Authors: Douglas Esper
Five Days Later
Wiping residual drool from my face, I prop my left arm on the baseball strategy book I fell asleep reading. The series, now tied at two games apiece, has left me searching for any edge I can get.
It’s one thing to look at a locker room full of young players and convince them to take things day-to-day, at bat-to-at bat, and even pitch-to-pitch, but after a few whirlwind days of the press, the TV, the larger-than-life crowds it all becomes a bit much for everyone. The pressure keeps mounting, so my team needs me to lead them now more than ever.
Feeling the repercussions for falling asleep in the most uncomfortable chair this hotel has to offer, I stretch my sore back, and head toward the kitchenette. Surveying my hotel room, I’m pleased to welcome yet another day without a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of pills, or even empty beer cans littering the floor. My body is back to 100 percent natural, even if it only feels about 30 percent ready to start the day.
The hotel here in California has become my office away from home as various books, ballgame tapes, and random papers with my scribbling litter every surface of the place. I even opened up the microwave yesterday and found a note about our third baseman’s habit of playing too far off the line in certain situations.
The phone rings.
Maybe it’s the Indians and they’ve decided to just give me the job. I’ve grinded through injuries, addictions, heartbreaks, and have had my share of bad luck, but in the end, I am still fighting and, I think, that says a lot about me.
I clear my throat. “Hello?”
“Son, I have good news and bad news.” My father sighs.
Stunned speechless, I drop the phone. I swipe at the small cell phone as it falls to the ground, managing to knock over a lamp and invent a new dance move in the process. Picking up the phone, I verify the line is still connected.
“Dad, are you okay?”
“What? I’m fine, but you sir have major problems to deal with.”
My mind verges on the edge of hysteria. “Well, maybe you could tell me so I can breathe again.”
“It’s your catcher, son,” my father responds in his all-too-calm, voice. “He can’t throw out a base stealer to save his life. Please, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?”
Relief floods. “Well, Dad, I had noticed, but I think at this point we’re going to play the final games with who we’ve got on our roster. Thank you, though, for almost sending me into cardiac arrest, over here.”
My father adds a touch of authority to his tone. “I just watched that last game again and realized that all three stolen bases cost you runs. That just can’t happen.”
I’m managing a team in a championship series and yet still getting coached. “Didn’t you say something about good news?”
He coughs...or stalls? “Well, the good news is, before game seven, I can show your catcher a few tricks of the trade that just might save your bacon. That is, if you want my help.”
“You...you’re coming here?” I ask, looking at the phone, astonished.
“Yes, sir. Your mom and I are flying in Saturday, which’ll give us plenty of time before game seven on Sunday to fix your little problem.”
I force myself to stop picking up the apartment; they aren’t here in town yet. “If there is a game seven.”
“Well son, it’s up to you to make that happen, right?”
I can picture his eyebrows rising to emphasize his question.
“Dad—”
“Not now, son. Your mother snuck behind my back and donated my favorite chair. My search for a replacement may take all afternoon, and I assume you have a thing or two to prepare.”
We hang up and retreat back inside ourselves as the shock of what just happened sets in. Feeling a wide smile spread across my sunburned cheeks, I stand with a purpose. I speak to my empty hotel room. “My father wants a game seven. Then a game seven there shall be.”
Four Days Later
I stroll across the outfield grass toward my bench coach and former teammate Speedy Steve.
He shakes my hand and nods toward right field. “Damn, your dad looks great. I haven’t seen him since, well, since you blew out your shoulder.”
I nod an affirmative and swing my arms to get the blood flowing. My body feels good, though the pressure in my locked jaw may crack teeth before the end of warm-ups. “Listen Speedy, I know I overstepped my bounds with this, but I appreciate you allowing me to have my father on the field.”
He pounds his glove. “Hey man, no worries. I know what it means for you to have him here. If it’s true that he can help, then we’re going to be the better for it. Besides, I figure if I keep doing good deeds for the team you might stop calling me Speedy in front of the guys.”
I shake my head, and wiggle my index finger. “Come on, after all these years, hasn’t it grown on you?”
He gives me a sideways glance, and then motions toward my father, stretching in the outfield. “What did he have to say? I mean, what changed his mind to talk to you?”
I shrug my shoulders. “So far nothing. When I arrived he was already out here working with the catchers.”
Speedy looks around to make sure no one stands within earshot. “Look, I don’t want to be the guy to jinx us, but I’m feeling some good vibes.”
In baseball, wishing someone good luck can be a reason to throw down, but having good feelings before a game seven is like a cardinal sin. To have a lifetime baseball man like Speedy, and a superstitious one at that, make that outlandish comment has my attention.
I grab my bench coach close, by putting one long arm around his broad shoulder. “During the game, I want you to pitch me every last trick you have in the book. I want to catch them off-guard by being as aggressive as Woodie. Tonight, we will be the team twinkling, while the Hollywood Stars are left in the dark.”
Speedy pumps his fist, exposing a regrettable tattoo of a long-gone woman’s name running crooked up his forearm. “Now to figure out how to fit hundreds of ideas into just nine innings.”
Patting Speedy on the shoulder, I breathe in the unseasonably cool California air as we head toward our catchers and my father. There has been a freak snowstorm belting the Rockies, but all reports say, besides some chilly winds, the skies should be clear. I hope we don’t require the services of our knuckleballer. When it gets cold his pitches release even more erratic than normal.
It appears, as I approach my father, that he’s showing my starting catcher a sliding motion to help set his feet quicker. Each millisecond that a catcher has the ball in his hands, rather than throwing it toward second, can determine whether the runner steals a base or gets gunned down. Neither of my catchers has found much success this year, and as my father pointed out, it has cost us.
Woodie’s style of coaching matches his style of play, full speed ahead and aggressive. If Speedy and my father can curb the effects of his aggressive play enough, then my team might gain an edge and a chance at walking away as champs.
I motion for a player to toss me a ball. “You’re not teaching these guys any bad habits, are you, Dad?”
Not having any clue how either he or I will react, I’m prepared for anything yet projecting nothing to muddy the situation.
My father chuckles and waves us over, which lightens the mood. “Don’t you managers teach fundamentals anymore? No wonder the Indians stink year after year.”
“Well Dad, if I hit the Majors, you can call me anytime to bitch about a lack of fundamentals, okay? Today though, as a proud Minor League coach, I take offense to being compared to the abysmal Tribe.”
My father telegraphs a punch to my gut that almost causes me to jump out of my cleats. “I’m proud of you, son.”
As he speaks, his eyes are surveying the field full of stretching players.
“Dad,” I say, keeping emotions at bay. “Don’t get me all choked up in front of my guys.”
“Please, don’t cry. You’re a leader of men. I don’t want you embarrassing me and your mother before the game even starts.”
Just as fast as the wave of emotion rose, it crashes away without a sound. I regain control and focus. “How’s Mom?”
“She’s good.” My dad says, catching a ball and then bouncing it toward my starting catcher. “She got up early to find a church this morning.”
I nod.
Speedy chimes in. “Well, it’s good to know someone is praying for this rag-tag outfit. Mr. Kelly, do you mind if I sit in on this catcher session? I’d love to know what you’re teaching my guys.”
“You bet,” my father begins, shooting me a wink. “Son, don’t you have a team to manage? This group is in good hands with Steve and me.”
I want to stay and talk, or better yet pull my father into an office to talk in private, but as usual the man is right. I have a game to win. Making my way around the workout, I offer encouragement and pointers to my players and coaching staff. My spirits are soaring by the time our practice finishes up. As my players gather in the visiting team’s locker room, surrounded by the sharp minty aroma of Ben Gay, no one is more stunned than I as I begin an unplanned speech.
“Men. I’ve been around the game of baseball for a long time, and God willing, I’ll be around for a long time after today. I’ve watched the game, played the game, and now coached the game surrounded by some of the best people I know. The respect I have for you guys in here is just as high as it is for anyone else I’ve ever stepped onto the field with. Ever. You’ve all heard the rumors swirling around about the possibilities that lie ahead for me, so I’m not going to sit here with you, the guys I respect, and sugarcoat anything. If the Cleveland Indians see fit to offer me their coaching job, I’m gonna take it, but to be honest, at this moment, all I care about is right here and now. So I want to be damn sure that whoever follows me out onto the field is ready to fight for every single inch of game that stands between us and victory.”
The energy in the room buzzes.
I survey the eager, committed expressions of my team. “Well, I’ve had enough of this talking and posturing crap, so I’ll make this simple. Who’s coming with me?”
The locker room erupts into a screaming, yelling mob scene as my players jump up and rush toward the field as the Erie Express, with one goal in mind. That is, of course, to eclipse the Hollywood Stars.
All right, Woodie, here we come.
A Few Hours Later
Woodie’s about to lose his temper. Tied 3-3 in the seventh, I can’t believe he’s risking getting thrown out over something petty, like a close call at second. He must feel the same gut-churning pressure I am to make something happen before it’s too late.
I nod. “Guys, this is about to get interesting.”
Woodie starts kicking dirt around the infield and waving his arms like a flailing bird caught in a tornado.
With a runner on first and only one out, Woodie was going to have his second baseman lay down a bunt to advance the runner. That much was easy to predict, thus I had my infield move in at the last possible moment to cover the bunt attempt. This also was no surprise to the other team, so the Stars started their runner on first movement. Our pitcher’s windup takes forever, so stealing on him doesn’t take a burner on the bases, but in this case, we caught a break. While squaring to bunt, the batter hesitated for just an instant, and he wasn’t quite set as the pitch blew past him and into the catcher’s mitt without making any contact.
Our catcher hopped up, eyes alert, and then he did something that swelled my heart with pride, joy, and hope. Risking a few precious milliseconds, he shifted his feet a few inches to set his balance, and gunned the ball across the infield. Unlike his usual throws, this one was right on target. A cloud of dust kicked up from the second baseman’s mitt as the ball slammed into it, just in time to tag the oncoming base runner’s leg.
Woodie yells as he crosses the diamond to argue with the broad shouldered man in blue who just called his player out. “Are you kidding me? He slid right under your blind eyes and this man’s arm, and was safe.”
The ump puffs out his chest, apparently content to antagonize Woodie rather than calm him down. “Ramon tagged him. It was a perfect throw. Just walk back to your dugout and admire a good play when you see it.”
Enraged, Woodie throws up his arms, as the memories of the many times I have seen this tirade before come flooding back.
Glancing over to the standing room only crowd, I see my father still clapping and cheering for the catcher he helped coach this morning. We exchange a wink as a large helping of bundled emotions drops like a large stone down through my chest.
Focusing my attention back toward the circus sideshow at second base, I know my oldest friend finds pushing his luck comfortable, and I also know that if I let this continue he’ll end up watching the rest of the game from a TV set in the underbelly of the stadium.
Woodie’s angry voice rises so loud that his complaining can be heard three rows deep around the stadium. “My grandmother could’ve made a better call, ump. And she’s been dead for twenty years.”
“This is getting ugly,” I say to my dugout. “I’m going to go straighten this out.”
I head toward the war being waged on national television over a simple judgment call at second.
Before I get there, however, the words continue to rage out of Woodie. “Do you have a date tonight, is that it? Why else would you be in such a hurry to make whatever call you can to get out of here on time?”
The ump appears taken aback that Woodie would tread this ground. He points a finger at Woodie’s chest. “Now you listen. I’ve been an ump for fifteen years and–”
Woodie interrupts, “Fifteen years, huh, and in that whole time you never once thought about getting glasses?”
The hefty ump pulls up at the waistband of his pants and straightens. Attempting an expression to convey toughness, the ump just looks constipated to me. “One more word and I toss you. The only reason I haven’t yet is because it’s the last game, and I don’t want to help decide it.”
Woodie says, “You sure? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting, it looks like you have money on the other team.”
Hustling, though it feels like I’m fighting through three feet of lake effect snow, I grab Woodie and pull him back. I motion for Higgins, our immature shortstop, to get between the ump and Woodie.
“
That’s it
,” the ump starts.
Damn, I’m too late.
Woodie jabbers on. “By the way, Jim Joyce just called and said thanks for helping people forget his historically lousy call.”
The ump raises his hand to throw Woodie out.
I inject myself into a conversation that all logic suggests I stay out of. “Wait, please don’t toss him.”
Unsure why opposing managers would be sticking up for one another, the ump falls quiet and forgets about throwing Woodie out for the moment.
I use that window to make a quick point and hope it works. “We don’t want the game decided like this. I know Woodie said some inappropriate things, but it’s nothing personal. It’s just a stressful and exciting day for all of us. Just let him apologize, and let’s get back to the game, okay?”
Woodie stops struggling in my arms, dumbfounded.
The ump asks, “Are you serious?”
“Yes, sir. Let us finish this game,” I say, releasing my grip on my friend. “Besides, now that Woodie has had a chance to think about it, I bet he agrees that my guy was safe by a mile.”
Woodie’s double-take makes this trip out on the field worth it. His eyes are so wide he looks like a cartoon character who realizes he’s just run passed the edge of a cliff and currently stands on nothing but air. I release him, so he can straighten his jersey before apologizing.
The Ump urges, “Well, you got something to say, Lucky-man?”
Shaking his head in good-humored disbelief, Woodie kicks a little dirt, and chuckles. “I don’t think there’s any more to say, Ump. It’s obvious to everyone here that the runner was safe. Only an idiot would argue that.”
Back when I was a player and I faced a stressful situation like this, I would follow in my father’s footsteps and run my hands through my hair to help calm myself down, but my hair decided to split in my mid-twenties.
The Ump points toward the dugouts. “Both of you go sit down and let’s play ball.”
We turn to follow orders. Woodie and I both hide smirks under our caps.
Woodie asks, “When did you teach your catcher the old Kelly shuffle?”
“Pops did.”
“He’s here?”
I turn and nod in the direction of my dad.
Woodie spots him then waves to my dad. “Thanks, Ryan. That meant a lot to me. I…I lost it back there. I guess all this anxiety has gotten to me, big time. I’m amazed how well you’re handling everything. I’m a freakin’ wreck.”
“Handling it well, hell, I think I’ve popped a couple veins this week. Woodie, you coach a good game.”
Before we part across the field to our respective dugouts, I toss Woodie our lucky Indians pendant. Catching it and nodding, Woodie turns toward his team.
As I give my dad a nod of appreciation, a kid runs past him, knocking into his leg and grabbing onto the back of the dugout. To my delight, the kid sports a brand-new Erie Express hat. I tip my hat to the boy, who surveys the field in awe.
Watching my father and the boy, a powerful sense of déjà vu washes over me, and I flash back to my first trip to the ballpark. My father snuck me down from the upper deck to sit just behind the dugout, to watch Nolan Ryan throw a few pitches up close. Looking back, I still remember being shocked at how big and strong the players on the field looked.
With a wink and a nod, I trot down the stairs and focus again on winning this game.