SHORT HOP - My Career In Baseball by David Driscoll

[Tib]

Originally Posted by jaxmagicman

Ok. While we wait for Saturday, why don't we try to come up with who would play Dave Driscoll in a movie.

I say it would be a toss up between Josh Hartnett or Colin Ferrell. But I might be wrong. I am thinking tall and skinny. What do you guys think? Maybe sandy-blonde hair.

I'm going to stay out of this one, since I know who I'd choose. And no, it's not Charlie Sheen. Remember, though, Dave is 5'8" and about 175 dripping wet.

[Hoeksam]

First off, this is absolutely amazing... started reading it during lunch at work yesterday and just couldn't stop until I was finished... (about 2 hours later). Just incredible... can't wait for the next chapter.

Secondly, why would you have a tall actor play the part? The story says that he's pretty short... (five feet, 8 inches, if I remember right...). Aside from that, I wouldn't have a clue as to who would play him in a movie... hope that helps people out, though (if I'm right, anyways...)

[Jazzmosis]

I'd have Topher Grace (Eric from That 70's Show) play Dave. He's thin, not indredibly tall, and has the kind of mentality you'd expect from Dave.

Or: Jake Guillenhaal - not tall, the hair you'd expect, muscular like a Short stop...

[UngratefulDead]

Originally Posted by Jazzmosis

I'd have Topher Grace (Eric from That 70's Show) play Dave.

Has my vote, not somebody who would usually come up, but meets all the criteria.

[Rahhja]

"My gear bag surfed away into the shower room without even saying goodbye."

I laughed and laughed and laughed....

Great work.

[Tib]

SHORT HOP: INTERLUDE #2

A HISTORY OF THE CBA
From the American Baseball Federation to the Continental Baseball Association, 1881-2005

PART II: "Simple Democracy, Gentlemen"

Chapter One: Vincenzo Schiapelli and "Iron" Will Voss
The Forming of the Office of League Justice: 1899

America’s “can do” spirit served her well the first 100 years of her life. Men and women endured all kinds of hardships without cracking. In the East they built buildings and bridges, banks and businesses. In the West they fought floods and plagues and Indians to carve out a small place for themselves in the great expanse that was the frontier. That same fighting spirit showed itself in the early days of baseball, too.

The game back then was much rougher than we know it today. It was played by all types from all walks of life, but the early professional players were predominantly immigrants or the sons of immigrants. Most were German, Irish or Italian. They were largely uneducated, with limbs strengthened by hard work on farms or construction crews or railroad gangs. They earned what they had by strength of limb or hardness of knuckle. And they protected it the same way.

Baseball has always been a reflection of society in this way. What it takes to succeed in baseball is very often what it takes to succeed in the social or economic climate of the time. And at the turn of the century success in baseball depended on how much fight you had in you.

However, by 1899 violence in baseball was getting out of hand. Fights on the field and even in the stands were not uncommon. Umpires were known to have suffered injury from angry fans or even an angry manager. There were many events that led to the decisions made by the assembled owners in the winter of 1899, but chief among them was what came to be known as the Schiapelli Incident.

Vincenzo Schiapelli was a fiery, profane, little-liked second baseman who played for the Baltimore Steamers from 1896 to 1902. Despite his small size, or perhaps because of it, Schiapelli got into a lot of scrapes, on and off the field. Vinny Schiapelli favored fisticuffs over friendship, it was said. One day in July of 1899, during a game against the Rebels at old Thurmer Stadium in Philadelphia, Schiapelli began arguing with a patron seated above the Steamers’ dugout. The argument quickly turned ugly and Schiapelli climbed out of the visitors’ dugout with a bat and began to pummel the helpless man. The fan was hospitalized and Schiapelli was suspended by the Steamers, but cries arose from angry Rebels fans demanding justice. It quickly became apparent that the young league had no recourse in disputes of this or any kind except to each other. While there was an unwritten rule that each team tend their own troubles, the Schiapelli Incident showed why another form of authority was necessary.

During the winter meetings of 1899 the league owners voted 5-1 (with Manhattan the lone dissenter and Chicago abstaining) to create an office with the authority to settle disputes. Thus the Office of League Justice was given the authority to rule in certain cases of limited scope and to impose the judgments it deemed fair. It was also to moderate disputes between teams when no other recourse was available and offer responses to the demands of the public. But the league owners retained the power to overrule the League Justice by a majority vote. It was largely a figurehead position designed to take some of the heat off the owners when things like the Schiapelli Incident occurred.

The next task was to find a person to fill the role. The idea of appointing an owner was appealing, but could ultimately cause more criticism for being too self-serving. So it was decided that an individual with no ties to any team should hold the office. Of course, the owners were determined to choose someone they could control. But the owners did not count of the diligence of the press.

In 1899 anti-corporation sentiment was gaining force. The working class in America was growing very quickly, yet representation for the plight of these workers, many of whom could barely earn enough to feed their families, was almost non-existent. Monopolies and big conglomerates like the ones owned by J. Walker Bowen became targets for the union movement, and the press was right behind. There were two sportswriters in particular whose diligence and determination forced the ABF to drop the chosen appointee, Dr. Howard Klengler (a friend of Bowen’s). They were the New York Herald’s Leonard Crumb and the Boston Crier’s Andrew Stapleton. Crumb and Stapleton pointed out that Klengler was too close to Bowen. He sat on the board of directors of two of Bowen’s interests (though not the Atlantics) and was basically Bowen’s hand-picked man. They demanded a panel of nominees to insure “the variety of qualified candidates from which to choose would be certain to exact justice for Schiapelli’s victim, Mr. Delagrasse”.

The public was behind them and got what they wanted. In acquiescence to popular opinion, the Owners Committee recognized seven nominees. In a series of closed door interviews the owners sought to find someone who would see things their way, and there were plenty. But an unusual thing happened, and it happened because of an unusual person. Detroit Monarch owner Nicholas Freeders was a millionaire many times over, thanks to his affinity for engineering and manufacturing machines that helped people ease the strains of their everyday lives. He was a progressive thinker who successfully predicted economic and social problems before they happened. He possessed the unique ability to anticipate trends far in advance. Freeders alone realized what the owners really needed was not a puppet but a strong independent force, a person of singular character who could address the issues of the game with confidence and in whom the owners could rely to make the right decisions for the good of the game.

When he convinced the owners of this, the choice became clear: former New York City Police Chief William Voss. He was responsible for many of the police procedures in place to this day. He was an imposing figure, standing almost six and a half feet tall and weighing in excess of three hundred pounds. He was a self-educated man who rose above his modest roots to enjoy an unblemished reputation for fairness and resolve. He was universally respected among police, politicians and the public. Once he was decided he almost never changed his mind and he was rarely if ever proven wrong, hence the nickname “Iron” Will Voss.

It is said Voss’ greatest accomplishment was achieved before he ever had the job. During one of Voss’ three sessions before the owners, in the presence of a secretary who recorded the exchange, Bowen asked what, as League Justice, would be the first thing he would do about the Schiapelli Incident?
“I would do nothing,” came the reply.
The owners were dumbfounded. “Nothing? At all?” asked Bowen.
“That’s correct,” said Voss.
“Why on Earth not?”
“Because as I understand the arrangement, the League Justice may be overruled by a majority vote.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“It will never do. You cannot hire a man to safeguard the game and then overrule him whenever his decisions are undesirable.”
“The owners must have a voice of their own, of course,” huffed Bowen. “We cannot very well own the league and not have a vote!”
“But that is precisely what you must do, at least in matters concerning the integrity of the game,” said Voss calmly. “If you wish the public to take you seriously, you must be willing to be ruled by an objective third party. In this way, and only this way, will faith in baseball be restored. To rule you must be willing to be ruled.”
“That’s absurd,” said Kansas City’s Armand Robertson. “I’m not giving up my right to guide this league.”
“You would not be giving up your right to guide the league,” replied Voss. “You would be recognizing that the game is bigger than you eight men. You would be demonstrating your determination that the tenets of the game be respected above any one man or group of men. It is simple democracy, gentlemen. And it will retain the interest of the working men who expect fair play and pay you to entertain them.”

“Iron” Will Voss was announced as League Justice the next day. His first decision was to suspend Vincenzo Schiapelli for fifty-eight games, the exact number of days Mr. Delagrasse was hospitalized. Voss would make many other controversial decisions in the months and years to come. He established fines for poor behavior, public drunkenness, and the solicitation of prostitutes. He wrote the Rules of Inclusion, which established and regulated the first rookie draft in 1903. He presided over a boom in league expansion that saw four new teams join the ABF. When he retired in 1919 at the age of 71, he received a gala sendoff at the expense of the grateful owners of the ABF. Thanks to Voss’ superb sense of right and wrong baseball was molded into a game of sportsmen and athletes, of respect for the rules and the umpires.

In a final nod to the great man, the ABF asked him, at a healthy 88 years of age, to preside over the inaugural Hall of Fame induction ceremonies in 1936. The first inductee? William "Iron Will" Voss.

[BigTallAggie]

All I can say is wow. As a testament to your work, when I saw that your thread had a post today and it was by you, I hurriedly clicked to the last page to see what had been written. Thanks again for creating such a great read.

[jaxmagicman]

Ok, I didn't mean Tall as over 6 feet. But I don't see Grace as a atheltic type. I think we need an athletic type person. Topher doesn't look like he could hit the ball over second base.

[Tib]

OK, let me say something about Topher Grace. I think you guys are on the right track. Grace couldn't really play Dave because he projects a thin-limbed awkwardness that Dave doesn't have. Dave is stockier. But I think you've got the personality right. Eric Forman, Grace's character on That 70s Show, is a small town white kid from a (more or less) stable family who is basically a good guy. And his sense of humor has sarcasm and irony to it, much like Dave's. He knows a joke when he sees it, even when it's on him.

Dave's a little cooler than Eric Forman, though. Don't you think?

[jaxmagicman]

Originally Posted by Tib

OK, let me say something about Topher Grace. I think you guys are on the right track. Grace couldn't really play Dave because he projects a thin-limbed awkwardness that Dave doesn't have. Dave is stockier. But I think you've got the personality right. Eric Forman, Grace's character on <i>That 70s Show</i>, is a small town white kid from a (more or less) stable family who is basically a good guy. And his sense of humor has sarcasm and irony to it, much like Dave's. He knows a joke when he sees it, even when it's on him.

Dave's a little cooler than Eric Forman, though. Don't you think?

Yes I agree. I was thinking along the same lines. I just can't put a name with the face that I have. I am thinking someone a little less skinny. But not fat and not muscular. Just normal on the thin side, but not too skinny. Someone with the color hair of grace, but maybe not the hairstyle. Maybe a clean cut look, definetly not shaggy. Maybe a stylish cut, but I don't see him having to use moose or hair gel every day. I do see someone with a sense of humor who can laugh at himself, but is rarely the butt of the joke and is usually the one on the inside of the jokes (or knows about the joke). As for looks, I am seeing someone that the girls think is cute, but don't stop what they are doing to run over and check him out, (like they would for a Brad Pitt or Val Kilmer). Someone who, if he talked to a girl would think, "oh he is cute." And cute can be a curse for him, because of his looks he gains more girls as friends because he has a friendly look and the girls like to talk to him but they are not sexually attracted to him right away. He isn't going to have many one night stands, if any, but he has no hard time having many friends that are girls that are very attractive. And those friendships lead him into is intimate relationships.

So I am going to look around to see who I can find. I really wish you would give me a hint.

[Tib]

How about this:



Holy crap, it worked! I'm not sure what I did, but I'll try to do it again! This is a poor pic, but here's a player from a facepack I thought was close to Dave.

[jaxmagicman]

[redmachine]

Tib,

Is there a way to see minor league standings?

[Tib]

Welcome to another Saturday installment of SHORT HOP! This chapter marks 70 (8.5"x11") pages worth of the story so far. As usual, thanks to everyone for their encouraging comments. As much as I want to, I think I'll keep from posting photos of some of the characters for a while. I did that one of Dave (or a close facsimile) and now I'm thinking perhaps I shouldn't mess with everyone's mental picture of him, or anyone else. I'm enjoying all the speculation, though.

And no, redmachine, I don't think there is. The standings I give you are guesses based on team records.

Now, on to Chapter 15: Buddha, Brunettes, and Biorhythms

[Tib]

CHAPTER 15:

Buddha, Brunettes and Biorhythms

My shoes made a squishing sound when I walked. I actually left a little mud puddle out at short. My wallet was ruined. My glove weighed about two extra pounds and made the ball dangerously wet each time I caught it. I had to use Pridgen’s hair dryer to try to get it dry between innings. I had four hours of sleep after a twelve hour drive. The first girl I met, whose name I didn’t even know yet, thought I was an ass. Is it any wonder I went 0 for 4 my first game? I was actually nodding off by the seventh inning. At least everyone called me Dave.

When the game was over (we lost 6-2), I had barely enough energy to shower and change, much less talk to anyone. They came anyway. The local and college papers surrounded me in the parking lot like I just hit a game-winning 5-run homer. Here’s a re-print of the “interview” as it appeared in the Arkansan the next day. Keep in mind I was very tired.

How does it feel to be coming from a deep Atlanta organization to the Hounds?
“I’m excited to be playing in the Kansas City system. You know, my hero was Horatio Munoz. He played here. Well, not here in Little Rock. He went right to Santa Fe, but you know.”
Have you met any of the team yet?
“Yes, I’ve met some, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself to all of everyone.”
What do you think of Little Rock?
“I like it. It’s the biggest city I’ve lived in.”
But you’re from L.A.
“Yeah, but I didn’t live in the city city. I’m from Mount Rose, which is a little community just outside the L.A. area. I mean, it’s in the L.A. area. Everything’s in the L.A. area. But it’s kind of apart from there.”
You went oh for four. Are you in a slump?
“Slump? I don’t think so. It was just an off night because I was so tired from driving and everything. I was trying to play through it, like they used to do in the BBA.”
You’re known for your great defense. Do you think it makes up for your low batting average?
“I’m not hitting .350, but .263 is not what I would call low. .230, now that’s low.”
That’s what Billy McLaurin is hitting right now.
“Who’s Billy McLaurin?”
Your backup shortstop.
“Oh. I wasn’t referring to him specifically.”
You’re a small player. Why don’t you steal more bases?
“I don’t know. Probably because of my --. My, uh, leadoffs. I should take bigger --. I go when they send me.”
Have you met Coach Palmer?
“Yes, he’s a nice guy.”
Do you think he’ll fine you for that comment about Billy McLaurin?
“I --, it wasn’t about Billy McLaurin. I didn’t know he was in a slump. I mean, I’m sure he’s a good person. I’ve never met him.”
Are you single?
“So far.”
Do you have a girlfriend?
“No, but I had an argument with a pretty girl today, so that’s close.”
Good luck with the team, Dave.
“You, too. Thanks for the Dave thing.”

That stellar exchange remains my all-time favorite interview. But there was an end to this interview that didn’t appear in the paper. As I was bobbling the final questions from the sports editor of a high school paper, I heard this:
“How do you like the food here in Little Rock?”
“I haven’t had a chance to go any--.”
And there she was, the Attitude Girl in the purple bikini. She stood outside the circle of reporters. I never saw her walk up. Jeans. White top. Boots. Her hair was down. Nice. “—where. Yet.”
She smiled. I saw she was holding the ticket envelope.
The kid from the high school paper asked me something about my truck, but he was long forgotten. I walked over to her.
“I don’t know any good places to eat yet,” I said.
“I do,” she said. “Hungry?”
“Very.”
“Good. My girlfriends dropped me off, so we’re taking your truck.”
We started walking. “They didn’t want to see the game?” I said.
“You didn’t leave them tickets.”
“They weren’t as nice to me as you were.”
“Nice interview,” she said. “By the way, can I get a copy of that for my public speaking class?”
“You are sooo funny.”
She held up the ticket envelope. “And what the hell is this?”
“What?” I feigned confusion.
“I’d know it was for me, huh?”
“Well, you did, didn’t you?”
“’Sandy Britches’? Cute.”
“You wouldn’t have given me your real name, anyway.”
“You came on like a goofball.”
“I was stunned by your beauty.”
“That is such crap.”
“You’ve really got to learn how to take a compliment.”
“You’ve really got to learn how to keep your right elbow in when you swing.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes,” she said. “Really.”
I stopped in my tracks. There was something behind what she said. I looked her over again. Her ease of movement, her confidence. I remembered her handshake. She was staring at me as if to say now do you get it?
“You’re a player,” I said finally.
“Two years varsity softball.”
Well I’ll be goddamned.
“You said you hadn’t been to a ballgame.”
“No, I said I didn’t need a man to take me to one.”
“You said baseball players are dicks.”
“I meant it in a good way.”
Was my mouth hanging open?
“What’s the matter, chief?” she said with a raise of her eyebrow.
“You’re amazing.”
“And you’re a hell of a shortstop. Now can we go eat? I’ve got three friends waiting up tonight for a full report on you.”
We got in my truck. I started it up and backed halfway out of the space before hitting the brakes. I turned to her.
“What’s your name?”
“Tell you what,” she said. “You can call me Sandy and I’ll call you Dick.”
And that’s how I met my wife Gwen.

From the #2 spot I hit in 20 of 26 games for the Hounds (.282) and made all of three errors. It didn’t help. We finished dead last at 52-78, but at least we were 12-15 in August. The local press actually considered it a good month.

The big hitters for Little Rock were Darwin Storey (.365/35/85), Tony Finnie (.334/30/85) and Justin Novoa (.315/14/65, 30 SB). Beyond them there was nothing. Mark Pridgen (.197, 0HR) struggled behind Finnie and had very little playing time. I tried to cheer him up as much as I could, but he stayed depressed.

It wasn’t all gloom, though. This team was very resilient, in spite of losing so much. They kept a positive spin on things. A lot of that was due to Coach Palmer. Palmer was a thin white guy with a balding head of blond hair and these small thick glasses that made his eyes look bigger than they really were. He had this reedy, nasal voice. He sounded more like a music teacher than a baseball coach. He was a nice guy, just like everyone said. He was so nice he got walked on by some of his players. He genuinely wanted to see his players do well, but he would not tell them directly what they were doing wrong.

Palmer was not one for confrontations. He didn’t get in his players’ faces like Theo did. Instead, he had Player Development charts and Personal Growth Plans and even something called a Professional Success System. He had graphs and stats and situational reports. He had research and analysis and performance projections. Getting called into his office wasn’t like getting called into Theo’s. Palmer would have you filling out forms. He wanted to know what your favorite color was, how much you slept, what “commitment” meant to you. I’ll tell you, after a few of these “player performance meetings” I was longing for a good old Garner ass-chewing.

Palmer told me once that I hit better in games I made an error. I told him I was probably just angry about it and it made me focus on helping the team at the plate. He told me I should pretend I just made an error each time I went to hit. Are you kidding me? I thought. He just told an infielder to think about making errors! When he said that, at that exact moment, I knew I wasn’t going to learn anything from him.

He once said my “hot zone” was belt-high middle-to-in. Wasn’t everybody’s? He said I was batting .364 when I hit balls in this area. He suggested hitting only pitches in this zone.
“What about with two strikes?” I asked.
“Especially with two strikes.”
This was Palmer. He had no clue how a ballplayer’s mind worked. I did get a nice color printout of my biorhythms from him, though.

Toward the end of August I retired the Clifford Tyler Special. I had been hitting sporadically and wanted a change. I bought a Silver Slugger Redwood 1 from Sportsman’s Planet and went on a six-game hitting streak (.400). I wrapped the Special in bubble plastic and put it in my closet next to Beatrice. I remember it made me think of Cliff and Hinesville so I gave Moose a call. It was good to talk with him; I didn’t have that kind of rapport with anybody on the Hounds yet. He said the Gents were doing well but they needed a shortstop.
“They had one,” I said.
“Don’t remind me,” he said. “I wish you were here, Dave. This new guy has Theo pulling tiny gray hairs right out of his skull.”
“I’ve been following the Gents. How come you guys haven’t moved up?”
“Don’t know, man. There’s talk of a bunch of us moving up after the playoffs. Things are tight in the organization right now. Hey, you can only do what you can do, right?”
“You’ve hit 71 homeruns in two seasons. That has to be worth something.”
“It is to Theo. He really wants to win the playoffs this year. You know, get everybody noticed.”
“Himself, too, no doubt.”
“No doubt. But he has been pissed at the organization for not moving us up sooner. I’ve heard him on the phone yelling at somebody in Atlanta. Now it’s so late in the year he wants to keep us for the post-season. All he says is that somebody needs convincing. How’re the Hounds?”
“We ain’t exactly playoff material.”
“Yeah. Well, you’re doing well.”
“I’m hitting .268 and I’m third on the team. We suck. Met a girl, though.”
“Cool. Is she hot?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Outstanding. Me, too.”
“You’re hot, too?”
“No, dickweed. I’ve got a girl now, too.”
“No, ****! When you go for walks does her white cane get in the way?”

Before a game at the end of the month against Abilene, I walked into the sauna and saw Aurelio Barrios, our left fielder, sitting cross legged on the floor of the whirlpool with his eyes closed and his nostrils a half-inch above the waterline.
“If you’re trying to drown yourself, you’re doing a half-assed job,” I said.
He raised his lips above the water just enough to say: “The physical mirrors the spiritual. The calm of the water is a manifestation of the peace of the soul.”
“What’s that? Zen?”
“It’s Buddhism.”
“That’s not Buddhism,” I said. “That’s some kind of weekend retreat bull****.”
“Mock if you must, but it helps me stay calm and centered at the plate.”
“You need to get laid, dude.”
“I don’t see you hitting up a storm, Driscoll.”
The water was quite relaxing, but it tickled my nose and my knee hurt after sitting cross legged for so long.

Come September our season was mercifully over. I hit .265 combined for Hinesville and Little Rock with 29 doubles, 6 homers, 50 RBI, 79 runs and 22 stolen bases in 130 games. On the 4th I got word from the Gents that I had again won Defensive Player of the Year for the Eastern Developmental League (.972). I found out later it was the first time in the 66-year history of the EDL the award was given to a player who finished the season in another league. Should they send the $3,300 bonus to my new address in Little Rock?
Yes. Yes, they should.

Palmer told me the organization wanted me to play winter ball in Mexico. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I was looking forward to visiting my folks and spending more time with Gwen. The Admirals beat the Tornados in the Championship that year. Gwen and I went to St. Louis to see one of the divisional playoff games. We had a great day together. Come to think of it, that night wasn’t too bad, either.

Next week: Chapter 16, "Dabeed Drisco" y La Liga Nueva

[tyner2]

Entertaining chapter, between the interview and the conversation with Gwen. Those are real funny stuff.

[jaxmagicman]

Originally Posted by Tib

Chapter 15: <i>Buddha, Brunettes and Biorhythms</i>

The water was quite relaxing, but it tickled my nose and my knee hurt after sitting cross legged for so long.

This line made me laugh so hard my dad thought I was going to bust a blood vessel.

Originally Posted by Tib

Next week: Chapter 16, <i>"Dabeed Drisco" y La Liga Nueva</i>

David Drisoll and the New League, I am guessing he is playing winter ball.

[UngratefulDead]

Originally Posted by Tib

And that’s how I met my wife Gwen.

Who called it?

Great chapter, hilarious. That dialogue between him and Moose was excellent writing, and that coach is a great character. I (along with the rest of us) will be eagerly awaiting next Saturday.

[Tib]

Originally Posted by UngratefulDead

Who called it?

You may be psychic. As I recall, you guessed that Dave Guevara was on crack, too.

One note: The Mexican league is a totally made up thing. I never simmed a "winter ball" situation, so it's just a little detour until Dave starts the new season. The stats and occurrances in La Liga were not created by ITP. I had originally intended to get the next season started sooner, but I'm having too much fun writing about baseball in Mexico.

[Jazzmosis]

Excellent, as usual.. I'm running out of unique compliments for how great this is...

Never stop.