Green Expectations by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 11
NEWARK, NEW JERSEY 2-8-13
At 9AM Lucretia drove Dave to Newark Airport and left him there without any good-bye; just a businesslike steely face and unblinking, threatening eyes, which seemed to say; “You better do well.” He grabbed his bag and stepped out into the drizzle.
The temperature had changed to a balmy-for-February 35 and the water slowly, very slowly was putting an end to the reign of the soot covered ground ice, leaving sooty streams. Around him was a disinterested gray with no distinguishable horizon.
He watched Lucretia splash away, her red tail-lights reflecting off the drip and icy foundation to produce low level, blotchy reflections which merged with the others making their appearances as distinguishable as the sky. The cold water on the bare skin of his face ran down his neck, reaching his back and chest, leaving him less comfortable than a dry fifteen degree morning. The shivers inspired him to stop trying to watch his wife’s blurred departure and get shelter inside the depot.
JUPITER, FLORIDA 2-8-13
His plane landed at Miami International Airport and Dave disembarked to be greeted by sun, palm trees and an eighty degree temperature, making him wonder why he had chosen to live
in winter New Jersey with Lucretia. He decided that it was due to his having been born there; old habits die hard and that his job was there.
“Why Lucretia?” was becoming a real question. That she loved currency and that he loved making it seemed the best quick answer. But, getting real for just one moment, everyone on this planet considers money important. Perhaps it’s the difference between love and need, in some languages the same word, but he was a mono-lingual American.
Because of having served his partial frost sentence in the Garden State he realized that he was being unduly harsh on his home just due to the fact that it truly had seasons and he was becoming one who preferred perennial warmth, an impossibility for a travelling man, and a low-income dude with Lucretia.
The yellow cab coasted near him and the wrinkled, black driver called out; “Where you goin’?”
In his reflective frame of mind he was amused at his truthful answer, saying; “Jupiter.”
The cab stopped and the driver said; “Hop in.”
“How much?”
The cabbie pulled a lever on the front seat box and said;
“Off the meter. Twenty dollars.”
Dave got in the back and watched the scenery while both were silent. Playgrounds full with sweating basketball players
caught his attention on the small rise to his left and makeshift business signs stood out on the one to his right. They seemed to shimmer in the heat reflecting off the concrete as the cab took short sashays and made frequent stops at red lights. He saw a white-lettered, green sign saying; “ENTERING JUPITER,” and the land became perfectly flat and was evenly decorated with houses, condos, high-rises and golf courses.
The cabbie asked; “Where in Jupiter?”
“AVD Security Field.” Dave thought he’d stop at the park first, kind of check-in and find out where everybody was staying.
“Vacation?”
“No. Looking for work.”
“It’s tough this time of year, man.”
“I’m finding that out.”
“Everybody comes here when the Grapefruit League is goin’”
“That’s my thing too. Hope there aren’t a lot ahead of me.”
The cabbie just made one leftward shake of his head, not wanting to say anything discouraging before he got paid.
At the end of a long straight road, heavy with traffic and kids playing stickball in the synagogue parking lot the cab stopped in front of a very important place. Dave could tell by the twenty foot high surrounding walls. His first thoughts were that this was either a retreat for high level government and
military dignitaries, a multi-billion dollar software conglomerate campus or a prison. He saw the sign saying; “AVD
Security Field,” and realized that the answer was akin to the multi-colored logo, neither black nor white.
Dave got his wallet and handed the cabbie twenty-five dollars. The cabbie looked Dave square in the eye and said; “You sure? You might be needing this.”
Dave opened the door and half way out he viewed the cabbie through the open driver’s side window and said; “You gotta believe.”
Journey done and cabbie paid, Dave, carrying his bags, entered the open gates of AVD Security Field to the sound of balls striking leather, wood and chain link metal. The pitchers had arrived earlier than the other players. Dave recognized some from last year’s team, but also saw fresh faces he had not previously seen and some wrinkled ones he thought were retired.
High school aged females wore catcher’s mitts and masks as they attempted to handle pitches harder than with which they were previously accustomed. They squatted near fences, which did the majority of the work.
Harry Manuel, fully outfitted in a Crows cap and uniform with pants held by elastic just below the knees walked quickly and purposefully toward Dave. Seemingly anxious, from ten feet away and moving, he called out; “Don Nelson, right?”
Dave put his gear on the grass, opened his hands and held them palms up. He said; “Kind of. It’s Dave.” He extended his right and Harry vigorously shook it for a second, saying; “Yeah, right. Sorry. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
A number of thoughts raced through Dave’s head, but he didn’t feel comfortable saying any of them, fearing they might be construed as lackadaisical, the last thing Harry Manuel was reputed to tolerate. Though not destined to be a Hall of Fame candidate from his playing skills Harry had a credible fourteen year pro career playing second, third and short, batting a career .265 and having a few memorable clutch moments. He was not blessed with the physical skills of most, weighing a skinny 165, some said when wet. But he made up for it with intensity, concentration and smarts. It was logical that as a manager he would have a special dislike of those bodily blessed and blasé.
Dave furrowed a serious brow and said; “Why’s that?”
“Intuition. Could be wrong. I’m going a little crazy here as all the pitchers showed up early and I don’t have anyone to catch them. I got these girls from the local high school softball teams to volunteer temporarily. They were excited to meet all the stars, but they can’t catch a god damned thing. One almost got hit smack in the face. Luckily it just clipped an ear and now I have them wearing the masks.”
“She still around?”
“Yeah, she’s a trooper. Can’t hear a damn thing from her right side though. Hope it’s temporary. You wanna throw easy today?”
“I’ve been throwing all winter, so I’m ready to go pretty hard. I’ve got a new pitch; a cut splitter.”
“What exactly is that?”
“A traditional splitter, but I can also make it move in and out.”
“Throw it for strikes?”
“Yeah.”
“I gotta see this.” Harry clasped Dave’s right hand with both of his and added; “Gotta go. I have to do everything around here myself.” He briskly walked away and yelled out; “Jorge!
Ease up a little bit. You’ll throw your arm out. ...... Valerie!
Your makeup is fine. Pay attention to the ball. ...... Mike!
Mikey! Dammit, Mikey! ............”
Dave went through the empty dugout, into the locker room and changed. He came back out to be greeted by a cheerful, bouncy girl, who appeared to be about fourteen years of age. She wore a tennis outfit consisting of a plain white T-shirt and loose green shorts left the majority of her tan legs visible.
She pounded her catcher’s mitt and excitedly said; “Are you a pitcher?”
Dave always found his lack of recognition humorous and desirable, at least up until recently. He liked it as he would never have to do the body guard bit, nor be surrounded in the mall, nor be accused of trying too hard. He looked into the pert blue eyes of the tanned blonde, All-American girl and playfully replied; “Yeah, the best ever. Thanks for the thought, but you wouldn’t be able to catch it.”
Her hands went to her hips, her head turned slightly to one side, one eyebrow dropped and she said; “Wanna bet?”
Dave offered her his hand and said; “Dave Nelson.”
She shook it, squinted and said; “Dottie Franklin. My real name is Dorothy, but I hate it. I don’t know why. Maybe it has something to do with the Wizard ........; oh, never mind.
........ The best ever?”
“Yeah, well, I’m not through yet. They only appreciate you after you’re gone.”
Dottie reached into her back pocket and retrieved some of last year’s baseball cards, which had most recent statistics for 2011. She read off; “11-16, 4.39.”
“It gets even better in 2012. Wait till you see next year’s card.” Dave hoped that there would be one.
Dottie saw an open space in front of the visiting team’s dugout and said; “Come on.”
Dave followed her and as usual started throwing easily from forty feet away, gradually moving back with each pitch. He refrained from cut splitters, or splitters, or even curve balls.
It was like playing an easy game of catch. When he reached somewhere near the mound distance, sixty feet and six inches, he continued lobbing the ball in with nothing on it, reticent to hurt the young girl.
After ten of the bland pitches, she removed her mask and disdainfully said; “My little sister can hit that.” She threw the ball back to him harder than he had thrown it in. She felt insulted.
He leaped to get it. He felt challenged, but still reticent to injure the brave girl. He stuck with straight stuff, but gradually increased the speed until he was at ninety percent of potential. She didn’t have any trouble handling the pitches and seemed to be enjoying the game more, as she would catch it squatting, vigorously jump up and throw it back with something on it.
Dave motioned with his arm and said; “Okay, this is gonna break.” He threw a three-quarters curve and Dottie had a bit of trouble gauging the movement of the first few, but caught them with quick last second movements. After that she handled them easily.
Dave said; “Splitter,” and motioned with his arm to indicate that this one was going to drop. To be sure she understood he called out; “It’s not going to look like it at first, but this is gonna dive about two feet. You’d be better off standing.”
Dottie shook her head and stuck out her tongue sarcastically, but stood straight up. He threw it and she held the glove at chest level, where the ball appeared to be going, and then quickly dropped it as the pitch went down, missing it as she lifted her left leg to avoid getting hit with it. It caromed off the chain link fence behind her. She said; “Holy shit,” picked up the ball and threw it back to him.
Dave said; “You sure you want me to keep throwing that?”
“Sure, I’ll quickly get used to it,” and she did. Dave unintentionally threw a couple of sporadic one-hoppers, but Dottie just let them be stopped by the fence. No problem whatsoever.
Dave said; “Okay, Dottie. This is going to be a cut splitter. It’ll go down like the other, but it will also move to the left. ......... My left that is. To your right.”
She handled it just as he thought she would as he knew that the most unusual aspect of the pitch was its dive and the rest just adds a simple curve to it. Dave kept going with the pitch, occasionally bouncing one which the chain links stopped. Dave
said; “Last part of my repertoire. This will drop and break the other way; to your left.”
Dottie nodded approval. He threw it and while in her head Dottie had considered the opposite break no problem, in reality it surprised her, as it did what it wasn’t supposed to do, like a screwball. She got the tip of the glove on it and it deflected the ball onto her left foot. Dave felt worried and he also felt the pain, because it was the same sensation a batter gets when he fouls one straight down off his foot. It hurts like hell for twenty or thirty seconds, but them completely subsides. He trotted to Dottie, who was on the ground holding her foot. He said; “I’m sorry,” and put his hand on her foot, adding; “It’ll be all right in a few seconds.”
Dottie surprised him, retorting; “Yeah, I know. It’s just like when I foul the softball straight down on my foot. Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch for 20-30 seconds, then completely goes away.” Dave smiled for two reasons and hugged her.
Harry Manuel was watching the last pitch and had a few concerns. He too knew Dottie would soon be fine, but he wasn’t thrilled with Dave’s friendliness with a little girl, and in this time of lawyers and lawsuits he was afraid that the shoestring budget of the Crows could not withstand a trip to court. He ran over, dropped to his knees and rubbed Dottie’s foot, an age old baseball tradition, which does no good
whatsoever for the injured, but survives because it makes the non-injured think that they are doing something useful. He performed another customary moronic act when he said; “Are you okay?”
Dottie stood up and said; “Yeah, its feeling better already.” She hobbled on her first step, but was quickly walking normally in a tight circle. She went back to her catching position, but Harry followed and took her glove, saying; “No, no. That’ll be all for you today, young lady.” He escorted her to the dugout entrance and thanked her for volunteering. She went behind the fence and sat on the bench, wanting to watch more before going home.
Harry said; “Okay, Nelson. Throw to me for a while.” He squatted.
Dave wanted to impress him with the splitter and made the circling arm motion. He also called out; “This is gonna drop about two feet, even though it won’t look that way.”
Harry pounded the glove and said; “Yep,” as if someone had just told him that he had just won a free Mediterranean cruise.
Dave threw it a bit lower than he intended. The pitch started out somewhere near a hitter’s thigh, but dropped as Dave had said it would. Harry missed it and the pitch touched ground right behind where home plate would be, bounced up and hit Harry
in the balls. He clutched the injured area with two hands and rolled on the ground.
Dave’s mind raced. He was glad to have shown who he hoped would be his new manager what a great pitch he had. It was not only unhittable; it was uncatchable. On the other hand he considered the possibility of having made a mortal enemy. He walked slowly over to Harry with trepidation. Dottie walked over at normal speed and they both simultaneously said; “Are you okay?”
Harry drew for breath and croaked a quick; “Do I look okay?” as he searched for the best possible grip on the bat.
On the historic day of February 8, 2013 the age old baseball rubbing tradition was broken.
JUPITER, FLORIDA 2-15-13
The field playing hopefuls showed up. By that time Harry’s crotch was able to adequately exist without the benefit of self-perpetrated massage, and he had learned that changing positions can be quite hazardous. He decided that in the future he would stick to second, third, short and manager. But even more importantly, at least to Dave, was that Harry was favorably impressed with the new “stuff” he had seen Dave throw, his last reservation being to do that with a real hitter at the plate.
And here came the hitters, some real and some wishful.
He saw many old faces and a few new ones. He was anxious to prove his mettle, but knew that he’d have to wait a minimum of a few days for the hitters to get in game shape. When he wasn’t throwing he liked to watch batting practice. It was fun. An old guy, in this case first base coach John Kimbrel, with the ability to consistently get the ball over the plate threw less than mediocre fastballs with no breaking stuff and the batters smacked the ball all over the place. The pitcher is always protected by a chest high screen, leaving the head as the only vulnerable area, a body part not needed by a batting practice pitcher or first base coach. Waiting hitters yelled out encouragements to the guy at the plate, made many “Whoooo”
sounds when the pitch was nailed and a few laughing comments were in order on weak popups and grounders. It was all good natured at this point as anybody can hit a batting practice pitcher. The real “competitive” spirits come out later.
On February 19 Harry Manuel split the team into an “A” and a “B” squad. No one openly says this, but the “A” squad consists of the likely regulars and the “B” is mostly made up of those almost good enough to play in the majors, who are there temporarily to provide some half way decent competition for the good guys. Dave was a “B.” He hoped that Harry would see the
obverse of his situation and recognize that he was pitching against the better hitters.
The non-pitching eight got to play at least half of the games and some the entirety. The abundance of pitchers dictated them working two inning stints as Harry wanted to see them all for a while, rather than a few for the long haul. Dave did okay, allowing one run in his allotted four innings, but was fearful that it wouldn’t be enough to make a big impression.
Harry made some cuts, which he posted on the dugout bulletin board, as he didn’t like to see people cry or rant. So far Dave’s name didn’t appear on the “shit list,” though more cuts were coming.
Dave knew that this was a terrible thing to do with most managers, but was well aware of Harry’s reputation as a straight shooter. Rather than risk a nervous disorder his stomach was warning him about Dave approached him in the dugout on 2-20 and said; “Harry, I need a few minutes of your time.”
Harry grimaced and kept his eyes glued to the field action.
He was on his feet with one foot on the second dugout step and one on the first, leaning forward with an elbow on his knee and an arm supporting his chin. He said; “Yeah, Nelson. Watchew got?”
“Harry, I’ve got to know something. You’ve seen this new pitch I have and I think it’s a good one. But, I’m not getting much chance to show it.”
“You’re getting the same chance all the other pitchers are.”
Dave couldn’t argue that and was at a temporary loss for words. He said; “I’ve been in the starting rotation a long time.
Can I expect that to continue?”
“No.”
“Christ, Harry. You’re putting me in a no win situation. If I don’t get the opportunity to demonstrate what I can do, how can I demonstrate it?”
Harry’s eyes flashed anger, when he glared at Dave and retorted; “No, Nelson. You put yourself in a no win situation.
If you were younger I’d give you a shot. But, you’ve had eleven years to show your stuff and it came out very ordinary.”
“But, I’ve got this new pitch. You saw it.”
“Let me give you the hard facts. You are 34 years of age.
Only excellent pitchers play beyond that time. When you’re young you keep getting more chances on the hope of improvement. There has never been a pitcher whose performance has improved after your age.”
Dave cocked his head to one side questioningly.
Harry continued; “Go look up the stats. If you can find one pitcher, ONE, who has improved their performance after age 33
I’ll put you in the starting rotation tomorrow.”
Dave sighed heavily, said; “Thanks, Harry,” and started to walk away.
Harry said; “Nelson,” and Dave turned to him.
“Unless you completely fuck up in the Grapefruit League, you’re going to be on the roster. You’re going to be the mop-up man. Do well and you’ll be in the starting rotation.”
Dave threw his arms around Harry’s shoulders and said;
“Thank you. Thank you.” Harry scanned the grinning dugout occupants and said; “Okay, okay.”
Dave let go and was smiling. Harry said; “Now go make me a miracle. This team is going to need one.” He looked toward the smirking observers and yelled; “Hey. Who’s not paying attention to the game? Mayberry, what’s the count?”
Potential second baseman, Delman Mayberry, said; “I lost track.”
Harry said; “That’s five hundred bucks,” and wrote a note on his pad.
In a high pitched voice Mayberry exclaimed; “Man! I’m not even getting paid. I got no contract.”
Harry said; “Well, if you get one it’s coming off of there.”
JUPITER, FLORIDA 2-21-13
Grapefruit season opened and the Cleveland Cayuhogas visited AVD Security Field. Harry started Bobby Preston and had two newcomers in the lineup he wanted to take a good look at.
Two Mexican nationals named Hector Ortega and Pablo Gonzalez were catching and playing first base, respectively.
Bobby was assured of a spot on the roster as he had a proven history of being a better than average professional pitcher and knew that the Grapefruit League results would have little or no effect on his life. Dave’s old pal had heard the conversation between Harry and Dave about the mop-up man stuff.
He decided to create a situation that required mopping. No one but the pitcher himself can tell if he’s putting everything on the pitch. He took plenty off every fast ball and hardly broke his wrist on curves. Note: Starting pitchers do not put everything on every pitch or they would last two innings. They pace themselves, the discussion of which is highly situational and not necessary for this book.
When the seventh Cleveland run came in in the second inning, Harry went to the mound. He took the ball from Bobby and said; “What the hell happened?”
Bobby kicked some dirt and responded; “Ah, I was trying out some new shit and shit is the right word for it.” He walked to
the dugout, head down, careful not to step on any lines. Harry held up his right hand and pointed it at the bullpen. Old number thirteen walked slowly in by way of center field. Playing that position was Roger Ramples, a 21 year old walk-on who had all the confidence in the world, but not enough ability to make the team. But he wouldn’t know that for a month, and today he took a long look at Dave and derisively said; “The social security check arrive on time this month?”
Dave followed suit and answered; “Pay attention snot-nose.
You’ll see something that you never saw in Truckstop, Iowa.”
“Clear Meadows!”
Dave kept walking and took the ball from Harry, who said;
“You’re a lucky man. You got close to a whole game.”
“I’m just beginning to realize that.”
The new catcher, Hector Ortega walked to the mound to go over the signals. Dave said; “One for fastball. Two for curve.
Three for cut splitter in. Four for cut splitter out. Five change. Six pitchout. On the first sign on the first pitch, second sign on the second pitch, etc., etc. Go with the three unless I fall behind in the count. Then go to two. Mix in a one here and there.”
Hector said; “Man, you know exactly what you want to do.”
He smiled indicating that he considered the certainty somewhat absurd for a mediocre pitcher.
“The result of two long months of study and practice.”
Hector walked back to the plate not knowing exactly what Dave meant. It was fortunate that he did not ask as Dave didn’t precisely know either. It was irrelevant. All they needed to know were the signals.
After the eight pitch warm-up, Brady Clumpthal, a left-hander who had always hit Dave well stepped in. Ortega showed three. Dave nodded and went from the stretch, checking the runner at first. To Clumpthal it appeared to be a chest-high fastball and he cranked up his home run swing, but only looked ridiculous as the ball went in and down to knee level. He laughed and asked the home plate umpire to look at the ball, adding; “Bet you can’t hold it,” a reference to an illegal
“greaseball.” The umpire checked it and handed it back to Ortega, saying; “Looks fine to me.” Clumpthal was incredulous, stood back in, and proceeded to miss two more, asking for an umpire check after every pitch.
The day continued that way. The Crows lost 7-4, but Dave felt that he had proven himself after finishing eight innings of three-hit, shutout ball. In the locker room after the game he swaggered up to Harry Manuel and said; “Pretty good, huh?”
Harry was somewhat distracted by the notes he was making in his wire-bound pad and casually replied; “Yeah, excellent. Now, let’s see what happens when everyone knows what’s coming.”
Dave was childishly hoping for some accolades and a vote of confidence. But this was professional baseball where judgments are made over the long course of a 162 game season and more. How many one-week phenoms were back in Duluth two months later? In fact, how many “Rookies of the Year,” turned into less than average players in future years? The award has often been called the kiss of death. The reason is simple. When one is new, what they do has the element of astonishment, but after a while it becomes expected and often characterizable as just another faulted approach. Dave felt that his pitch was a sure thing, but knew he had to demonstrate that much more than once. He sat on the bench and stared at his socks.
A second later he felt a towel snap against his back. He arched it in momentary pain and surprise and saw Bobby Preston standing behind him and grinning. Dave said; “Hey, thanks, man.”
Bobby’s face went slack as he didn’t want to hear what he just did. He knew Dave wasn’t thanking him for the rude assault and hoped that he wasn’t thanking him for having purposefully pitched poorly. This was his secret. He said; “Thanks for what?”
At the outset Dave hadn’t thought of Bobby’s performance as being purposeful, but because of the look on Bobby’s face and his question, he now considered that a possibility, which was supposed to remain hidden. He said; “Thanks for fucking up. What else?”
Relieved, Bobby’s expression returned to its normal shrewd look with slightly raised eyebrows. He sat down nodding his head and said; “I hope you’re going to change those socks.”
“I don’t know yet. I really don’t want to change anything.”
“Damn. You superstitious guys might as well admit that you’re religious fanatics and found Jesus in your socks. Stink too. Damn. ....... And you gotta inflict it on everybody else.”
Dave silently considered the analogy.
Bobby continued; “I used to see your kind down home. Macon, Joe-jah.” He intentionally used that pronunciation to make his lighthearted point. “Poor ass boys catch a couple of fish and they’re on their knees in church, giving thanks, some with the spirit upon them. Hallelujah. ......... Shee-it.”
Dave intended to continue in a joking vein and answered;
“It kind of makes sense. We blame God every time something goes wrong, so it seems only fair to thank him when something goes right?” The words that came out shocked him and no one else.
“Hey, you’re not going to get holy with me, are you? I had my fill of that stuff a long time ago. I learned to get off my knees and do something.”
“Sounds like Bob Marley.”
“Yeah, it does and so what?”
Dave could see that Bobby was agitated and quit clowning.
He said; “Tell me how we got into all this shit over a pair of
socks.” He took them off and threw them across the room. “I don’t care about the damn socks. I was just trying to bust your balls and I guess it worked. ...... Sorry, and I want you to know that I liked Bob Marley ....... a lot.”
Bobby waved his hand dismissively and said; “Yeah, screw it. It’s just a sore point of mine after seeing all those guys back home devoting their lives to religion; some with voodoo and dead chickens. ...... So, how do you throw that nasty one?”
Dave picked up a ball and held it with his thumb and between two fingers, then made a throwing motion, rotating one finger slightly. He handed the ball to Bobby who tried the same grip, but had trouble getting the ball past the tips of his split fingers. He made a grimacing face and said; “How do you get that thing in there?”
Dave took the ball back and easily placed it deeper. He handed it back to Bobby, who tried again with the same result as before, saying; “You white boys must have some flexible bones.
...... Jesus.”
They looked at each other and laughed.
PORT ST. LUCIE, FLORIDA 2-25-13
On 2-25-13 there was an instant replay. Crow walk-on hopeful Buck Newcombe couldn’t get through the first inning trying his best. Dave came in and baffled the Washington Royals
the rest of the way, with the Royal hitters and manager constantly complaining that there must be a foreign substance on the ball.
Manager Sparky Hendrickson ran out the dugout during the fifth inning Royal home at bat and got right in home plate umpire Pudgy Fairmount’s face and yelled; “There’s something on that God damned ball.”
Pudgy turned away and calmly said; “I’ve checked it 50
times and I haven’t found anything.”
“Well, what the hell is making it move like that?”
“This ain’t some junior instructional league.”
Sparky opened his mouth, but emitted no words. He walked back to the dugout muttering; “Bullshit.”
After the game smiling Harry approached Dave and said;
“You’re really getting in their heads now. To keep them thinking about it why don’t you scratch your forehead whenever you’re taking the sign.”
Dave said; “I like that. I think I will.”
Harry informed him that he was now in the starting rotation, telling him he has five starts to prove himself.