SHORT HOP - My Career In Baseball by David Driscoll

[Draft Dodger]

Originally Posted by Tib

Jax,
Yes. ASAP.

Draft Dodger,
Didn't mean to freak you out. I honestly didn't know that was your name until you posted it in your profile on that other thread. I just thought it was a cool name for a ballplayer; sounds like someone who played the game, but there is actually no Dave Driscoll who ever played in the majors. I thought: I've got to choose a name that can't be confused with anyone else. Look what happened. I inadvertantly pick the name of an OOTP legend. But think of it this way: if you ever want to write a fictitious memoir of your days as a pro ballplayer, you'll know where to go.

oh, I think it's a neat coincidence. I don't think I've ever been in the ITP forums - just happened to see my name on the "recent threads" list and did a double take. nice work, btw.

[cknox0723]

Just got caught up on Chapters 8 and 9 and I've nothing to add but that I enjoyed them much more than Chapters 8 and 9 of Mike Sowell's The Pitch That Killed, which is probably the best book I've read in the past few months.

Glad you got your problems with the game worked out, and like the millions of others, I eagerly await the next chapter.

[Tib]

OK, here's the next chapter of SHORT HOP. I spent the last 4 hours (truly) banging this one out. Okay, it wasn't really banging so much as careful tapping. It is absolutely the first draft, but it should buy me enough time to get a couple more chapters done by Saturday. All in all it went better than expected for not having a clue where it was going when I started. Thanks to everyone for their help and support, especially Jaxmagicman. And yes, I'm going to write you into the story.

Incidentally, the Generals finished 83-79, 23 games behind the Philadelphia Rebels.

And a note on the CBA playoffs: 2003. I realized I forgot to write in a small thing about Dave describing how the playoffs went, so here it is: The United League pitted the Oakland Mammoths vs. the Boston Rovers and the Chicago Comanches vs. the New York Admirals. The Mutual League saw the Vancouver Mounties meet the Philadelphia Rebels and the Pittsburgh Cannons vs. the San Francisco Gulls.

The Rovers and Admirals met in the ULCS, and the Boston/New York rivalry is alive and well in the CBA, too. But this year it was the Rovers 4-3. The MLCS saw Philly and San Fran duel it out, with the Rebels taking the series 4-2.

The CBA Championship was a war. The Rebs had George Suarez (59 homers) and the Rovers had Willie Aquila's 40 HR and 143 RBI. The Rebs had Earnest Telles' 22 wins and the Rovers had Ben Evans' 25 wins. The Rovers also had batting champ Jeff Jaffe's .351 average. In the end it was Philadelphia who came out on top 4-3.

Now, on to Chapter Ten.

[Tib]

CHAPTER 10:

A New Beginning

Funny thing. When I walked into that ancient locker room on March 15th, I just assumed all my teammates would be there. You know, like high school. I was nineteen; what the hell did I know? The first sucker-punch lesson of the new season hit me when I sat down to unpack my gear: at any level of professional baseball, there are no guarantees.

Some of the guys were missing. I didn’t figure it out right away. I sat down next to Moose, started to put my things away, and I noticed a new name on the locker next to mine: Russell Weinman.

“Where’s Rojas?” I said.

“Gone,” said Moose. “And I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Why not?”

Moose just looked at me for a moment and then I got it. ****, he got released.

“Oh,” I said quietly.

McCammon leaned over to me. “Curlee and Aguirre are gone, too,” he whispered.

All I could think of was that after hitting .236 the year before I was just glad it wasn’t me. Those guys weren’t bad ballplayers. Hell, they hardly even played. I guess there just wasn’t enough room for everybody. Kearse’s words echoed in my head: "At the end of the season somebody’s going home.”

“Where’s Kearse?”

“He’s gone, too,” said Moose.

“What? He hit, like, .311!”

Moose stared at me again. “No, numbnuts, he got sent up to Durham after the season.”

“Oh.”

“And he hit .316, not .311. Are you telling me you lived here the last six months and I know more about the team than you do?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly home all the time, you know. I had a job and a girlfriend. You remember what a girlfriend is, right?”

“I think so,” said Moose, holding up five fingers.

Just then Theo burst out of his office. Twenty-five pairs of eyes looked up at him. Those eagle eyes of his looked back. You could bounce a quarter off his flattop. “You guys think you’re ballplayers? You ain’t ballplayers. You’re runners and swingers and throwers and that is it. You don’t know **** about being ballplayers. Thank God I do.” And he marched right out the tunnel door, his legs bowed like two parentheses, pausing only to call out over his shoulder: “C’mon, girls, we’ve got work to do.”

It was nice to know some things weren’t going to change.

Theo was Theo, and he rode our asses for about ten hours that day. It turns out we didn’t learn much in a year. For example, I was somehow still showering wrong. But it felt great anyway to finally be back at the ball field, doing what I had done for so long, hearing the chatter, gabbing with Gable and talking it up out there. I really felt a determination to better my numbers from last season. It shouldn’t be that hard, I thought, a monkey could hit .236 one-handed. I felt confident, stronger, more sure of myself. Except for the rare twinge, my knee was fine.

I had been to all the towns in our league already, and a host more. I had traveled, seen the country. I had stayed in hotels (okay, one hotel and the rest motels). I learned and adapted. I survived that first year and now it didn’t scare me so much. I suppose you could say it was the difference between being a freshman and being a sophomore.

Kearse wasn’t the only mid-winter call-up. Imosuke Soseke and Jose Landeros, of all people, also made the jump. I couldn’t figure that one out. Guevara outhit, outfielded and outran Jose. Why didn’t they take Dave?

Over the next two weeks, during workouts at the field and at Perry’s, I met the new guys. The guy whose locker was next to mine, Russ Weinman, was a well-built 19-year old from Denver. All-State track and football. 90+ mph fastball but no breaking stuff. Talk about rear back and throw. McCammon told me he had three speeds: fast, faster, and gorilla. Mike Lester was a college guy from the University of Washington. Very sure of himself, but not a jerk. Once, Theo caught him thumbing through a Durham real estate magazine and said, “You think you’re going to double A anytime soon, think again. You better learn to throw a change up or you’ll be looking at the want ads, Lester.” We also had two new first basemen, two huge guys who couldn’t have looked more different. Mark Pridgen was 6’4”, from San Jose and white as a sheet. Davor Asuncion, from the Dominican, was slightly shorter and very dark. Davor did everything right-handed, Pridgen did everything left-handed. Theo called them Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dummer.

But the one new player we had our eyes on was 19-year old Bradley Sing, the 50th overall pick in last year’s draft. This guy was supposed to really be something, but went 50th instead of 5th because he was caught with marijuana at his senior prom. Supposed to be a problem child with a short fuse. Got in a lot of fights. His own high school coach called him uncoachable. If that’s true, I thought, he’s not going to be here long with Theo Garner around.

As the season started I saw less of Miss Draper, but more of Cliff. He said he was happy Moose and J.R. were rooming with me again.

“It’s good to have a full, active house. Always something going on.”

“Hey, Cliff, do you mind if I tell them about your playing in the BBA?”

“Not if you mind hearing all my old rundown stories again,” he shot back.

I also saw less of Marisa. We would go out two or three times a week, when I was home. But road trips were tough, and we would get to our destination so late at night it was often impossible to call her. Plus, she was busy with the last few weeks of the term at nursing school, her internship at St. Joseph’s Hospital, and music lessons when she could fit them in. I liked Marisa, and she liked me, but we both knew we weren’t going to put each other before our careers. We got together less and less over the course of the season until we finally called it quits during my all-star break. We promised to call each other, and we did, for a while.

The Gents got out of the gate quick, going 15-8 to open the season. Moose had 5 homers in our first ten games and J.R. was hitting .341 in the leadoff spot. Keith Hart was leading the league, hitting .354. Dave Guevara started April as our second baseman, but had to give way to a new kid who caught Theo’s eye: Xavier Medina.

Medina was a good player, but I didn’t think he was Guevara’s equal. Plus, he never spoke to me. I thought that was strange and tried to start conversations with him more than once. Nothing. I was confused by this, and concerned. We weren’t communicating out there, and that can be dangerous. You want to ignore me off the field, fine, but not on the field. Then I say to Bobby Gable one day, “What’s up with Medina? He won’t talk to me.” And he told me Medina was Lino Lopez’s double play partner in Venezuela. Well, that explained everything.

I always remembered that, too. I always thought that was an unprofessional way to conduct yourself, and I’ve never changed my mind. Personal feelings are going to come into play, for sure. Especially with kids as young as we were. We were just starting to figure out all these things. What did I ever do to Xavier Medina? Take his buddy’s job away? Hardly. Who was in AA to start 2004? It sure as hell wasn’t me.

Baseball is a very competitive and often times emotional sport, but deciding how you’re going to treat somebody before you even talk to them is bush league. Even at nineteen I knew enough not to take my personal opinions onto the field. Medina was Lino’s friend. OK, fine. There’s some loyalty there. But we were teammates. You’re supposed to let that go. In my personal appearances I always like to say that on the field you should have eight brothers, even though off the field you may be an only child. Guys should work to maintain a sense of camaraderie that never dissolves. You know how many cutoffs I took from Keith Hart? I had to play with that guy every day and no matter what he says about me now, on the field it was never personal.

In my career I met guys who didn’t like me and whom I didn’t like. I’ve met people I didn’t like initially who later became good friends. My wife thought I was a jerk when we first met. I have had friends who didn’t like each other. That’s life. That’s baseball. That’s the way it is when you meet and deal with thousands of people each year. Media people, friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, and kooks all come into your life when you’re a ballplayer. I always tried to treat everyone with respect, at least initially. I never backed down from a potential friendship.

I really felt for Dave. He was a good ballplayer, and after playing with him for a year, I was very comfortable with him to my left. I thought he earned the starting spot, and yet he wasn’t playing. Of course, I had no idea what was really going on. Another sucker punch for ol’ Dave. But that was later. Whatever his condition, I missed my partner.

My first error in 92 chances came in game 18 on a routine grounder in Terre Haute. It was the simplest thing, and then whoop! No ball. I stared at my empty mitt like it just performed a magic trick. “Holy ****!” yelled Moose from behind first base. “Dave made an error!” I was pissed, too. Such an easy play. But I had to laugh when Thad Martinez, who had this great sarcastic sense of humor, turned to me and said, “Driscoll, you’re such a ****up.”

After the game, we’re playing cards in the hotel lounge when Theo comes over and asks where Hart is. We don’t know, we say. “Send him up to my room when you see him,” he says. The next morning there’s a cab waiting for Hart. What’s going on? we wonder. Then Hart walks by with his bags packed, smiling like he just drew the fourth ace..

“Where are you going?” asks Yoogie.

“Haven’t you heard?” says Hart. “Durham is one superstar short. I’m on my way to double A.” And then to me: “See you around, Davey.”

An impressive string of expletives charged up my throat toward my tongue like a runaway freight train.

“Good luck,” I said.

The very next day, just to show me how life is, I get a call at the hotel from Caroline, the team secretary. She tells me the Gents accidentally overlooked a clause in my contract and it was pointed out by Hal Fitzwalter. It seems that for winning Defensive Player of the Year I was to receive a $3,300 bonus. Should she send it to my Hinesville address? Yes. Yes, she should.

At the end of April I had 2 errors and 1 walk. I had no idea why until Gable told me there was a book out on me.

“What does that mean?” I say.

“It means opposing teams have studied you. They think they know how to get you out.”

Well, I was flattered for about three seconds.

“And how is that?” I ask.

“They throw you strikes.”

April saw us go 15-11, good enough for second place, but not good enough for Theo. “You ladies better start playing like you can or I’ll be managing in the Yukon winter league and I’m taking all of you with me.” I ended April halfway through a ten game hitting streak where I went from .247 to .273. Theo still had me buried in the number 7 spot, but I was driving in runs. Our hitting was phenomenal, but our pitching was another story. Hassell and Nitta were a combined 5-0, but after that it was a quick and painful descent into the valley of the shadow of the 5.00 ERA. Yoogie was at 3.23, but everyone else was struggling. Dex Suttles was getting hammered. Even <i>he</i> was starting to get depressed. Don Takahiro was 1-5. Flamethrowing Russ Weinman was at 6.79. So much for gorilla ball. Somebody better tell him gorillas can hit, too.

We began May with a long homestand and life went back to normal: baseball, workouts, Cliff’s chili, baseball, no women, baseball, Keith Hart was an *******, and more of Cliff’s chili. I picked up the organization newsletter and saw that Lino Lopez (#17) was hitting .286 for the Sergeants. Keith Hart was hitting .213 in limited duty. And hey, what do you know? Down here in the corner where you could almost miss it: Atlanta’s 2003 first round pick, Davey “Driscol”, was leading the nation’s shortstops in fielding percentage (.986).

For Christ’s Sake.


Next time: The Crack of the Bat

[UngratefulDead]

I'm speechless, this just keeps getting better.

I loved the line about Driscoll being a **** up..

[Rasmuth]

awesome read

[jaxmagicman]

Originally Posted by UngratefulDead

I'm speechless, this just keeps getting better.

I loved the line about Driscoll being a **** up..

I agree I laughed out loud.

[PrestonKaye]

WOW!
This is by far the best dynasty of all time.
Keep up the amazing work!

[conman]

I'm surprised that I didn't have to pay for this kind of Entertainment. Great job, keep it up. I look forward to it every week.

[Ford Prefect]

I am in my Office and i should set up a Adobe Elements Server instead i read your hole stuff and i am happy about it this is a great read. The most Stories here are about the Player and his stats but yours has depth and atmosphere. I have a picture in my mind for Davey (i call him Davey too even he prefer David) Cliff Ms. Draper and the Folks from Hinesville. I think a ITP League set up like a Roll Game where you interact with a Commish would be fun. Anyway i will follow this thread closly now. You ligthen up my Day thanks for that.

[Tib]

Thanks for the great comments, everyone. It really makes me determined to give you something good every week. I think what makes this project so compelling to me is that even <i>I</i> don't know what's going to happen next. It's part fiction, part journalism and part suspense.

I want to say the "Driscoll, you're such a f***up" line was inspired by a true story:
My dad played American Legion ball in Iowa in the late 50's. He was a pitcher and third baseman. He was pretty dominant on the mound and fairly well-known locally. Once, he struck out the side on 9 pitches to start the game. In the second inning, he threw a ball to the first batter and his third baseman yelled at him at the top of his lungs: "What the hell's wrong with you? You losing your stuff?" Both teams and the spectators just lost it.

Once again, thanks for the comments. I'm hard at work on the next two chapters. They'll probably be two-parters. Also, I've simmed ahead in Dave's career and OH MY GOD!

[jaxmagicman]

Originally Posted by Tib

. They'll probably be two-parters. Also, I've simmed ahead in Dave's career and OH MY GOD!

DANG-IT, I hate cliff hangers.

[CHCfan]

Really great stuff Tib.

I read the first couple chapters on my computer, then copy-pasted-printed the rest to read last night. What would be a great stand-alone story is even more entertaining, knowing that ITP is behind the baseball plot. You've got a real talent for doing this.

[AdmiralACF]

My favorite line in the chapter.

Originally Posted by Tib

It turns out we didn’t learn much in a year. For example, I was somehow still showering wrong.

Just curious, since I don't think you mentioned it, was Marisa black or white? The way I pictured it, Miss Draper's church was a southern baptist, stand-up-and-dance-while-you-sing kinda place, so I figured Marisa was probably African American. I just wondered what you had in mind.

Keep up the awesome work!

[Tib]

Thanks, AdmiralACF. It's an excellent question, and brings up a good point. Marisa is white.

I never made a big deal of mentioning it because I didn't think Dave would consider it a big deal himself. I thought initially she should be black, but to be honest, I wasn't sure how to handle an interracial relationship. It would have made a very compelling and potentially poignant storyline, but I have only the smallest experience in that area and with a sensitive subject like that, I wasn't sure I could pull it off. There would have to be certain events that would shed light on people's acceptance/disapproval of their relationship and if I handled it wrong or relied on a limited frame of reference (mine) to guide me, it wouldn't have had the power and impact it should. A storyline like that had to have the proper depth. It had to be an experience for the reader, not an account of a relationship. Does that make sense?

To be sure, Miss Draper introduced him to all sorts of available young ladies, and certainly many were black. You don't think she would care one way or the other, do you?

Dave has his run-ins with prejudice in future chapters, on a professional and personal level. Prejudice in baseball is something I experienced firsthand. I know I can write about that. Besides, there was a very important event coming up anyway and I didn't want to diffuse the impact with too many dramatic moments.

That's the second tease, Jax! Don't worry, it'll be worth the wait.

[Tib]

SHORT HOP: INTERLUDE #1

A HISTORY OF THE CBA

From the American Baseball Federation to the Continental Baseball Association, 1881-2005

PART I: The Incident at Otinnimook

Chapter One: Deacon Reeves and Green Jim's Jaw
The New England and Frontier Leagues: 1871-1880

Professional baseball in America was around for about three decades before the first professional (that is to say, for profit) leagues came into being. As the game gained popularity with cultured society in the east and pioneer society in the west, established teams began to arise. Usually, these teams were born out of social groups like gentlemen’s clubs and churches, but others were created to advertise businesses or promote towns. The New London Brakemen of New London, Connecticut were one such professional team. Established in 1836, the Brakemen were made up of employees of the New London Rail Co., a maker of railroad cars and tracks. They are thought to be the first truly professional team in America because players were given bonuses for winning games. Other early professional teams included the New York Professional Baseball Club, also known as the Yorkers, and the Boston Intrepids, who were made up of members of the Greater Boston Health and Wellness Society, a club which promoted “rigorous activity in clean air for robust health and happiness”.

By 1870, there were dozens of professional teams touring New England and several teams in the new West (Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, Michigan and Missouri). These teams often met each other in exhibitions and informal tournaments. As teams grew in popularity and fans began to follow the teams to games, rivalries began. One of the oldest, and historically the most important, was the rivalry between the Manhattan Atlantics and the First Boston Savings and Loan Bank, also known as the Bankers. The story of their rivalry is the story of the birth of the ABF.

These two teams traded victories over one another for almost twenty years in perfect peace. Then, in the fall of 1870, they met in a hotly contested exhibition game at the base of Otinnimook Hill in outer Manhattan (modern day Long Island near Belmont Park). The Atlantics had a first baseman named James “Green Jim” McGill who was perhaps the best player of the 1860s. He was also perhaps the hardest drinking, roughest speaking Irishman in New York City. The Bankers had a pitcher by the name of Connie “Deacon” Reeves, a devout Christian who was perhaps the hardest thrower in New England.

Green Jim stepped up to bat in the eighth inning with the tying run on third. Deacon Reeves threw one right by him. Green Jim said nothing. Deacon hurled another. Green Jim took a mighty swing but missed, nearly losing his balance. Then McGill said something. Bankers’ catcher Mike Monroe, who was standing twenty feet behind McGill (as was the custom in those days before fielders’ gloves) said Green Jim made an unflattering comment about Reeves wife. McGill denied it to his last day. McGill’s teammates insist it was Reeves who made a comment about Green Jim’s lack of coordination being the result of too much drink. It is unclear to this day what was actually said, and it probably doesn’t matter. What is important is that Reeves’ next pitch struck Green Jim square in the jaw. In the words of Bankers’ second baseman William “Berry Bill” Stansbury, “Jim went down like a sack of wheat”. Both teams met in the middle of the field. A brawl ensued that, in the words of the great Manhattan Chronicle writer Biggs Bose, “made the Battle of Waterloo seem like an arm-wrestle”. The game was never finished.

The fight caused an uproar. Is this how our civilized men act? Is this what baseball is teaching our young men? The owners of professional teams began to worry when fans showed up at games enticing the players to fight. Some tossed coins on the field, rewards for the first punch thrown. Some players complied. Songs were written. One, called “Green Jim’s Jaw”, was particularly popular. Fans in Reeves home state of North Carolina began calling him the “Demon Deacon”. “Organized baseball contests” were on the verge of being declared an “unlawful gathering” by the New York State Supreme Court. Bankers and Atlantics fans alike demanded the game be replayed, for the sake of honor. “There must be a winner,” they declared in letters to Atlantics team president J. Walker Bowen.

Bowen met with Bankers’ president H. David Wendicott III. Bowen, 44, was a frugal second generation Scotsman, Wendicott a charismatic 35-year old who built the biggest bank in Boston from a $12,000 stake. They both recognized an opportunity when they saw one. Together they decided to replay the game as the “championship of New England”. To grow interest in the contest, they decided to schedule exhibition games with teams all across the East, but never between each other. They would share the cost of building a 10,000 seat wooden stadium at the base of Otinnimook Hill. Come September they would make a fortune.

But the two men did not anticipate the ire of other professional teams in the East. Why should we help you become even richer? they asked. Why should we help you make enough money in one game to lure all our star players away? Bowen and Wendicott had an answer: because you’ll be part of a professional league, the New England League. “By pooling our efforts, we can create a new product, never seen before, one the people want to see and we can do it for years and years to come. By playing each of us in only four exhibition games, you’ll earn enough money to build stadiums of your own. This is a product that appeals to every man and boy in America. It is not subject to the whims of politicians. It is not regulated by the government. Trust laws do not apply to baseball,” said Bowen’s letter to the other owners. The argument worked.

From 1871-1880, the New England League thrived. The “Baseball Championship of New England” was covered in newspapers from Chicago to Cairo. At its peak, the League had fifteen teams and never less than eight. The Bankers and Atlantics each won five championships.

But the West was watching. The success of the New England League did not go unnoticed for very long in the rowdy, do-as-you-can West. Wide open cities like Chicago and Kansas City had teams and leagues of their own. Professional baseball thrived on the frontier, too. When the New England League was founded in 1871, a group of western owners met in Chicago to discuss forming their own league, one modeled after and designed to rival the NEL. The result, in 1872, was the formation of the Frontier League. It was only a matter of time before the Championship of New England became the American Baseball Championship.

In 1880, it was clear that the West could compete with the East. Exhibition tours by the Chicago Comets and St. Louis Explorers proved to haughty New Englanders that there were, indeed, teams who could beat their mighty Bankers (now called the Boston Rovers) and Atlantics. It was the Age of Industry in America. It was the time of the Transcontinental Railroad and of Westward Expansion. Giant corporations, mammoth trusts, and barons of manufacturing were the powers in America. For the owners of the New England and Frontier Leagues it was no different. They, too, were men of their time, eager to expand, to grow their already sizeable fortunes.

To do this they decided that 1881 would see the dawning of a new era of professional baseball. On the heels of the two Leagues came dozens of smaller yet successful leagues. Were these “little leagues”, as Baltimore Steamers owner Bradley Radcliffe described them, not beholden to them, at least in part? Why shouldn’t the two Leagues annex as many successful, money-making teams as possible? Why not have monopolies in professional baseball?

Why not, indeed.

The American Baseball Federation was formed in the winter of 1880 and started April 4, 1881 with eight teams. Over the next four decades the league would grow to twenty-four teams. The anti-trust legislation of the early 1900s wounded the league, but did not kill it. President Theodore Roosevelt loved the game and did not want to see its demise, only its compliance with his new stance on monopolies. The ABF was not about to give up, however. In return for “special status” with the Department of the Interior, the ABF admitted Roosevelt’s favorite team, the Washington Sentinels. Now Roosevelt could watch his team, the one named after his famous “Sentinels of Liberty” speech to Congress in 1902, take on the mightiest giants of the game.

“That’s what it’s about, isn’t it?” Roosevelt said at the time. “Our unique American resolve and ingenuity was made for the challenging of giants.”


Tomorrow: Part One of Chapter 11: The Crack of the Bat

[jaxmagicman]

The Crack of the Bat sounds like something bad is going to happen.

[randomlefty10]

Wow, wow, wow, wow. Tremendous read.

[Tib]

Welcome to the next installment of SHORT HOP. Hope everyone liked the CBA history lesson. I did it while I was trying to fix my ITP problem. One day, while simming the CBA (which started in 1966, game time), I thought it would be fun to fill in the history of the league back to it origins. I decided to create the ABF (b. 1881), do an initial draft, clear the record books and see what happens. I'm going to sim that league, complete with expansion, until its eventual evolution into the CBA in 1966. Should make for some interesting side stories. If I can ever figure out how to attach a picture, I'll put up some "photos" from Dave's book and the league. Or should I leave Cliff, Ms. Draper, Moose and Dave to your imaginations? Hmmm.....

[Tib]

CHAPTER 11:

The Crack of the Bat

One of the things you do when you’re fighting for something is focus on it. When you’re fighting for a base hit, you focus on the pitcher’s release. When you’re fighting for a strikeout you focus on the catcher’s glove. When you’re in the field you react to the crack of the bat. During May and June of 2004 I was fighting to become a better ballplayer. To do that I was focusing on what I needed to do to succeed. I wasn’t looking at anything else but what was going to get me to Durham. Kearse told me to fight for myself and that’s just what I was going to do.

Focus is a funny thing. When you do it, if you do it well, you can shut out everything else. You can accomplish great things this way. No distractions, nobody else’s problems to deal with. It wasn’t by mistake that I could make all the plays I did out there at short. When I was out there, I could tell by his stance where a batter would hit a certain pitch in a certain location. I could tell where his power was; in his hands, wrists, arms, or torso. I could tell if he was a slapper, a driver, a popper, a top-hander, or a free swinger. People always said I had great range. I didn’t. I just always knew where to position myself. Anticipation can make a huge difference, but you can lose sight of the bigger picture focusing on yourself. You can miss obvious things.

Dave Guevara and I had a conversation with Russ Weinman in early May. We were sitting in the dugout during practice. It was a hot, muggy day and we were soaked through with sweat after running sprints. I remember kidding Dave that I had more juice left then he did, in spite of his base stealing prowess. Russ is telling us about what Costello has him doing and why, and I’m listening hard because Costello knew what he was talking about. Many times during my days with the Gents I would use a kind of reverse logic on the things Costello told Yoogie and Dex. Whatever Costello was teaching them, I reversed it to apply to hitters. If up-and-in/low-and-away worked against power hitters (to shorten their arms, then get them to reach), I watched for those situations in my at bats and tried to anticipate the next pitch. I always benefited by it.

Anyway, we’re talking and Weinman looks past me and says, “Hey, dude, are you alright?”
I turn and Guevara is looking pale as a ghost. He’s got this blank stare on his face. I’ve seen guys drunk and I’ve seen guys sick, but he looked drunk and sick. In fact, he looked worse.
“Another late night last night, Guevara?” I said.
Dave starts to say something, but all that comes out is a mumble, and he vomits on the dugout floor.

I call for Tuck and he comes running over and takes a look at Dave.
“Yep,” says Tuck. “Dehydrated. Come on, son. Let’s get you some water and a good lay down. You’re done for today.” And he takes Dave into the locker room as everyone looks on.
Gable pulls Russ and me aside.
“What happened?” he said. He seemed more angry than concerned.
We told him.
He starts past us like he’s marching on Rome, plows his way through the team and down the tunnel. We heard the slamming of the locker room door and the latch being thrown.
Hope he’s all right, I thought.

I intended to ask Dave what happened the next time I saw him, but Dex beat me to it. “Doc says it’s dehydration,” he told me. I was relieved because if it was a virus and we all got on a bus, by the time we got ten miles the whole team would be infected. I did not need Dave Guevara making me sick. I had a plan and I didn’t want it interrupted.

Doc Roberts cleared Dave to play, but he went 0 for 4 against Bullhead City that night. He didn’t look any better, either, but it wasn’t my problem. I had things to do. Durham was my goal this season, and I was determined to get there.

I bought a new pair of Pegasus cleats at Perry’s the next morning. They were a big step (no pun intended) from the beat up Brock Airs I still had from high school. The team had a deal with Mazano, probably because their North American distribution was in Atlanta, and we could get any Mazano shoe they made for free, but I never liked them. Of course, that night I get a horrific blister and go 0 for 4 myself, snapping my 10-game hitting streak. Go figure.

Two days later, we’re poised to sweep the Bullfrogs and move into first place. We’re all at the top of the dugout getting ready for Mae Billingsley, the owner’s moderately talented cousin, to sing the National Anthem. Just as she’s announced and I go to take my cap off, I hear Gable and Theo behind me:
“Where is he, Bobby?”
“I don’t know. I called his house. No answer.”
“You said you were going to watch him.”
“I went by his place earlier today. He was there, like we agreed. It’ll be all right. He’s probably still sick.”
“If he was sick he’d be home. Go find him.”
It was then I realized I had not seen Guevara all day.

I didn’t have time to think about him, though, because I had problems of my own. In the eighth inning I took a cut in short left field and fired a strike to Moose to nail the tying run at home. Normally I would have been happy, but I felt a twinge in my elbow. It scared the hell out of me. What now? A million possible scenarios raced through my head the rest of the game. Dave Guevara and his mysterious disappearance were forgotten for a while. I was too focused on my problem.

After the game we were in first place. It’s a good feeling in a first place locker room. Everybody loves everybody, the media loves everybody, jokes are flying, and guys get generous. Conflicts are on hiatus. Suttles decided that we were all going out to celebrate; black guys, Latin guys, white guys, everybody. I didn’t go. I told them I was going to wait and have Doc take a look at my elbow before I go home.
“****, Davey,” said Moose, “he already told you it was just inflamed. You can still play. Take a pill and come with us.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“You worry too much, Driscoll,” said Yoogie.
I’m sure now it was a combination of that desire to fight for myself and fear at being re-injured, but I lost it. “Hey, you know what? Screw you, Ugarte. It’s my arm, okay? If I want to get it looked at I’ll get it looked at.”
“Fine, but don’t be a dick to everyone. You act like your arm almost fell off.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry, Steve, I forgot. Tell me again how afraid you are that your arm’s not going to hold up. Maybe if you had gotten it looked at sooner, it would be just fine. Maybe you’d be in Durham right now. I don’t know. Maybe you’re happy here, but I’ll tell you one thing: my career isn’t going to end here in Hicksville!”

Time froze. J.R., Moose and Yoogie stood there at the locker room door for about a thousand seconds as the last of our teammates shuffled out. They just looked at me.
“C’mon, guys,” said Yoogie. “Let’s go. Davey here has better things to do.”
I immediately felt like a world class jerk, but there was nothing I could do. The door opened behind me and as I turned I saw Doc. Theo’s office had a dim fluorescent glow. Dave Guevara was sitting in Theo’s office with his elbows on his knees. He had been crying. He looked so small, sitting there in the near dark. He looks like a kid, I thought. And of course, he was. Theo and Gable were standing behind Theo’s desk. I was blocked from view by Doc, who was facing them. Doc was speaking.

“—unacceptable levels in his bloodstream. I could end this right now, for both of you, but you know I don’t want that. Nobody in this room wants that. I understand the club has an investment, but that’s not my job. My job is to insure the health of these players. I haven’t done that. Instead, for the past three months I’ve listened to you two. Well, not any more. No more half-assed ‘treatments’ at three in the morning. No more promises. If I see this boy in this condition again, I swear I will admit him.”
I should not be hearing this, I thought.
“What are we supposed to do?” asked Gable.
“You know what to do. Do it.”

Doc turned to leave and saw me.
“Davey. I didn’t know you were there. What can I do for you?”
“My elbow, Doc. Could you take another look at it? It’s hurting.”
“Uh, well it’s late, Davey. I’ve already looked at it once. I’ve got to go. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll look at it then. Take the painkillers I gave you.”
He walked past me with a soft pat on my shoulder and was gone. Theo, Gable and Dave were looking at me.
“Would you come in here, Davey?” asked Theo.

Next week: The Crack of the Bat, Part Two