SHORT HOP - My Career In Baseball by David Driscoll

[jaxmagicman]

I don't like the teaser! You tease us enough by making these things part one and part 2.

[jaykno14]

Great chapter that is really interesting about how you right about the characters.

That hanger kills!

[WWBL Commissioner]

Originally Posted by Tib

Like all aspiring writers, I began my epic Lord of the Rings ripoff saga when I was in junior high school. You know: elves, dwarves, knights, ancient bodiless bad guys, etc., etc.

To help me remember each character's personality and motivations I began a writing exercise I invented and still use (it's probably been thought of before, but at the time I was convinced I was the only one doing it). I wrote a "character description page". It's a condensed third person description of a character covering the basics of characterization: physical description, personality traits, behaviors, history and world view. It's not just a listing of these things, it's a short prose poem. The idea is to discover new language and phrases, new ways to describe someone. The only hard and fast rule is that it can be no longer than one page, written or typed.

I've used this tool in all my writing and you can see its influence poking out of Short Hop in places, most recently the last three chapters (also the Theo Garner description in Chapter, uh, whatever that chapter was).

These explanations are always fun to read. I enjoy getting to read about how you got the story where it is today.

[Faroo6]

Tib?

[Tib]

Originally Posted by Faroo6

Tib?

I'm here. Don't worry, I've been working on the last part of Chapter 42. This has been a busy two weeks. I had a sick child, two more getting ready to move up a grade, Open House at their school, my wife went out of town for a weekend, a huge backyard landscaping project to complete, and my wedding anniversary.

I know that's no excuse for not having a new chapter ready, but bear with me. It's almost done. Remember, I'm not just writing right now, I'm also planning Dave's wedding, not to mention trying to work in a very important salary arbitration decision....

[Faroo6]

Totally understandable sir.

I believe your plate is twice as full as mine.

[ohiodevil]

WOW!!! Tib.... This read has inspired me to reinstall ITP and play it even with OOTP 6.5 out. Great reading, I have spent 2 days at work reading it. Shhhh....don't tell anyone

Seriously you are doing an awesome job, can't wait for more.

[Tib]

Thanks, ohiodevil. For the first time since starting the story I have encountered a nasty little writer's block and I've had to re-write much of the end of Chapter 42. That's what's taking so long. I'm close, but it's been slow going. If I can peel myself away from Responsibility long enough I should have it done soon.

[Tib]

Happy Father's Day! At last, after much hemming, hawing, frustration and rewriting I have finished Chapter 42. However, I discovered I was trying to cram too much in, so the playoffs will end in Chapter 43.

I seemed to lose a little focus after having been away from the story for almost two weeks. I didn't like it, not one bit. Part of it is because the playoffs always seem to be more reporting than novelization. Part of it is because I've been so busy. Anyway, here it is. Look for the thrilling conclusion of the 2008 playoffs in Chapter 43: Past, Present and Future.

[Tib]

Chapter 42:
Cohibas for El Conquistador

Part Two

At the request of his respectful son, Wilfredo, Senor Francisco Alves Aguila arrived in Baltimore not a week later. Though I wasn’t at the airport to greet him, I heard from a reliable source (our Latin-American liaison Mike Castillo) that the elder Aguila was much impressed with both American hospitality and American Airlines. He nonetheless refused to have anyone help him with his bags. At the pleading of his son he relented, but only suffered the larger bags to be carried. His old leather satchel Senor Aguila carried himself. After all, a man has his pride, does he not? Despite being apart for almost a year, the two Aguilas began conversing immediately as if not a day had passed.
Senor Aguila was sorry he had missed the first two games in Chicago, but was very much looking forward to watching the rest.

Any baseball fan would have been sorry to miss the first two games. They were terrific games. I found I was not as nervous being in the playoffs this time around. Make no mistake, I was plenty nervous at game time, but it felt more like excitement than fear. In fact, I never felt afraid of the playoffs again. From that year on it felt right and good and natural to be there. I felt at ease with the fans and the media and the pressure of the moment. I stopped worrying about every little thing while I was on the field. Hal said “play the game and everything will be all right”, so that’s what I did.

We lost Game 1 2-1. Roy Pecor pitched brilliantly for us, but we just couldn’t get anything going against Ed Dawson. I hit .351 against Baltimore that year, so stepping to the plate in the bottom of the seventh I was feeling confident. I sent a shot deep toward the center field wall but it was picked off on the run at the track by Bernardo Ciles. Another ten feet and I’d have tied it. We never got close again. It was a tough loss, especially at home, but we didn’t panic. This was a team of veterans. Veterans don’t panic.

Game 2 was more like it. We had Dan Jenkinson going for us and that meant only good things. Also, my parents and Hal were in town. We won it 9-3. Bootsy Moralez had three hits, including a 2-run homer. I had a pair of hits, two walks, two RBI and a stolen base.


Many of you will remember Otis Parikh as Otis Washington. Otis Washington was one of the most sought-after young talents in the nation but he delayed his entry in the draft to attend college. After college he met and married his wife, Daya. He subsequently converted to Hinduism, taking the surname Parikh, which means “playful spirit”. It was an apt name, because we all called Otis “Happy” anyway. Happy was one of the nicest, most pleasant people I’ve known. If there was ever a player who embodied the joy of playing the game, it was Happy. As you all know, he could hit, too. Otis’ conversion to that gentle religion did not seem to alter his penchant for punishing baseballs. Otis Parikh was one of the best pure fastball hitters in the game in 2008. He hit .309 with 39 homers and 112 RBI for us that year.

When the playoffs started Happy was counted on to protect Willie Aguila, but he got stuck in a terrible slump. For two weeks at the end of the season and now in the first two games of our divisional series Otis Parikh couldn’t hit a thing. This was a concern for everyone; the kind of concern you just can’t say out loud. I know each time he came up I would try to will him a base hit, a scrubber, a doinker, anything to get him started again, but for two weeks – nothing. It didn’t look like anything would change in Game 3, either; we were facing Lance Britt. In Baltimore. Not to mention Britt’s 5 to 1 K to walk ratio and overpowering mound presence.

Whether it was our collective unspoken psychic energy or an off day from Britt or the law of averages, Otis found his stroke. He laced three hits, one a triple, and scored twice. Willie Aguila hit a two-out bomb in the first to set the tone. I came up in the 7th with us up 3-0 and tried to stare down Lance Britt. Fat chance. I had already legged out a slow bouncer in the 3rd and it appeared he hadn’t forgotten it. For a split second I had a Liga Nueva flashback and thought he was going to plunk me. No, just a fastball on the outside corner.
It looks like he remembers Red Zone/Green Zone, too, I thought. Fine. Let’s see if he’s forgotten that Billy Poole’s been my hitting coach for two months.
He had. Next pitch: a belt high outside fastball that to Britt would have been in my Red Zone, but Billy Poole had been one of the best opposite field hitters in the game. I delayed for a split second, stepped, and drove my right hip at the right field foul pole, making sure to keep the barrel level. The ball shot off my bat, a curving liner deep to right. I knew immediately I had extra bases. I got on my horse and didn’t look up until I was nearing second. I saw Hy Lee, our third base coach, making frantic circles in the air with his right arm. “Ease up, Hop!” he called. “It’s a homer! You’re in! You’re in!” My first playoff home run and I didn’t even see it. Oh, well. It made SportCentral that night anyway.

Boogles Tafoya slammed a two-run homer in the 8th that’s still orbiting the Earth somewhere and we won 6-3. It was a very important win that put us up 2-1 in the series.


Game 4 in Baltimore was cold. Pecor was cold, too. He walked four in 6 innings and the Steamers’ MVP runner-up James Wills hit a solo shot in the eight that proved to be the game-winner. We lost 5-2 and the series headed back to Chicago tied at 2. We had no problem playing at home in the deciding game -- it was a scary moment in the 7th that had us talking on the plane.

Ron-o Holleman was hit in the helmet by a fastball from a tall left-handed reliever named Frank Probst. He was down for a while before walking to the trainer’s room under his own power. He was listed as doubtful for Game 5 with a possible concussion. None of us wanted to lose Ron-o even for one game and especially this one. We had Sean Pangle to fill in, but we all knew Ron-o’s experience and power were a better match against Baltimore.


Game 5. Chicago. It was 49 degrees at game time. A chilly breeze blew in over the visitor’s dugout. Even in my Thermo-Garbs I was cold. The fans were cold, but cheered loudly through their muffles and scarves. The benches were cold; we all huddled next to the heaters when we weren’t hitting. It turned out the Baltimore bats were cold, too. I’m sure the fact that Dan Jenkinson was on the mound had something to do with it.

Ron-o was a game-time decision. By that I mean when Ron saw he had been taken out of the lineup he argued and cursed and speechified until game time when Stump simply couldn’t take it anymore.
“Fine!” yelled Stump, marching away. “You want to play with a concussion? Fine. Now will you get off my ass?”

Jenkinson was throwing well but wasn’t getting any calls. The squeezed strike zone was magic for the power-hitting Baltimore lineup. By the 6th they had seven hits, three of them doubles. Stump had been tossed in the 4th for arguing balls and strikes with umpire Phil “Short Fuse” Fusso. Things weren’t looking too good. We were being completely dismantled by Jerry Guillaume and his wicked slider when Ron Holleman walked to the plate. A 2-0 fastball nearly took his chin off and Ron hit the dirt. We moved to the steps, ready to run if Ron charges Guillaume. He didn’t. He simply got up, brushed off the dirt, offered a grim smile to Guillaume and dug in. I remember thinking: a 2-0 brushback to Ron Holleman in a game you were winning 3-0? Not smart. Remember what I said about getting Ron-o pissed off? Holleman sent Guillaume’s 3-0 offering over the left field wall and we were on the board. The crowd went nuts. Hell, we all went nuts. It was exactly what we needed.

In the 7th I doubled and scored the first of three runs that put us up 4-3. Jenkinson yielded the mound to Sean Segundo in the 9th and that was all she wrote. Baltimore never got another hit. We won the series. The good news: we had advanced to the LCS. The bad news: Cleveland did also – sweeping the Dallas Marshals from the playoffs by hitting .333 as a team.

Willie Aguila climbed into the stands and hugged his dad. His dad hugged him back. The big first baseman was one step closer to lighting his treasured Cohiba.

Next time: Chapter 43: Past, Present and Future

[Faroo6]

sweet!!!!

[Jazzmosis]

It was definitely worth the wait.

Although you put Chapter 43, part 2 on the top. SHould be 42. Nothing big.

[Tib]

Fixed. Thanks.

[jaxmagicman]

Dave's homer gave me chills.

[Rasmuth]

Yup...Davey's homer was really cool....good ole Davey hustle.

[Tib]

Oh my God, I'm exhausted. This last chapter has just drained me. I had two false starts before settling on a way of telling the story I liked.

I may be biased, but this might be the best chapter in the book.

[Tib]

Chapter 43

Past, Present and Future

Even at my young age I knew how to use the lessons of the past to make the most of the present and to prepare for the future. I can thank my dad, Theo Garner, Doc Caswell, and the Squires for that. I was always good at analyzing things from a detached perspective. Part of this was because I always tried to be honest with myself. Part of it was because I don’t believe you can make a good decision without being honest about the facts. My first real test of this was at 18 when I decided to enter the draft.

The problem with using the lessons from the past is you have to really understand the past to get the correct lessons from it. It’s easy to see the past for what you want it to be instead of what it truly is. It’s easy to let emotions caress old scars, smooth them away, to let them take the hard edge off of painful memories. Hindsight may be 20/20, but it can be misinterpreted. It’s hard sometimes to look back and see things the way they really were.

I knew this series versus Cleveland marked a turning point. I could feel it with the same instincts that told me where the next bounce of a ground ball was going to be. I also knew it was the result of my talent for detached perspective, but it still felt like a big clock in my head was about to reach midnight on the first part of my career. Big gears were turning; I could hear them. The ponderous minute hand in my head marched toward its goal with every game we played, with every day that dawned. Each hour of the countdown was full of dusty, slow-motion memories that shuffled in and out of my waking thoughts like playing cards in the hands of a nervous dealer.

2008, Chicago. O’Hare airport. I kiss Gwen goodbye and suddenly it’s 2004 and I’m kissing Marisa Hollings goodnight. I hear a rush in my ears like a half-speed recording of the wind. I realize it’s my own breathing. Marisa smells like lilac soap. The cards shuffle. The clock hands in my head click and Gwen is back.
“Where’d you go?” she said.
“Nowhere,” I say. “Give me one more.” I kiss her again, just to make sure.

2008, Cleveland. My teammates and I approach the door of our arrival gate. There is a crowd of fans and press to greet us. My eye settles on a woman in white and suddenly it’s 2006 and a tall, attractive woman in white is walking slowly toward me, saying “Mr. Driscoll? I’m Ginger Wilson. Welcome to the Knights.” I shake the vision loose and stride forward into the waiting microphones.

2003. Beaumont, Texas. The unrefined smells and the sun-dried yellow dust storms of the Eastern Developmental League are again in my nose and eyes. I bounce nervously from foot to foot on the cracked clod-ridden surface of the Hornet Stadium infield. Yoogie throws a curveball and grabs his arm. I am saying something but I can’t hear it. Moose is running out to the mound. Suddenly it’s April 2008, Kansas City, and I’m crouching on the immaculate clodless infield of Rusk Memorial Stadium. Sebastian Pena throws a pitch and grabs his arm. I am running behind the mound, making a play. Pena is saying something but I can’t hear him. Then it’s 2008 again. Cleveland Municipal Stadium. Infield drills before Game 1. I find myself standing behind the mound. Hy Lee is standing at home with a fungo in his hand. Tafoya is next to him, looking at me strangely. I turn to my left and see a ball rolling into center field. I have nothing to say.
“Where’d you go?” says Tafoya.
“Nowhere,” I call back. “Give me one more.”

August 2008. Baltimore, after a win. I am watching the memory of my fifth hit of the day play out like a home movie on the darkened window of our chartered jet. The cards shuffle and I’m back in the EDL, somewhere near San Antonio, watching the memory of my latest 0 for 5 play like a home movie on a dirty, night-blackened bus window. Suddenly it’s May 1999. I am 15. I stand on my parents’ patio, still in my uniform, watching through the glass of a sliding door as tape of my eighth inning game-winning triple plays on the local television station’s highlights of the Southern California Babe Ruth championship. I am crying as I hold a phone to my ear, listening to my grandmother explain that my grandfather has just passed away. The cards shuffle. It’s October 2008, the night before we meet the Hammers in Game 1. I am standing in front of the big tinted window in my suite at the Ritz-Carlton, watching the endless line of headlights on Ontario Street roll across in front of me. In the window I see the reflection of Sean Pangle, my roommate, as he sits up and answers the phone call that will tell him his father has just passed away.

The past has passed, my dad would say about bad decisions. No good decision in the world can change it now. The best you can do now is look back, learn, and try to make better choices. I try, but the nervous dealer isn’t done yet.

2008. Cleveland. Game 1. Flash Richards is being tossed by Dick Burnquist in the first inning and he’s going crazy at home plate. He pounds his chest in protest. The cards shuffle and I’m back in Hinesville’s locker room watching Bradley Sing pound his chest at me. The cards shuffle and it’s Game 1 again. It is the fifth inning and we are down 4-0. I have singled and now am in mid-dive, reaching with all my strength for second. I am tagged out. The dust swirls angrily around me, upset at being disturbed.

Game 1. Eighth inning. Alex Alvarado rolls a dribbler past the mound. I charge and snap a throw that gets him by a spike-length. As I trot in I look into the crowd and the cards shuffle again. It is 1994. I pick up my father in the crowd. He claps his hands as I trot in from making a bare-handed snatch-and-throw for the third out. I am ten years old. The cards shuffle again. It is 2008. I wash off my 1 for 4 and my failed steal attempt under an expensive Swedish showerhead. We have lost 5-3. I hear the minute hand in my head move again and I tell myself not to look back.


Game 2. Cleveland. Our bats show up and we win 6-2. Pat Laubach was untouchable for us. In the eighth inning Flash smokes a liner up the middle. Laubach saves his teeth by ducking. It somehow winds up in my glove. The crowd is stunned. I roll the ball to the mound as I jog in and the cards shuffle again. It is 2001. I have found a tape of the 1977 Los Angeles High School Baseball Championship at Elysian Field. I am watching a tall pitcher throw a fastball that is smoked down the third base line. The runner on third saves his teeth by ducking. Somehow the ball winds up in the glove of a diving third baseman – a skinny young man wearing number 11. The crowd is stunned. He rolls the ball back to the mound as he jogs in.


Game 3. Chicago. The city is ready. We are not. Jenkinson is not. It is the sixth inning and we are going to lose 15-3. I hit a blooper into right center. I do not stop at first when right field replacement Marcus Markle trots to the ball. This time the dust at second attacks Flash Richards when his tag is too late. I raise one arm and call for time.
“Easy, Professor,” Richards says to me. “Y’all are done for today. You wanna hurt yourself in a blowout?”
The cards shuffle and it’s 2004. Topeka, Kansas. We are losing 10-2 and the dust settles around me as I hug third. My helmet jettisoned itself from my head during my slide and is handed back to me by the Cheyenne Warriors’ third baseman. “Easy now, baby,” he says. “You wanna hurt yourself in a blowout?”
“Kiss my ass,” I say to both of them.


Game 4. Chicago. We are losing 2-1 in the fifth. The crowd is quiet. Bootsy moves to second when Jukebox nurses a walk from Ivan Quinones. Willie Aguila hits the first pitch off the second deck façade 451 feet away. As he reaches the dugout he looks into the cheering crowd. He leans his huge frame over the field box railing and grasps an old brown hand. He mouths the words. For you, Papa. The cards shuffle and it is 2007. I am in a Ford dealership in Kansas City. Behind me several assistants are pushing a gleaming candy apple red 1966 Mustang off the showroom floor toward the truck that will take it to California in time for Father’s Day. I am signing a card. For you, Dad. The cards shuffle again – in time for Cleveland to score three more times in the next fifteen minutes. We have lost again, 7-5. We are facing elimination.


Game 5. Chicago. In the ninth inning Cleveland will not give in. They score three times against the previously unassailable Sean Segundo to tie the game at 5. The South Side Stadium crowd of 36,000 begins to talk to itself. Then Willie Aguila doubles into the right field corner. Ron Holleman faces closer Matt Geer. He is hit on the hand by a tailing fastball, but it is ruled that he swung. Holleman glares silently at the umpire and stands in again. The cards shuffle. It is 2004. Mexico City. I have been hit twice during a doubleheader against Cuernavaca. I am struck for a third time as I try to spin away from a curveball. It is ruled that I swung. I stare at the pitcher as I dig in. In 2004 I hit the next pitch into left field for a single. In 2008 Ron Holleman hits the next pitch over the left field wall to win the game 7-5. We are still facing elimination.


Game 6. Cleveland. Dan Jenkinson has given up 3 runs in 4 innings when Willie Aguila steps to the plate with the bases loaded. I am on second. On the mound is Stanton Caulkins. He is fidgety and clearly concerned. Suddenly it is 2007 and I stand on second as Von Jones walks to the plate. On the mound is Stanton Caulkins. He is fidgety and clearly concerned. Caulkins takes his set. I notice his shoulders are more open now than usual. Caulkins throws a breaking ball. He takes his set and does it again and I place one hand behind my back as take my lead. Von sees me. Caulkins’ next pitch is launched into the blue yonder. Now it’s 2008. Caulkins takes his set and his shoulders are open. I take my lead and wiggle my fingers as they hang down between my legs. Willie sees me and Caulkins’ next pitch is launched into the visitor’s bullpen.

But Cleveland scores 4 runs in the ninth to tie the game at 8. They will not go away. The tying run scores as I am taken out by Jose Arteaga trying to complete a game-ending double play. My knee begins to hurt. In the tenth Tinch and Holleman walk. I bunt them over, wincing in pain as I run down the line. Sean Pangle hits a fly ball to center that scores Tinch. As he reaches the dugout I see Pangle look upward. He mouths the words. For you, Dad. Willie Aguila follows with a double. We win 10-8.


Game 7. Cleveland. In the sixth inning Holleman, Parikh and Tofoya had consecutive hits to give us a 3-0 lead. Roy Pecor had surrendered only a pair of singles in 5 innings of work. Pecor, who was 10-13 for us that year, is pitching well beyond any prediction of his performance. It looks like he has raised himself to another level. He is a different pitcher. But with one out in the bottom of the sixth he complains of a twinge in his throwing elbow. He cannot continue. Manuel Garcia replaces him and gives up 4 hits, 2 doubles, a double steal, and 3 runs before he is pulled without getting an out. The Hammers will not go away.

The score is 3-3 in the eighth (there was more drama in the eighth inning of this series than in every inning of the Baltimore series) when Stuart Smith, who hit all of 5 home runs the entire season, sends a Shaun Byerly slider over the left field wall. Cleveland leads 4-3.

In the ninth Matt Geer arrived to send us home. After retiring the first two batters Flavio Viveros singled and stole second. Rob Sieber, owner of 335 home runs in his career, pulled a hard ground ball behind the bag at third. Viveros was running on the play. Alex Alvarado dove and somehow snagged the ball as it raced past him. Jukebox crossed third as Alvarado popped to his knees and threw to first. Sieber, owner of 335 career home runs, was also the owner of two bad knees. Alvarado’s throw was in time. Viveros threw down his helmet, stopped well short of home, and knelt quietly on the baseline. Sieber’s knees ground to a halt along the right field line. The Hammers flooded from their dugout. Fireworks peppered the night sky. They had won.


Our locker room was quiet after the press left. Stump told us to be proud of what we accomplished. We understood but didn’t feel any better. I was tired – tired of answering the same questions for reporters who weren’t paying attention, tired of playing so hard only to come up one game short, tired of the whims of a nervous dealer of memories. I looked at Tafoya and Tinch. They sat in front of their lockers, staring. I looked over at Flavio. He was changing clothes, perhaps a bit too quickly, a bit too angrily. I looked at Holleman. He was dressing with the same silent rhythm, the same facial expression, the same routine he had used for the entire season and probably his whole career. Ron Holleman would save his emotions for a more private time. The others – Otis, Bootsy, Pangle, Jenkinson, Pecor, Segundo – moved in slow motion, exhausted, like they were hollow. Maybe their breath sounded like wind in their ears. Mine did.

Then I looked at Willie Aguila. He was dressed, his hair still wet from the showers. He was taking down a box from the top of his locker – a box of cigars. His precious Cohibas would have to wait another year. He never found the Especiales, I thought to myself. Perhaps it’s for the best.

A man approached him from behind, a slim older man with a proud bearing and a determined gait. Willie turned to regard his father. His face said it all. I saw him mouth the words. I’m sorry, Papa. But his father raised a long weathered finger and shook it at him. No, Wilfredo, his mouth said. It is I who am sorry.

And there was something there, in his hand. A box, taken from the satchel at the old man’s side. In the flash of a moment I knew, Willie knew.

The Cohibas.

“It is not the complete box,” I heard Francisco Alves Aguila say. “One is missing. That leaves twenty-four. But it is a good number, I think. It is the number of a beisbol team, no? Perhaps you will share them with your excellent teammates. I cannot think who better deserves them than the compadres of my son.”

The past has passed, my dad would say about bad decisions. The best you can do now is look back, learn, and try to make better choices.

In my head the clock reached midnight. It was a new day.



Next time, Chapter 44: The Big Inning

[jaykno14]

Wow that was a great chapter. Your best, definitely.

[Faroo6]

amazing.

[Jazzmosis]

Words cannot describe the utter brilliance of that chapter. BY FAR your best one yet. Well done.