confidence led to four quality starts in a row, though he lost two of those when we couldn’t score runs for him. Two weeks later he struck out 14 Colts, including Joel Kral and Ross Watts twice each. Just to show you it really wasn’t about money, in the three weeks after Hoyos’ no-hitter the team went 14-3, rising to 60-69. Even so, we were still 17 games behind the runaway train that was the Denver Bandits.

Also in August, Moose McCammon was named Mutual League Batter of the Month. He hit a blistering .449/6/29. The 29 RBIs in a month was a Blue Sox record. Not only that, the Montreal starters had a combined August ERA of 2.88. In early September, after Patricio Fortunato threw a masterful 2-hitter, he credited Moose for his handling of pitchers all season. Suddenly, Moose’s face and vicious swing was everywhere. He was getting interviewed. The Blue Sox were held to account for their lack of vision in not signing him to an extension. I felt happy for him, but I had to wonder if his success was all him or was chemically aided. It was a dark thought; one I didn’t like popping into my head. But that was where we left ourselves all those years ago in that diner. There were guys in the league who professed to be squeaky clean only to be found dirty later. It destroyed their careers. Mike Sharp. Humberto Dunley. Reese Eldred. I didn’t want to see that happen to Moose. I wanted to call him and just ask him, if only to alleviate my nagging fears, but after years of silence between us I didn’t think that was the best way to start up a conversation. “Hi, Moose, remember me? Are you juicing?”

And I wasn’t going to let it affect what I already knew about him. He was a good guy. No question. And he had been a good friend to me. I decided I wasn’t going to treat his accomplishments like the Chicago press was treating my team, with conjecture, innuendo, and speculation. I decided to be proud of his efforts until I had a reason not to.

The team stayed hot, as if only to tell the Chicago press to go screw themselves. We started September 16-6, lifting our record to 76-76, but we lost three in a row in late September and were eliminated from playoff contention. It’s a horrible phrase to read, and I had read it far too often in my career. It didn’t matter anyway. We weren’t catching Denver, no matter how many no-hitters Ron Hoyos threw.

But the media was waiting and sent up a cloud of innuendo. What Now? Fontillion Silent on Future. Lame Duck Comanches drop to Denver 9-4. Gillingham Hitting Streak Ends at 17 Amid 7-1 Debacle. It felt like the successes of the last month were ignored. Each “article” read like an obituary. Thune was stress smoking. Fontillion was not to be seen. I was in that locker room in those last days and I saw it for myself: the guys hadn’t given up, as their silence seemed to indicate to the press. They were angry. Very angry. They had had enough. And so had I.


Next: Dave's time in Chicago ends in Chapter 68: The Big Brawl

[Pike Parker]

I'm so excited that you're back, Tib! I can't wait for the next installment!

[Tib]

The Big Brawl

I’ve said 2015 was a rollercoaster year, and it was. After slowly losing ground to a winning record for the first half of the season, on August 10th we were a distant fourth place at 47-65. Then something kicked in. Maybe it was my filing for free agency, I don’t know. It was the first thing that happened after the break that indicated changes to come. That and Hoyos’ no-hitter. I think together they became a wake-up call to the team and for sure to all the pitchers in arbitration. Suddenly, those eight guys realized they were literally being judged on their performances. There was a sense of urgency in the clubhouse, a buzz of energy that told you something was happening right in front of you. Everything had two meanings now; the meaning to the standings of a good performance and the meaning to a player’s bottom line come off-season contract talks. Help the team win and help yourself get a new contract. It was like every start was a tryout.

So it really meant something that the team fought back to get to .500. Actually, it meant a few things. It meant after all the devastating injuries we had suffered we could still compete. That meant there was talent on this team. I think when the guys looked around the clubhouse and saw everybody working, their confidence went up. Not just confidence in each other’s abilities, but confidence in them as teammates. Adversity creates tension, and sometimes it’s the kind of tension that binds teams together. “Us against the world” is very real for athletes and for us during the second half of 2015 it was very effective. Looking back, we all should have sent Fontillion a fruit basket and a thank you card for stringing us along like he did. It made us hungry, the kind of hunger born of pride and not the greed fostered by a manipulative press.

We made the press our enemy. We posted negative articles on the walls of the clubhouse. Thune and Valine took them all down, but we kept putting them up anyway. Guys gave contentious interviews, accusing the media of circling the team like buzzards. We played angry, and it worked. We went 33-14 from August 10th to September 30th. The last day of September we were 79-79. The last week of the season started with losses to KC and Oakland, both weak teams, so we were upset with ourselves. But we also felt we had made our point to the press and to anyone else who doubted us. And in the 158th game of the season, after being disrespected yet again, all hell broke loose.

The Baltimore Steamers were 85-72, enjoying a modest four-game winning streak. They were minus five-time All-Star Terry Ruddy (after his falling out with Theo Garner), but still had the likes of Roberto Estevez, Manuel Martinez, and future Hall of Famer James Wills. They were going to miss the playoffs for the first time in four years but were still a powerhouse team loved intensely by their fans. They had home field advantage, more power than we did, and more championship rings.

Oh, yeah, and they had Marcus Barrows.

When we arrived at Harborside Stadium the wind off the bay was gusty and cold. Out came the neck warmers and thermals. We all kept our jackets on during pre-game batting practice. Game time temperature was 62 degrees, but it felt colder, and the skies were threatening rain. The game didn’t start well for us and didn’t get any better. By the seventh we were down 8-0 and if we didn’t get something started it was going to be a long flight back to Chicago.

Marcus Barrows was Baltimore’s backup second baseman, a utility guy with speed. I played against him many years ago when I went to Mexico during the minor league offseason. He and I had been in the league about the same length of time; he came up two years after I made the Knights. He had always been a solid defender and base stealer and we had played against each other for years as we moved around the league. Me from KC to Chicago, him from New York to Miami to Detroit and now Baltimore. We were not friends, but we knew each other.

The other thing about Barrows was that he was kind of a showboat. He was known to do things on and off the field that got him noticed. He’d argue calls and jaw with opponents. He sold advertising space on his bat. He would create scenes in nightclubs and restaurants. He would write incendiary messages on his Semaphore account. He was the kind of guy whose apologies sounded more like, “Sorry you’re not as cool as me.” The Chicago press would have loved him. They would have called him a “sparkplug”. Anyway, that’s my take on Marcus Barrows. If he has a problem with it, he can write his own book.

As I said, we were down 8-0 in the seventh. It’s cold and clammy and the wind sweeping over the outfield stands has icy razors in it. I’m trying to stay focused as I raise my neck warmer up over my nose and stamp my feet to feel my toes. Barrows was on first after a five-pitch walk from Shawn Byerly, who had already thrown thirty pitches in relief. Fred Pyle entered the game. Fred was young, 24 years old, and was just as interested in making a good impression on Fontillion as any of the arbitration guys. After all, he was competing with all of them for a roster spot next year, too. So when Barrows started dancing off first, Pyle noticed and threw over a couple of times. I remember thinking, It’s 8-0, Fred. Just pitch. But I understood that Pyle still wanted to impress. Besides, no one steals a base in the seventh inning of a game they’re winning 8-0, right?

Wrong.

Pyle raises his leg and off goes Barrows. Pyle’s pitch is low and Boogles has to rush the throw. I dash over to take the throw and it’s offline. I move in front of the bag and reach for the ball as Barrows gets there. He slides feet first. I sweep the tag and miss, but Barrows doesn’t. He goes in toes up and his spikes rake my left shin. He hits the bag with his heel as I curl away and hit the ground.

Instant pain. I pop to my feet and look at my shin. I can see the blood starting to trickle through the Thermax cotton. He got me pretty good, not good enough to knock me out, but pretty good. I swear and ask for time. The trainers start running out to me, first aid cases bobbing in their hands. Not a word from Barrows, who is repositioning his helmet on his head and giving a thumbs up to his bench.

“What the ****, Marcus?” I said.

“What the ****, Dave?” he responded.

As the trainers are rolling up my pantleg and getting out the Aloecream I find myself taking a step toward Barrows. “Eight nothing and your running?” I said. “What kind of bull**** is that?”

“It’s called baseball, Driscoll. Deal with it.”

Fred Pyle reached me and asked if I was alright. Nieves, who was playing second, came over to look. Then he called Barrows a prick. “**** you, meat,” said Barrows. “No one cares what you think.”

After I answer about a hundred questions, the trainers are convinced I can continue and leave the field. I go back to short. Fred Pyle takes his time heading back to the mound and gives Barrows a nice long stare before taking the rubber to face James Wills. Then what happened really began.

I keep an eye on Barrows because he’s fast and if he stole second in an 8-0 game, he’d steal third. He’s dancing and I’m watching him. Pyle’s first pitch to Wills is off the plate. Barrows takes his lead. His right hand dangles near his right knee and I see the fingers are arranged like an “okay” sign. Are you serious? I think.

The pitch is a slider for a called strike on the outside corner. Barrows goes back to second and I watch him watch Boogles throw down the sign. Slider outside. Barrows takes his lead and there’s the okay sign again. This time I say something. “Knock it off, Barrows.”

“**** you, Driscoll.”

“Knock it the **** off,” I say a little louder. Pyle hears me, looks over, but turns back and fires. Slider outside for ball two. I take a walk over to second and stand about a foot from Barrows. “You peeking?” I say. “Are you ****ing peeking at my catcher in an eight-run game?”

“Get the **** off me, man” he said. “I don’t know what the **** you’re talking about.”

“Don’t do it again,” I say before returning to my spot. Boogles put the sign down. Fastball away. Barrows takes his lead and his pinky is the only finger I can see. ****. Pyle checks Barrows and I can see he’s looking at his hands. After a few seconds Pyle steps off, earning boos from the crowd. Wills steps out and adjusts his elbow guard, then steps back in. Pyle takes the rubber and comes set as Barrows walks off the bag and does it again. Pyle sees it. He turns and fires. It was a fastball alright, but it wasn’t away. It was right at Wills' chin. James Wills spins and hits the deck. Boos erupt from the stands and the Steamer dugout is livid. Wills silently gets up, brushes himself off, and with a face like a statue, steps back in. At this point I will say that never during all of this did I see James Wills so much as glance at Marcus Barrows and his dancing fingers.

Dan Davies, the home plate umpire, issues a warning to Pyle, who puts up a token argument. Now our bench is getting into it, calling back to the Baltimore dugout. I hear our outfielders chiming in and the Baltimore bullpen respond. Things were getting a little tense at Harborside Stadium. I take another walk to second. “Knock it the **** off, Barrows,” I say.

“Or what?” says Marcus Barrows.

“Or when this is over I’ll take your ****ing head off,” I say.

Barrows just laughs at me. “Whenever you want to try,” he says. He’s still staring at Boogles, by the way. Ike Brogovich, the second base umpire, takes a couple steps toward us. “Let’s play ball, gentlemen,” he says. Polite, but a clear warning.

“Driscoll’s being a dick, Ike,” says Barrows, taking his lead, staring at the plate.

“Takes one to know one, Barrows,” says Brogovich.

Pyle takes his stretch and Barrows, smiling now because he knows he’s under our skin, does it again. Pyle looks and sees it and does not hesitate. He turns and fires a fastball that hits James Wills on the back of his left hip and bounces almost all the way to the Baltimore dugout. Wills drops his bat and heads toward Pyle. Boogles races to intercept, tossing his mask and glove away. The Steamers erupt out of their dugout and the Comanches do the same. The bullpen gates swing wide on both sides of the stadium and twenty more guys race for the mound. I turn immediately to look for Barrows and see him running for Pyle. I drop my glove and pursue.

We all converge at the mound. Fists start flying as Wills reaches Pyle. Pyle gets slammed off the mound and takes Wills with him. Boogles grabs at them both as the Steamer bench gets there. Somebody from Baltimore pulls Boogles away by the straps of his chest protector. Barrows gets to Pyle and throws a couple of punches before I arrive. I grab Barrows at the waist from behind and pull him off Pyle as we both go rolling onto the infield grass. We become enveloped by legs and spikes from both teams as the brawl starts.

I get to my knees and Barrows is swinging at me. I swing back, wild punches that have no place in any book about fighting. After this exchange the swarm gets to us and I get stepped on. I roll away and reach my feet, looking for Barrows. I see him dodge his way out of the mob and I follow. We meet between the mound and third base and there was no one there to stop us. I think he wanted to wrestle, but I had other plans. As I closed with him, I threw a punch as he dropped to tackle me. I caught him pretty good on the left ear, then we were down again. We wrapped each other up, tore at our jerseys, and looked for openings to strike. He had some and I had some. After what seemed like an hour, somebody pulled us apart. We yelled obscenities at each other as our teammates dragged us away. Suddenly, I was staring at the Chicago script on the jersey of John Harris, our big backup catcher. I couldn’t see around him. “Easy, Sugar Ray,” he said. “It’s over. It’s over. You good? You got some blood.”

“Where is that mother****er?” I said, still amped up and looking around him to the Baltimore dugout for Barrows.

“It’s over, man,” said Harris. “Ease up now. Get a towel for that.”

I got my wits about me finally and straightened my jersey. It was missing three buttons and the bio-sensor pads were all screwed up. I felt for the pain in my forehead and came away with bloody fingers. I looked around and saw some pushing and shoving, but it was for show. It was over. The umpires were still separating the last combatants as the cheers of the crowd filled the stadium. Marcus Barrows was nowhere to be seen. Eventually, the game continued, but with twelve fewer players. It was the most ejections ever in a CBA game (one of which was mine) and the most since the Admirals and Monarchs had fourteen in the ABA in 1962. Frank Bartel, one of our starters, wound up playing right field.

The brawl was also one of the longest in recent years, over three minutes. The injuries were significant. There were two broken fingers, twenty-seven sutures (four of which were mine), a broken occipital bone, two lost teeth and four concussions (one of which was mine).

The fines and suspensions were also significant. Eight games and $100,000 for Pyle and Wills. Four games and $40,000 each for me and Barrows. Three games and $20,000 for Boogles and Octavio Fino, the player that pulled him away by his protector straps. Two games and $10,000 for everybody else. And with only one game left in the regular season, all of us were serving at least one game’s suspension to start next year. Union appeals reduced everything, of course, but I still had to serve two games suspension to begin next year. Not the best way to start with a new team. I did get a nice forehead scar out of the deal. Rick Eimel’s headline? CHI-BAL in Historic Brawl as Comanche Contract Frustrations Boil Over. I wasn’t going to miss the Chicago press. As far as I’m concerned, you can replace Contract with Media and get a closer idea of what really sparked the whole thing.

So my last game as a Comanche was spent on the bench, suspended, enduring a 5-1 loss to the Steamers. I was out anyway for concussion protocol, so it was fitting, I guess, that this frustrating season (and with it my career in Chicago) ended in one big headache. As I signed autographs under the parking lot lights after the game, a fan thanked me for my time with the team and asked if I was officially a free agent now.

“I suppose so,” I said. He asked who I wanted to play for next season. “Not sure,” I said. “Whoever needs a shortstop.”

“Well,” he said. “We need one.”



Next up: Dave experiences the cutthroat process of free agency and chooses a new team.

[Palaaemon]

Great couple of episodes Tib! Sorry that I did not comment on the last one until now, after I read it things got really hectic.

It figures that the damned media would stir things up and cause problems in the organization. They have been doing that all along in Chicago causing infighting, doubt and trust issues each year among many other problems. I'm not saying that the media is the root cause of the Comancheros problems (they bring plenty down on themselves).

I am glad to see Dave stick up for himself and decide to become a free agent. The writing was on the wall. He had done all he could do here. Between the Chicago media and the organizations inability to get out of it's own way and get everyone on the right track together, there was little likely hood of a Comanchero championship before he retired even if he did stay.

It's really interesting that with all these players being professionals, that for how many years they have succumbed to the medias influence and allowed themselves as a team to be affected so badly by management and the owner (and I am sure that some came in from other organizations via trade, free agency etc being great teammates, having great work ethics etc only to have this suddenly happen to them once they arrived). It seemed to take several factors combining together (them against the world, playing for a contract, perhaps finally some professional pride as well as confidence in on another as teammates that had been missing for some time). I can just hear Davey say "NOW you guys play hard?!? NOW you guys play together?!?
At the very end. When I am near to being a free agent? Why couldn't we have played this way all along"? Then comes back to reality and remembers all the reasons why things were the way they were before and what happened to change things to now. Davey then just does what Davey does and perseveres and continues on his journey.

Thanks again for the incredible story that you have brought to our community Tibs! You are truly a treasure. I only say this because you deserve it. This entire story is more than just just an OOTP dynasty posting. Much Much more! This is a very well written story about a guy that travels through lifes journey growing and dealing with everything that is thrown at him. Baseball becomes a part of that journey, but only a part. I could go into great detail about what this story is all about but you already know about it, so do the people that have read it, and if people have not read it yet they NEED to!

Have a Great morning!

Palaaemon

[Tib]

Hello again, P! Thanks for the kind comments and your take on things is right on. One of the challenges of writing a story like this is finding "thematic insurance" for the uncontrollable events the game gives me. Whatever happens on the field, I have to come up with some type of plausible explanation for it. Throughout Short Hop I have devised several different possible storylines as ways to explain any unexpected thing that happens.

In the case of Dave's experience in Chicago, I decided to develop different sources of tension and conflict to explain the team's mercurial play. One of those things was the Chicago media, or more specifically, the press. Creating this kind of adversary helped explain the team's intersquad tensions as well as their dismaying decline in the latter months of the season. And when Pyle hit Wills (exactly as it happened in-game), it was the perfect opportunity to get the foreshadowed "fight with Marcus Barrows" out of the way and create a crescendo to a frustrating (but in many ways successful) season and bring Dave's career there to an explosive conclusion.

In many ways, this last Chicago team was actually pretty good, but like most Comanche teams of recent years, they just couldn't get it together until it was too late. And isn't that baseball sometimes?

A couple of other notes: Chicago really did have eight guys in arbitration. I'd never seen that before so I had to make a storyline out of it. I used it to explain the financial tensions that led Dave to choosing free agency. And Dave really did have only 14 errors - a remarkable season - but for some reason the game did not award him with the Defensive Ace. Well, I have no control over that. If I did, Dave would have won at least three by now. And the successes of Joel Kral, Von Jones, Flash Viveros, Jukebox and Moose were all game-created, just as the struggles of Bobby Nitta, Yoogie and J.R. were game-created.

Anyway, thanks for the comments. You might be the only person who stills reads this thing. And as Dave immerses himself in the weird world of free agency, here's Chapter 69, which sets the stage for a very interesting conversation....

[Tib]

Mercenary Mentality

The Denver Bandits were strong, winning 97 games and finishing 13 games ahead of second place Cleveland. Jim Middleton, Alex Alvarado, and Bobby Matthew led them at the plate and the tandem of Alandro Licon and Ferdinand Prados (the Golden Arm Award winner) each won 19 games. They were the favorites in the United League, but no one told the New York Admirals. Edging out Baltimore for the UL Wild Card, the Admirals eliminated Washington in three straight and shocked everyone by taking Denver in five games to advance to the Championship. Leading them was star shortstop and my former teammate Sean Pangle, who hit .330 with over 200 hits, the third time he’d done that in his career. Sean Pangle, who filed for free agency six days after I did. So, the Admirals knew they were losing their long-time shortstop, and Pangle knew it, too, and his performance during that playoff was only going to increase his asking price.

Pangle’s inspired post-season aside (and Norman Lacefield’s .394 average), the outstanding performances and great stories in the CBA in 2015 were in the Mutual League, starting with Steve McCammon winning the batting title.

Moose won the ML batting crown by hitting .337/28/106 in 144 games. And that vicious swing he had all those years ago in Hinesville, well, he refined it, shortened it, and learned to see pitches better. He didn’t just drive the barrel at the ball, he swung through it. Now he was a batting champion.

He also led Montreal’s pitching staff to a league low and franchise record 3.13 team ERA, a tremendous performance that was the result of a lot of things coming together all at once. Moose had always been good with pitchers, showing confidence in his guys all the time and cracking the whip when necessary. Moose was a realist when it came to pitchers, and he never tiptoed around their feelings, but he was also their biggest proponent because he could see potential, even in a bad performance, which is the hallmark of all the great rotation managers in baseball history. Faraday, McCall, Morenz, Boganefsky. They all had it. Now Moose was in their elite company. The entire Blue Sox pitching staff took out a full-page ad in the Montreal Globe-News thanking him for making their historic accomplishment possible. Licon and Prados both won 19 games, but Patricio Fortunato and Rick Minshew both won 16. Salvie Cruz saved 37. And they all gave credit to Moose. And he did it all under the cloud of arbitration. If Montreal wanted to keep him, they were going to have to pay. I wanted to call him, congratulate him, but I didn’t.

Elsewhere in the ML, it was a season of runaways. San Diego, the team no one wanted to play for three years ago (including me), won 101 games and took the Western Division by 27 games. Three other teams in the West lost over 90 games. San Diego had no player earning more than $7 million.

And winning the division by 27 games should be some kind of record, right? In a normal season it would have been, but in 2015? Nope. The Chicago Chiefs, lit by the blazing sun that was Suturu Teikase (24-5), won 118 games and took the Central by 36 games over second place Houston. 36 games. It’s still the record, of course, and is not likely to be eclipsed for decades. So, too, was Teikase’s 1.00 ERA. Can you imagine? 1.00. The lowest season ERA in the history of baseball and that includes the ABA and the CBA and any league that formed after 1856 that didn’t play in a pasture, use flour for baselines, and suspend play after the fifth inning to have a picnic. My only question is: how the hell did Teikase lose five decisions?

After Moose’s Blue Sox eliminated the Vipers, a victory that had bookmakers pulling their hair out, they lost to the Chiefs in five games. In the Championship, Pangle’s Admirals were no match for Teikase and his Chiefs and they fell to Chicago in five. It was bedlam in Chicago for a few days, and I celebrated as well, because at least a Chicago team was champion. Gwen worked the victory parade and I took the kids downtown and cheered from the curb.

And as soon as Bernardo Ayon’s fly ball was snagged on the run by Chad Kraft for the final out, Money Season had officially begun. Money Season doesn’t start right away, though. A few things have to happen first. In the two weeks after the last out, postseason awards are announced, arbitration and free agent lists are verified, and everyone gets a call from their agent.

As for awards, Benji Gillingham won Defensive Ace for right field for the second time, a well-earned accolade. The UL Defensive Ace for shortstop went to Washington’s Steve Sarachaga, an outstanding glove who had an incredible 633 chances that year. I finished third in the voting and I was happy to get the votes I got. Personally, it was the best defensive year of my career, only 14 errors. Over the last 25 years in the UL only one other shortstop had fewer than 15 errors in 550+ chances. You may have heard of him: Horatio Munoz.

As for free agent lists, players believe declaring early gets you a small advantage because teams see it and start calculating an offer. Basically, you can be in their plans a little sooner than the guys who wait. Guys who wait to declare are usually feeling out the team for a possible post-season contract extension. It’s a reflection of the player/team trust that might still be there. It’s a small gamble, but sometimes worth it. Regardless, in the two weeks after the season was over, 165 players signed extensions and 81 filed.

One of those late filers was Joel Kral. When I called him, he said talks with the Colts had chilled over the last two months of the season, and he wasn’t sure why. He said his agent told him it was because he just turned 32 and would probably be worth about $8 million a year. He also said Los Angeles was nice, but he wouldn’t mind going someplace else. He said he felt the pressure this time a little more because he and Kaleigh were expecting their first child in February. I asked him where he wanted to go and he said he wasn’t much for big cities but didn’t care as long as he felt he could make a contribution.

“Thirty-two homers a year is quite a big contribution,” I said.

“And I’ve stayed healthy, which should help,” he said, then added, “I talked to Von last week and he said he talked to Cleveland about both of us.”

“They got Valera,” I said. “They don’t need me.”

“Yeah, and they got Tobin in left, too. And he’s younger than me,” said Joel. “I think Von just sees us both as signable. It was kind of big for him to go out and say so.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t usually do that kind of thing. Maybe he wants to get the Squires back together again.”

“That would be great,” said Joel.

“I’ve almost forgot what it feels like,” I said.

“What?”

“I don’t know. To chase something great? To be part of something special? Chicago came with an expectation. It was so professional, so businesslike here. Guys were pros here, and that’s fine, but the passion, the love of it all… it got snuffed sometimes by a predatory media and the weight of all the history. I mean, this town still thinks each team is the ’32 team.”

“I know what you mean. I still sometimes think about the KC days.”

“Me too.”

“Did you know KC still has Squires t-shirts in their e-store, in the retro section? And the Squires baseball card from that year, the one with all of us on it, is worth eleven dollars?”

“A whole eleven dollars?” I said sarcastically.

“Hey, that’s a lot,” said Joel. “I have nine of them.”

“Well save one for me then.”

“I already am,” he said. Good ol’ Rhino.

After the call I ordered a Comanches onesie for the baby and a card addressed: “To Baby Kral from Uncle Dave and Auntie Gwen.”

I also called Bobby Nitta, who went down with a bad elbow at the end of the season. He was doing okay, he said, but the team is pushing for surgery. He’d had arm injuries before, but this one scared him. “I’m not so young anymore, Davey. And it’s not just about getting hurt. Hurt gets repaired. It’s about getting damaged.” I told him I knew exactly what he meant. “About free agency, get the most you can get, because you never know,” he added.

“I will,” I said.

Then it hit me: the truth about free agency -- the real truth. So much uncertainty. So many unknowns. The successes of the past do not guarantee anything. I was about to negotiate the terms and conditions of the rest of my career with people I didn’t really know, people who were going to try to get the best of me in talks and the best out of me on the field. And they didn’t know what was going to happen either. It was best case scenario vs. worst case scenario sprinkled with a few million dollars’ worth of economic commitment. Which is why my “strategy team” told me what they told me during our conference call.

“You are a mercenary now,” they said. “You need to have the mercenary mentality because they are going to. You are a killer, you are in fantastic physical shape, you are a proven veteran, you do not have to rise to championship level because you are already there. They cannot expect more of you than you expect of yourself. And if they want all that they are going to have to pay for it.”

“Got it,” I said.

“They are not your friends. They are not your fans. They want what they want because they want it, like you do. Pressure pushes both ways. They have jobs to do and people to impress, too.”

“Mercenary mentality,” I said. “No problem.”

“Based on our analysis of current team economics, we believe there will be four to six teams with interest, and of those only two or three will prove to be serious. Our job is to get those teams into a bidding war for your services. We have already eliminated three teams because they didn’t have the level of commitment we wanted to see.”

“Really? What teams?”

“Doesn’t matter,” they said. “They no longer exist as realities in this situation.”

“Wouldn’t it be good to know, in case --.”

“It would not be good to know. You want to know because you’re a player and players always want to know. Focus now. Do you want to waste time talking to teams that will low-ball you?”

“I guess not.”

“You don’t guess not. The correct answer is ‘****, no.’”

“**** no.”

“There you go. If it keeps you up at night, after all this is over we’ll tell you, but not while there’s money to be made and years of service to negotiate.”

“Fair enough. So what happens now?”

“We discuss offers. Want to know what’s on the table right now?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Keep in mind these are first offers and first offers are like the first waffle: they are ugly and no one wants them. They do not represent any kind of reasonable payment for your services. Our job is to bring these teams into reality, to make them cook you a good waffle, a waffle so big it will feed your entire family for four years. The counteroffer is an art in itself and we are artists. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Okay. San Francisco Gulls: 3 years, $2.9 million per, no signing bonus, no player option. Pittsburgh Cannons: 2 years, $3 million per, $500k bonus with a team option. Miami Gators: 4 years, $2.5 million per, $750k bonus with a team option.”

There was a pause. “Is that it?”

“Not remotely. New York Scouts: 2 years, $2.75 million per, no bonus, but a membership at Glen Lakes Country Club and a new Cadillac Grand Estate performance SUV, no option. Lastly, the Detroit Monarchs: 3 years, $3.2 million, $800k bonus and an 1,800 square foot penthouse apartment in Robert Melton’s own building, no option.”

“Each of these is less than I’m making right now,” I said.

“Which is why we have sent each of these teams a bag of dog ****.”

There was another pause. “You didn’t really --.”

“Of course not, Dave,” they said. “We are professionals here. We sent them gift-wrapped.”

“You’re not serious,” I said. “Are you serious?”

“No, we are not serious. Are you ready for the real offers?”

“After those, I very much am.”

“Okay. Philadelphia Rebels: 2 years, $3.7 million per, $500k bonus, player option. St. Louis Tornadoes: 3 years, $3.8 million per, $600k bonus, team option. Baltimore Steamers: 4 years, $3.7 million per, $1 million bonus, team option. New York Admirals: 4 years, $4.1 million per, $1 million bonus with player option.”

“I like those better.”

“We thought you might. Of these we consider Baltimore and New York the closest to reality.”

“New York Scouts or New York Admirals?”

“Admirals, Dave. The Scouts offered you a car and a country club membership. What kind of flea market **** is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s like they invited you to dinner and heated up some leftovers for you. Would that make you feel special?”

“I guess not.”

“Not guess not….”

“**** no,” I said.

“There you go,” they said. “It really comes down to New York and Baltimore here, though we could probably get St. Louis to get serious. Any thoughts?”

“What would you consider ‘getting serious’?”

“We believe this market will bear either an additional year’s commitment with player option, or an increase of between $250-450k yearly salary. At your level of service, you should have been offered a player option automatically. That fact you weren’t means they are straight up dicking with you.”

“So when do we respond?”

“We have already responded,” they said. “Like we told you, the first waffle is always **** and we don’t want it. Only New York offered you a real raise, and even that was ****.”

“How long will we have to wait for them to counteroffer?”

“If you have four poles with fish thrashing on each one, how long would it take you to set each hook?”

“I’m not a fisherman…”

“A while, Dave. It’ll take a while, a few days, maybe longer for Baltimore. Theo Garner’s unpredictable.”

Holy ****. It hit me. How could I have forgotten? Theo Garner was the GM for the Steamers. He pissed off Terry Ruddy. He created Baltimore’s hole at short. And now he wants me to replace Terry Ruddy? “Not Baltimore,” I heard myself say.

“You don’t like Baltimore? It’s a good baseball town. It’s not a bad offer.”

“I can’t play for Theo Garner,” I said. “I won’t play for that guy.”

There was another pause. “That was over ten years ago.”

“We’re not going to get along,” I replied. “He and I locked horns while I was in Hinesville, more than once. I don’t like him.”

“Mercenary mentality, Dave. Focus. If you make this personal…”

“It’s not personal. I don’t agree with his…managerial…everything.”

“He’s not the manager, he’s the GM,” they said. “Tim Stokes is the manager, and he’s good. A player’s manager. You’re not going to be on the field with Theo Garner. You probably won’t even see him.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Look, Baltimore and New York both lost shortstops. Pangle is a free agent and Ruddy is gone.”

“Ruddy finally had enough of Theo Garner, that’s what happened.”

“So what? There’s a spot on two good teams, contending teams. You should at least consider Baltimore. Theo Garner being there does not magically erase this offer. In fact, Garner made this offer. This is his offer. You may not like him, but he must see something in you worth making this offer.”

“If he saw something in me, he wouldn’t have traded me to Little Rock.”

“Ancient history, Dave. You’ve had an entire career since then, a good career which started in KC, who had no good shortstops when you went there. Atlanta was impacted with infielders. Theo did you a favor.”

I was incredulous. “Theo did me a favor? I thought you guys were supposed to be on my side.”

“We are on your side, but if you want to take up golf and drive a Cadillac for a million less per year than you’re worth, we’ll tell the Scouts you’re in.”

I didn’t like hearing it, but right is right. “I’ll take some time and think about it.”

“Good. Talk to Gwen. See what she thinks.”

“Why does everybody tell me that?”

“Because she’s smarter than you.”

“Okay, just for that you’re not getting a commission.”

And so it began. Through Thanksgiving and into December talks with the four most serious teams continued. Eventually, as predicted, Philly and St. Louis were unable to meet even halfway. My team countered with 4 years at $4.5 million, and they ran. There were less accomplished shortstops out there for half the price. That left only the Steamers and Admirals, who did not flinch in this game of chicken. Neither would agree to four years and a player option. Three yes, not four. I would be 35 and have control over my fate until the age of 36. Uncommon for a shortstop who didn’t have 300 home runs. And $4.5 million per year was not their reality, no matter how hard my team pushed. Four million maybe, but not more. So my team countered again: 4 years, $4 million per, $1 million bonus with a player option. Both teams agreed to 4 years but would not commit to a player option. No formal offer came. We waited, then everybody took a break for Christmas.

I spoke to Gwen. She agreed that Theo could be a distraction and that he might just trade me if he got in hot water over signing me or something better came along, like he did when Lino Lopez was the hot shortstop in the Atlanta organization. She didn’t trust him either. By Christmas, I was all but decided.

Through January the Admirals had the inside track. They offered more money, and they weren’t run by Theo Garner. Plus, I liked New York. It was a world unto itself, and after Chicago big cities didn’t scare me. I grew up going into LA for Legends games, after all. I was used to cities. Getting a job for Gwen was no issue in a city that big and relocating the kids before kindergarten was also going to be fine. And for the money I’d be earning, we could live almost anywhere. I felt some pangs of nervousness at the end of January at not being employed, but my negotiation team told me things were fine, even progressing. It wasn’t unusual for signings to happen even a few days shy of reporting for spring training.

Apparently, the newest hang up was over the terms of my initial physical and my future “physical performance requirements”. Both Baltimore and New York wanted some assurance that I was in good enough shape to play an average of 130 games per season. It was clear to me that this was an age-based concern. I was 31, soon to turn 32. My team told them both to buy some insurance because I had averaged 130 games a year for ten years and I wasn’t going to agree to any “periodic physical evaluations”. Both teams dropped the issue, but no offer came. And it was not lost on me that there was still a half-dozen shortstops still on the market, including Sean Pangle. It really was a waiting game, and I hate waiting.

Then, on February 5th, Joel Kral signed a 3-year, $19 million contract with the Chicago Comanches. Apparently, Fontillion wasn’t too worried about arbitration costs. This was a bit of a shock because Chicago already had Benji Gillingham and Juan Devera, who weren’t cheap, either. And they had Lampman waiting for his shot. Adding Joel was going to make the Comanche outfield a real power in the UL – and one of the most expensive. I called Joel as soon as I heard. “Congratulations and watch your back,” I told him.

“Thanks, and I will,” he said. He knew all about the Chicago media from my conversations with him over the last few years, but he didn’t need me telling him; Chicago’s reputation was well-known around the league. But, strangely, I wasn’t worried. Joel didn’t get phased by things like media pressure and incendiary questions. If anyone could diffuse the Chicago press, it was Joel Kral. His unpresumptuous honesty made him immune to ulterior motives.

“Why Chicago?” I asked.

“They offered more than Boston and it’s closer to my farm,” he said.

I had to chuckle. “Leave it to Joel Kral to sign a nineteen-million-dollar deal just to be near his corn.”

“Soybeans and corn, actually. And some cows. And chickens. But that’s not why. I want to be able to visit Kaleigh and the baby on off days.”

“That makes sense.”

“What’s happening with you?”

“Still waiting for more offers. Ball’s in their court.”

“I heard New York and Baltimore.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll do great in either place. Are you worried about Pangle?”

“A little, maybe, but he’s far more expensive. Not everybody can afford him. Big markets only.”

“If he goes first it might up your value.”

“I may not be able to wait that long,” I said. “Pangle’s not married. I have a house to find and a family to move. And it’s February already.”

“The Lord will watch over you,” said Joel. “It’ll work out. Good luck, Davey.”

“Thanks.”

Joel Kral was a fortune teller. Five days after signing Joel, the Comanches signed Sean Pangle to a four-year $32 million contract. Arbitration costs, my ass, Fontillion. This was a huge move for a few reasons. For one, it proved Fontillion wasn’t being completely honest about how much money the team had. Either that or Old Man Bassone decided to release a flock of thousand-dollar bills into the front office. That’s $51 million spent in five days, for those of you scoring at home. Okay, Chicago had been winning at arbitration with their eight pitchers, but they hadn’t been $51 million winning. It meant Fontillion must have squirreled away millions over the last couple of seasons. On the surface it meant Chicago was building a dangerous lineup to go after Cleveland and Denver, but this just confirmed I made the right decision. This was the same money first, chemistry later strategy Chicago always used. Joel was a quality person and player, but Chicago had fallen back into their own trap. Now they didn’t have a lot of leftover cash, and they still needed pitching. Sound familiar?

The impact of the Pangle signing sent ripples through the league. I even got a little buzz on the SportsReport. The next morning while eating breakfast, I got a call from my negotiation team. “We have received a counteroffer and a request,” they said.

I put down my fork. “I’m all ears.”

“New York is in for four years, $4.1 million per, no physical performance evals, and a player option.”

“Player option is good.”

“Player option is very good.”

“Let’s do it then.”

There was a pause. “There’s one other thing,” they said. “Theo Garner wants to speak with you on Facephone.”

“No. Absolutely not,” I said.

“Dave, this is rare. GMs don’t just call and speak to players. That’s assistant GM stuff. We know you two have a history, but this could be good for you.”

“Dealing with Theo Garner has never been good for me.”

“We might be able to leverage the Admirals into a better offer. GMs don’t make personal contact like this. New York will worry. They might sweeten the deal. Remember, Dave, mercenary mentality.”

It felt in that moment like my professional future balanced on my next decision. Well, I told myself, if I’m going to do this, then I’m going to goddamn do it.

“Put him on,” I said.

[mirrf]

Originally Posted by Tib

Anyway, thanks for the comments. You might be the only person who stills reads this thing. And as Dave immerses himself in the weird world of free agency, here's Chapter 69, which sets the stage for a very interesting conversation....

I do still read the thing! As always, it's excellent.

[Tib]

Thanks, mirrf! I stand corrected. Two people.

[Palaaemon]

Tibs,

It appears our boy is popular. It also seems that many teams are willing to settle taking Wilma Couter out for a date rather than Gisselle Tiegs because of the cost involved. (Absolutely no offense meant to anyone named Wilma Couter)! He certainly deserves what he is worth. He has proven time and time again his baseball talents and intangibles as well as his willingness to play through pain. He is, has always been and always will be a team player as well as a leader. That is worth something. His defense is superb even if he does not get the accolades that he should. Sure he is not a power hitter, he profiles as a contact, line drive hitter.

I loved his agent's special team working with him, coaching him, almost like getting him ready for a fight. Getting his mind right, trying to make him bloodthirsty.

You keep alluding to Moose and Davey wanting to call him for various reasons. At some point he is going to have deal with the elephant in the room and just talk to him. Even if he doesn't bring up the juice. It's possible that he is not on that stuff any longer, but I doubt it. If he is having the kind of success he is and has not been caught, he is going to continue on it until something gives. Like he gets caught, a major health scare like a heart attack or other issue, perhaps he ends up getting caught up into other drugs as a result of his success and his fame and heads down the wrong path. I just see some dark things ahead for him if he continues with steroids.

There are some things I would like to say about the upcoming chapter about the conversation between Davey and Theo Garner but I will hold off until after it comes out. I don't want to screw anything up if I am right about what's going to happen. Then again I probably have no clue what the hell I am talking about. LoL.

Going to patiently wait for the next chapter.

Have a Great Morning!

Palaaemon

[Tib]

Decision

I was not naïve. I knew it had been more than a decade since I last spoke to Theo Garner. I know things change and sometimes people change. I didn’t know if Theo would be the same Theo he was when I was 18 years old, but I did know one thing: it had been a long time since I was 18 years old. I also had no illusions about this call. I was in it to gain leverage, either against Baltimore or New York. This was an exchange of information, that was all – an exchange meant to bring me more dollars and a player option. I wasn’t expecting any apologies.

The voice of my negotiating team spokesman said, “Okay, you’re connected,” and beeped out of the call. The screen was blank for a moment, then Theo’s giant face appeared about four inches too close to the camera. Twelve years older, but still the razor-sharp white flattop and the snowy carpet of a goatee. Still the deep wrinkles, like grooves etched in dark wood. Still the accusatory blue eyes glaring out from under two bushy white caterpillar eyebrows. Still chewing gum and smoking a cigarette.

“Driscoll?”

“Theo,” I said.

“Well, my God, it’s good to see you. What’s it been? Ten years?”

“Twelve and change.”

“Heh. Feels like yesterday we were making it happen in Hinesville.” He smacked his gum while taking a drag on the cigarette. “I see in my notes here you’re married with two kids. That’s great. How’s married life?”

“It’s fine.”

“I was married, too, for a while, you know. Did the whole new house, new car, repaint the bedrooms, plant the herb garden. It was alright, while it lasted. I got to keep the Benz, anyway. Well, good for you. I’m happy for you. Family’s important.”

It was like listening to a bad actor read from cue cards. “What can I do for you, Theo?”

“Well you can come play for me, for one thing,” he said. “We got a spot for you just to the left of the mound. What do you think of coming to play for Baltimore?”

“I’m considering several offers at the moment, so I can’t really say.”

“Yeah, I know. New York and Philly. Philly won’t stay, trust me. We’d love to have you, and I think you’ll agree it’s a fair offer.”

I didn’t say anything. If I had it would have turned into an argument.

Theo read my mind. “Look, I’ll admit there’s some gaps in there that could be spackled up, but the team is committed to finding our next all-star shortstop and we want you to play for us.”

“All of this could have been handled by your AGM,” I said. “Why did you ask to speak to me?”

Another drag on the cigarette. “Just wanted to touch base with you. It’s been a while. Thought I’d call and make a, you know, personal effort.”

“Personal effort?”

“Yeah. Twelve years is a long time and a lot has happened for both of us. I’ve always respected your approach to the game and your ability --.”

“I’m going to cut you off there, Theo,” I interrupted. “I didn’t play for you for very long, but I know you well enough to know when your bull****ting me, so do us both a favor and tell me what’s really going on here.”

“It’s true,” he said, an edge to his voice. “I do respect your talent. I always have. I don’t bull**** about stuff like that.”

“So why the personal call?”

“Sometimes in our business it takes time to overcome the past, especially when that past includes me trading away a player I want to sign now. I want to clear up whatever’s in the way of a deal to bring you to Baltimore.”

What was in the way? How about a year of loading up a ton of expectation on a kid to see if he’ll break? How about trading a first round draft pick before he’s had five hundred at bats as a professional? How about a year of being a constant asshole to everyone around you?

“I have some reservations,” I said.

“Let’s hear them.”

“Your salary offer is the same as my current contract.”

“That’s because of the cap tax. Even with the savings from Ruddy’s contract it’s not something we can do. We have bonuses kicking in that affect our yearly budget.”

“New York does not seem to have that problem.”

“Good for them,” said Theo gruffly. “They don’t have Jeff Wills and Manuel Martinez, either.”

“What happened with Ruddy?”

Theo grimaced. “That was a private matter. It didn’t have anything to do with his contract.”

“Didn’t it?” I said. “I heard he wanted an extension and you wouldn’t give him one. He came in to argue and you dropped him to Triple A. He refused assignment, so you released him instead of working things out.”

“That’s not what happened.” A quick drag on the cig now.

“It solved your cap problem pretty nicely. Saved you millions.”

“What’s the point, Driscoll?”

“The point is I don’t want to be the next Terry Ruddy the instant you don’t like something I say or do.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Ruddy was an all-star,” I said. “Fans practically worshiped him. Look how you treated him.”

“How I treated him?” snapped Theo. “I treated him like a ballplayer, not like the second coming.”

“A ballplayer you cut loose as soon as he became a problem for you. I’m sure you can see my concern.”

“Okay,” said Theo testily, stamping out the butt of his latest cigarette. “Let’s address your concern. If it’ll help clear things up, I’ll tell you exactly what happened with Terry Ruddy.” At this Theo’s eyes darted off-camera to someone else in the room. Something muffled was said to him. “No,” he replied. Something else was said. “I don’t give a ****,” he replied. “He wants to know and I’m going to ****ing tell him. I don’t give a **** what Bill would say. I run the team.”

Theo’s ice blue eyes came back to the screen. “Terry Ruddy didn’t just want an extension, he demanded it. He expected it. I refused. I told him I wasn’t going to offer him an extension beyond his player option because he was thirty-six years old and he was hitting .242. He didn’t like that. He told me he’d been given a promise by ownership. I told him to show me in writing where it says I have to give a 36-year old shortstop who’s hitting .242 a two-year extension. He didn’t like that either. We had a disagreement about who ran the team. I said it was me. He said it was him. He gave me an ultimatum: a two-year extension or he’d hold out, refuse to play, make the ownership pressure me into giving him what he wanted. I don’t like ultimatums unless they’re mine, so I accepted his offer not to play and sent him down to Rhode Island. I don’t think he expected me to do it. Fans will hate me for it. This will get you fired. Blah, blah, blah. I did it anyway. Now it was his turn to refuse. Now he’s out of baseball. So, yeah, Driscoll, I guess you’re right. I did cut him loose as soon as he was a problem for me, but a player like that is a problem for the whole team. What do you think of your all-star now? Six months later I’m still here, talking to you on this stupid screen phone thing. Why the hell they can’t bring back flip phones I’ll never know.”

“That doesn’t change my concern,” I said.

“Well, it’s been ten years, and I don’t know what’s happened in your life, but if you’re asking for a guarantee I can tell you there are no guarantees in baseball except a no-trade clause and you’re not getting one of those. So, if you can wrangle one out of New York, go for it. Emilio Lorenzo is still available.”

Emilio Lorenzo? Is he threatening me with a 34-year old who hit .216 last year? “That’s a hell of a sales pitch,” I said.

Theo seemed not to hear. He absently lit another cigarette and stared back into the camera. “Ah, ****, Driscoll. I’m not good at any of this. Look, it’s February. Why don’t you just tell me what you want and I’ll tell you if you can have it. Then we can save ourselves a ****load of headache.”

“I want more money per year.”

“No,” replied Theo immediately. “I told you. Cap tax.”

“Then I want a player option for a fifth year.”

“No. Team option only. Franchise policy.”

“Don’t bull**** me. Baltimore’s given player options before.”

“Yeah, in the Seventies.” Theo shook his head. “Not going to happen.”

“Then I don’t see much more for us to discuss. You know, I’ll enjoy New York. They went to the Championship last season. Have fun with Emilio Lorenzo and his two bad knees.” I reached to close the call.

“Hold it, hold it,” said Theo quickly. I paused, then leaned back into my chair. He smoked for a moment. He glanced down at something on his desk, then picked up a pen and made a mark on a piece of paper.

“You want more yearly money, which I can’t give you. You want a player option, which I’m not going to give you. But you want an assurance that you won’t be treated like a dirty bed sheet. Is that about right?”

“That’s right.”

“We’re at four years at 3.7 million per, right?”

“Right.”

“And the Admirals are four years at 4.1?”

“Right.”

Theo looked down away from the camera and I saw him concentrating. He looked like he was trying to remember where he put his car keys. Then he surprised me.

“I’ll give you a fifth year with a team option,” he said, looking back up into the screen. There was immediate conversation coming from somewhere in the room. Theo looked over, listening to something I couldn’t make out, then said, “Yes I can and I am.” Something was said, it had the tone of an argument. Theo answered: “Yeah, well, it’s my decision.” Something else now. Theo again: “Bill’s not in this room and Bill can’t tell me how to run this team. And neither can you, Phil. I need a shortstop. Driscoll’s a shortstop. A damn good shortstop.” Something else was said and Theo’s eyes took on an angry light. “Who’s gone to the Championship twice since he’s been here, you or me?” Another muffled response. Theo once again: “Then go cry in a corner until you can.” He stared off screen for a moment, then turned back to me.

“Where was I?”

“Fifth year and team option.”

“Oh, right, right,” he said, getting his bearings back. “So, right now we’re 1.6 under New York’s offer, but a fifth year at 3.7 per will put you 2.1 million over New York’s offer. And it’s as close to a player option as you’re going to get from anybody. This means I’m still under my cap tax and you’re playing ball until you’re thirty-six and possibly thirty-seven. How’s that for a guarantee? Not even Pangle got that. Chicago’s making him run a ****ing obstacle course every six months to get his money.”

“That’s --, that’s a very good offer,” I admitted.

“Your welcome,” said Theo. “I told you I always liked you, Driscoll. Maybe now you’ll believe me.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“You have twenty-four hours. Then the train moves on.”

“You’ll get your answer,” I said.

“How do I end this?” said Theo, staring off camera at someone in the room. I saw the shadow of a finger and the screen went dark. I sat silently at my kitchen table for a few minutes. A thousand things ran through my mind, then I took a deep breath and called my negotiation team. “How did the call go?” they asked.

“Start the paperwork,” I said. “I’m going to Baltimore.”


Next up: Dave's new adventure starts in Chapter 71: A Thousand Things

[Tib]

So Dave has made his decision. The next (and perhaps last) part of his career will be played under the General Managership of none less than Theo Garner. What a strange turn of events.

When the game gave me the choice for Dave to become a Free Agent, I thought it was a great way to inject some suspense and provide a dramatic twist to his story. Not much had happened in Chicago anyway. I watched with nervousness as the offers came in. When I saw Baltimore's offer I almost couldn't believe it. Years earlier and for no real reason I sent Theo to Baltimore as a scout to give readers a sense of his own personal story arc.

Once a Big League manager, Theo fell out of favor and burned a few bridges in Kansas City, then finds himself banished to A ball in Georgia. He sends Dave to Little Rock to fix two problems (Dave's progress was stymied in the Atlanta organization and KC needed shortstops) and continues managing, eventually moving up to Durham for a couple of seasons. Then, for no real reason, I decided he should be given a chance to do what he did best; evaluate talent, so I had him join Baltimore as a scout, eventually working his way through the front office until he earned a shot at GMing again. I did all this for no real reason.

Then the Steamers make the championship, even winning one during Theo's tenure. Not at all a plan. It just happened in game - a coincidence. Now Dave's best offer comes from Baltimore - an offer that might just put a bookend on his career - and who's the GM? Theo Garner. Insane. How do I not take that offer? How does Dave not come full circle in his life and career by being reunited with the man who traded him away to give him a better chance at a career?

Just wierd.

So here we are, in Baltimore. A new town, a new team, new characters, and a thousand new things to explore as Dave moves into the last stages of his career.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.


Tib

[Tib]

A Thousand Things

www.SportsReport.com/baseball/free agency
February 10th, 2016
Baltimore, MD – The Baltimore Steamers announced today the signing of free agent veteran shortstop Dave Driscoll to a five-year $18.5 million contract. Driscoll, a ten-year veteran, filed for free agency this year after six years with the Chicago Comanches. Known for his slick glove and consistency, Driscoll, 31, joins a Steamer team rebounding from the loss of all-star and franchise favorite Terry Ruddy, who refused assignment to the minors and retired last July.

Steamer Assistant GM Phil Robertson said Driscoll brings experience and poise to his new team. “Dave is a solid performer and a top-notch defensive player. We look forward to seeing him in the black and orange.” Asked whether Driscoll, a career .262 hitter, could fill the offensive shoes of Terry Ruddy, Robertson said he’s not worried. “Dave has made strides at the plate the last two seasons and his glove is one of the best in the league. If anyone can fill Terry’s shoes, it’s Dave.”

Driscoll could not be immediately reached for comment, but Driscoll’s agent, Jackson Majkowski, says the fit is a great one for his client. “Dave is excited about Baltimore and the thousand positive things that will come from this new start. He wants to show what he can do, and Baltimore is the perfect situation to do it.”

Baltimore fans reacted with criticism of GM Theo Garner’s choice on the team’s website:

Steamerforever64 said: “Good glove but no power. Won’t even reach the warning track when the wind’s blowing in.”

And from SteamerNation69: “WTF? Dave Driscoll? Didn’t he just get his ass kicked by Marcus Barrows?”

And maxwood999 added: “Garner’s gonna give this guy 18 million to throw the ball to first base? He squandered away the Pangle money, now look where we are. #bringbackTerry.”

But Lloyd Beyer, known to Baseball Insider readers as The Diamond Pundit, defended the signing: “Driscoll and Garner go way back to Dricoll’s first year when Garner was doing penance managing in A ball. Driscoll was a three-time Minor League Defensive Player of the year at shortstop and his first was in Hinesville playing for Garner. Clearly Theo remembers. I wouldn’t discount this guy yet. Steamer fans won’t like me saying this, but Driscoll is a good player, and a far better defensive player than Terry Ruddy. If he can stay healthy, he’ll give Baltimore its money’s worth – all five years of it. And to all the amateur Pundits out there grousing about this signing: second guessing the instincts of Theo Garner is not always the smart thing to do. I’m looking at you, [former Steamer GM] Artie Magnussen.”

A couple of the thousand things that went through my mind after Theo’s call had to do with truth and honesty. Neither one is often kind, especially in baseball. One truth was that I still didn’t like Theo Garner very much. He was just an aggravating guy. And I knew my time in Baltimore was not going to be roses and champagne with him around. But another truth – and this I had to admit to myself – was that Theo would never leave me hanging. This was a difficult admission, because when you talk to him, you become convinced that Theo would trade you and sell your gear for gas money.

Another truth was that Fontillion did not tell his team everything. He had no obligation to, of course, and perhaps that’s what made it possible to sign Joel and Sean, but he led me on, led all of us on. He was playing the situation to his best advantage and misrepresented the severity to all who asked. As I sat at my kitchen table, the more I thought about it the angrier I became. Who told me the truth when it mattered? Suave, polished Cesar Fontillion, or pain-in-the-ass chain smoking Theo Garner? And I realized in that moment what I wanted most of all out of this was honesty. I didn’t need someone playing angles on me. I didn’t need someone hedging bets with my future. I wanted someone who was going to tell me the truth whether I liked it or not.

I’d been in baseball for thirteen years and the biggest problems I had were when someone lied to me or to themselves (and that included me lying to myself). I endured the Kellinger Shuffle, caused by a guy who didn’t know his players, which is to me a form of lying to yourself. And I just played for a guy who said the right thing but planned something different. And Chicago’s coaching staff was not blameless in this. Somebody was feeding Fontillion information that should have remained in the locker room. And that’s dishonest when a player’s trust is at stake. I realized at this stage of my career I didn’t need all that. I wanted honesty, and as much as I hated to admit it, I’d rather have honest arguments with Theo Garner than pleasant conversations with Cesar Fontillion.

People under stress will always make decisions that lessen the stress. It’s human nature to move away from pain or discomfort. People rarely move toward a situation they know will cause them stress, but they’ll do it if they believe they’re getting closer to their goal. My decision to take Baltimore’s offer was a move toward stress – moving my family, joining an unfamiliar team culture, adjusting to a new living environment, handling the pressure of replacing an excellent and popular player, dealing with Theo. But more importantly it was a move toward a goal – getting a championship – and, ultimately, the risk was worth the stress. New York was also tempting, and this was the most ironic thing: in the end, New York did not have Theo Garner.

Gwen was surprised at my decision, but when I explained to her what I just explained to you she was behind me a hundred percent. She put in for a transfer and started talking to stations in Baltimore. Within a week she was hired as a managing sports editor by WECN, her company’s Baltimore affiliate. She wanted an on-air position, but the great Frank Roza was already there, and he was still a few years from retirement. She would do weekend sports and feature stories.

I called my Mom and Dad. My mom didn’t like that we were taking her grandchildren even further away than they already were, but she was excited for my new start. She liked that I was going to a team with recent success. “Baltimore will compete,” she said knowingly. My dad questioned me gently about playing for Theo again and asked how I chose Baltimore when New York had offered me a player option. “You could have left after four years and signed with someone else,” he pointed out.

“My negotiation team said the same thing,” I said. “But it’s a hidden trap. If I take the option to leave, I’m thirty-five and looking for a job. I might gain my freedom from New York, but a player option guarantees rate of pay, and that would make me a very expensive gamble. Realistically, what am I to teams at that point? A Sunday starter with a 4.1-million-dollar price tag. I might not have found a slot anywhere at that price. Theo’s offer guaranteed me 3.7 million at the age of thirty-five. It was actually better.”

My sister Jen’s reaction was a little different. She had graduated four years earlier from UCLA with a degree in kinesiology and had gone to work for ProLabs, the athletic performance company in Sausolito, California. She saw things little differently. “Isn’t Theo Garner the guy that traded you when you were eighteen?”

“Nineteen, but yeah.”

“Well then he’s a prick and you shouldn’t be working for him.”

“It was a complicated situation. He believed he was doing what was best for my career.”

“Your career? See? Once again the elites take advantage of the worker under the pretense that they don’t know what’s right for them. ‘Oh, it’s in your best interest because I know better than you.’ That’s B.S., big brother. He did it for himself, I guarantee you.”

“He probably did.”

“He did,” she said angrily. “You should just leave.”

“I can’t leave. I signed a contract.”

“Contracts are handcuffs made out of paper. They should be illegal.”

“Do you know how capitalism works?”

“Oh., I know how capitalism works,” she retorted. “Contracts are capitalist shackles for the worker, perpetuating economic oppression.”

“Well, those shackles are oppressing me for eighteen million dollars over the next five years, so...”

“It doesn’t make it right.”

“Tell me again how you get paid?”

“I have an informal dual-party agreement that retains my employable independence while providing for the necessities of living in a capitalist society.”

“Is this dual-party agreement recorded anywhere?”

“We wrote it all down so we wouldn’t forget the terms of my independence.”

“And did you both sign it?”

“We recognized the rights of the other party and our commitment to an oppression-free workplace by affixing our names to it, yes.”

“That’s a contract, Jen.”

“I’m not talking to you anymore.”


Damon and Molly were sad to leave their friends, and we were sad to leave ours. We threw a big going away party and invited the whole block. I went to the Comanche front office to say goodbye to everyone, even Fontillion. It was fine, but I noticed something. I felt a kind of business-as-usual atmosphere. After the big signings and the arbitration victories the team was poised once again to challenge for a division title. There should have been some excitement, there should have been some buzz in the hallways. There wasn’t. It only reinforced my decision. I asked about Joel, but he wasn’t in town. He was going to Spring Training from his farm on the 28th.

I called Cliff, too. He’d heard on the news about my signing. He was happy about the money and security, and hearing that I would be able to visit more often, but not about Theo Garner. “That man is a matchstick in the woodpile,” he said.

“He’s front office now,” I said. “Not in the dugout.”

Cliff grunted. “A fire that starts in the house can still burn the entire farm,” he said. “But I am glad you’ll be able to visit more.”

“Me too,” I said.


Gwen and I had a thousand things to do. First, we found a house in Ellicott City, west of Baltimore. It was very nice, with some room around it for privacy. And yes, Gwen wanted Shepherd’s Robe again for the hallways, but this time I paid someone else to paint them. I had a thousand things to do.

We moved everything in a two-truck, two car caravan on February 20th, the same day Moose ended his contract holdout with the Blue Sox. Puzzlingly, he signed a one-year, $3.2 million deal with a player option. I thought the money was about right, but the weird terms made me think all was not right with their relationship. For what he’d accomplished, I would’ve locked him up for at least 4 years, maybe more. I was still happy for him.

On March 1st I drove Gwen into Baltimore to meet her people at the television station, then we went to lunch at CookHouse, then to the Steamers front office to meet my people. I had a sit-down meeting for an hour with Tim Stokes, a friendly, smart, guy who was not a bad player for Milwaukee twenty-five years ago, and the coaching staff. It was a good conversation, and I realized how excited I was for this new start. I gave an interview to the Baltimore press, who were fair, which I appreciated, though they mentioned Terry Ruddy about a thousand times. Theo did not appear while I was there.

Also on March 1st, the Comanches traded Benji Gillingham to Atlanta for Josh Murrieta and Bert Stanley. Wow, I thought. I guess sacrificing the best outfield in the Central Division is one way to get the pitching you need.

On March 3rd I traveled to Fort Pierce, Florida, Baltimore’s spring training home, and went to the big welcome dinner at Meadowood, one of the many golf and tennis clubs in the area. On March 4th I went to the team office at the stadium, was confirmed on the spring roster, and walked with Lowell Haran, our hitting coach, into the player’s facility with two big bags of gear. I walked past posters and framed photos of all the great Steamer players of the past: Alex Aponte, Sean Shawver, Tony Buglietti, Ryan Ross.

I took in the smell of cedar lockers, tinged with the acidity of stale sweat. The familiar humid odor of the showers hung in the air near the wide tiled entrance. But I also smelled the vanilla air freshener they pumped into the room. As I approached my locker’s open door, I saw my practice jersey suspended from a cedar hanger, the pumpkin and black of the Baltimore Steamers, the flowing script, the ship’s wheel emblem. I saw my new cap on the top shelf, stared for a moment at the stylized Baltimore “B”. No more Chicago “C”, I thought. It was a literal upgrade. I only hoped it would be the same in reality.

My gear sponsors had also sent black and orange versions of my wristbands, shoes, batting gloves, ankle guard and flip-downs. It took me a moment to get used to the colors. No more Chicago emerald. A thousand new things in my life now. A thousand changes. And then I saw that some things hadn’t changed, that some things would stay the same, and it made me smile.

“Same number okay, Davey?” asked Haran, turning the jersey around.

It was my number 4. New colors, of course, but it was my number, or what had become my number. First Kansas City, then Chicago, and now Baltimore. The fact that they thought of this made me even more satisfied with my decision. “Yeah,” I replied. “Same number’s fine. I’m not taking this from anyone, am I?”

“No,” said Haran. “It used to be Antonio Dominguez’ number, but we just released him. Now it’s all yours. And speaking of all yours,” added Haran, “dress out and I’ll show you your new office.”

As I dressed, I thought about the thousand things that had changed in my life in the last three weeks and certain thoughts began to flash in my mind, images of the unchanging, reliable things that have anchored me over the years. Gwen. The kids. Hal’s advice. Cliff’s friendship. My dad’s wisdom. My mom’s support. The support of my friends. And one other abstract image appeared in my brain.

A baseball diamond never changes. It doesn’t matter where you are in the country, Hinesville, Mexico, Japan, Kansas City, or Chicago, the familiar dimensions of a ball field are the same everywhere, like a cosmic blueprint. It was the framework upon which I based my life for so many years, the defining space of my professional career, but it was more than that. It was a home for my competitive heart, a bottomless place that could hold the deepest part of who I was and why I did what I did. And like all the other diamonds I played on in my life, Baltimore’s would be mine, too. Not forever, I knew. Only for the next five years, and if that’s all I would be given, I had to make the most of it. The 2016 season was only the beginning.

Haran appeared in a distant doorway, silhouetted by the light of the morning sun rising over the Atlantic. “You ready? We got a thousand things to do today.”

“You bet,” I said with a smile. “Let get started.”

Jogging out to short (my “new office”) as a Steamer was strange, given all the different sights and faces around me, but jogging out to short as a ballplayer felt exactly the same as it had when I ran out for my first game in Hinesville, full of excitement and expectation, except this time guys shouted my name in greeting. James Wills walked over from third and shook my hand. “Welcome to Baltimore,” he said.

Gazing around me, even though everything had changed, it felt like home. I looked to Haran standing at the plate with a fungo. Terry Gulbranson, one of our catchers, stood nearby, ready to feed him balls. Reaching down, I put a handful of dirt in my back pocket, then I crouched and pounded my glove. I saw the familiar angles again in the corners of my eyes.

No bad bounces, I said to myself.


Next up: Chapter 72: Full Steam Ahead

[Y0DA55]

I am now fully caught up. This remains my favorite thing to come back to when I check these forums. I truly love when a story such as this is made from a collection of things that happened in a game. It is so fleshed out.

I'm really looking forward to seeing how Davey's career finishes out in Baltimore. Will they have the firepower to do well in the playoffs? It seems like it's a much better situation in Baltimore than in Chicago anyway. Looking forward to whatever comes next!