Green Expectations by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 15

SERIES TIED!

JERSEY BULLETIN 10-30-13. Dave Nelson was at his best under pressure, pitching a five hit shutout for the New Jersey Crows, winning 1-0, to even the World Series with the New York Giants at 3-3. It was his second Series and fifth post season victory against no losses, capping a stunning season. Game 7 is scheduled here for tomorrow at 5PM and Harry Manuel is expected to start Andy Barber, who was roughed up in game 3, having to leave in the fourth, allowing six earned runs.

Despite miraculous years from Nelson, Ortega and Gonzalez; and to a lesser extent Preston and Coke, the Crows are not yet home free. This writer, Charles Deletrimian, is of the opinion that they will have great difficulty in getting there. NJ’s pitchers, excepting Nelson and Preston, have had little success in containing the Giant big bats and neither will be available tomorrow. One might hope for a few days of rainouts, but the Meadowlands dome makes that impossible.

The Crows have had Lady Luck on their side during the first six games, as the sluggers have been struggling and the Giants have outscored the Crows by an unbelievable 38-14. The Crows have eked out three one run wins and lost three deluges. There doesn’t seem to be anything left in the arsenal, which was bolstered all year long by once-in-a-lifetime performances. It was a commendable effort, but reality is overdue ...............

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MEADOWLANDS- 10-31-13- GAME 7 OF WORLD SERIES

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A steady rain pelted the arid New Jersey earth all night.

Stars with the audacity to think that they were the desired focal points were obscured by the wall to wall, black and thundering clouds. The Meadowlands ground crew arrived at what passed for dawn and went about their routine of line painting, grass mowing and dirt raking, solemnly doing the work to provide a perfect field for game seven of the World Series. By 11AM the rainclouds had shot their wad and the sun appeared brilliant in the light blue sky, only marred by one tiny dark remnant which stubbornly refused to admit that the show was over. At 11:15

Ground Crew Chief Matt DiMaggio put in a call and orders were received to open the dome, so as to play the final game in the sun.

Levers were cranked and buttons were pushed. The curving pieces of gray composite, water repellant covered, steel encumbrances parted with an ear-splitting groan, then whined their way down into the spaces which almost hid them. Starting in left field illuminating golden rays streamed into the diamond, quickly filling it.

At 5PM, from an enclosed booth high behind home plate MBC

announcer Gary Sutherland was shouting in an attempt to overcome the constant crowd howl; “Top of the ninth. Crows still ahead 7-

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6. Bases full, two outs and here comes that man. Buster Wilson is striding to the plate. Andy Barber, who has gone the distance, looks tired and is looking into the dugout. He has good reason to be worried as Wilson is four for four on the day, including a two run dinger in the seventh. Buster led the National League in homers with 47 and RBI’s with 132. He’s been on a tear in the post-season, batting .535 with 8 homers and 26

driven in. No surprise. Here comes Harry Manuel. The Crow manager has called time out and is walking to the mound. This’ll be it for Andy, who struggled all day, but hung in there and got the outs when he most needed them.”

Joe McCarver, the color man, spoke; “You’re absolutely right, Gary. Andy Barber did a real pro job when his pitching shy team most needed it. He didn’t have his best stuff, but he didn’t walk anybody and kept the ball in the ballpark.”

“Except for Wilson.”

“Right you are, Gary. That’s the problem. Andy hands the ball to Harry and listen to that. The fans are giving him a standing ovation as Barber walks to the dugout. He tips his cap and waves. Question is who is Harry going to bring in now?”

“The relief corps is short and none of them have had much success against the strong hitting New York Giants. In fact the only pitcher who has had clear cut success is nowhere to be seen. Dave Nelson, who just yesterday threw a complete game

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shutout to tie the series at three apiece is not on the bench or in the bullpen. If you were managing what would you do?”

Joe laughed and said; “For once I’m glad I’m not. I think the best thing to do is fall down, fake some kind of attack and get carried off the field.” He and Gary chuckled as Joe said;

“Look at Harry. He’s holding the ball and standing on the mound all alone. You weren’t a pitcher, buddy. Better find somebody else.” More compulsory chuckles came over the sound of a pencil tapping out something nobody could dance to.

Down on the field, Brian Daugherty, the home plate umpire, lumbered toward the mound, hindered by all his protective equipment. He called out; “What’s up, Harry. You’ve got to get a pitcher out there. You can’t do it yourself. You’re not on the roster card.” His fat round face was smiling.

Harry answered; “Don’t rush me. I’ve got thirty seconds.”

Brian knew that Harry was notorious for knowing the rule book and didn’t want to get in a heated discussion he would likely lose. Instead he turned back toward the plate, glanced at his watch and said; “Fifteen.”

Two guys who were throwing in the bullpen, a righty, Michael Balfour and a lefty, Carmen Alonzo stopped and stood near the gate to see who would get the call. The Giants had beaten up on both handily thus far in the series. Buster bats left-handed, so Alonzo seemed the likely choice.

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Harry pointed into the dugout and said; “Nelson.”

His word couldn’t be heard over the crowd and players looked at each other, unsure who was being called out. Harry yelled; “Nelson, get out here, now.”

As instructed, Dave was still throwing behind the dugout to third string catcher, Jerry Wade. His arm was extremely tired from having gone the full nine innings yesterday, but did as he was told, not really expecting to come in the game. Rafael Ortiz, a bench jockey, with management aspirations opened the back door and called to him; “Nelson, Harry wants ‘ya.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No man, get out there.”

Dave entered the dugout, looked out to the field and saw Harry standing on the pitcher’s mound with an air of impatience.

He put a questioning arm to his chest as if to say; “Me?”

Harry yelled; “Get out here Nelson. You’re making me look bad.”

Daugherty yelled out; “Time’s up,” just as Dave’s left foot hit the dirt. A low buzz emanated from the crowd, gradually rising to a roar. As he slowly walked to the mound he heard calls of; “You’re the man,” “Go get ‘em,” “All my money’s on

‘ya,” “Send us home,” and other encouragements which became indecipherable as they blended. The crowd rose to their feet and started clapping to the beat provided by someone in the bleachers with a bass drum. Dave knew the tune to be Eminem’s

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“Lose Yourself,” but at this point couldn’t recall the lyrics, just the driving beat. He caught his father’s eye, who was at his seat behind third base. He was standing, but motionlessly so and when he saw his son look his way he looked to the sky and shook his head, observing the one small black cloud which had virtually no effect on the perfect day.

Harry extended the ball to him near the rubber and Dave said; “You didn’t put my name on the card yet, so this can be changed. I’m gonna mess it up, Harry, you don’t know what you’re doing.” He looked at the ball, but kept his arms at his sides.

Harry was exceedingly vexed by Dave’s attitude and said;

“Who else do I have bring in the game?”

Dave shrugged and weakly said; “Alonzo? Lefty versus lefty.

It’s traditional.”

Harry gave him a sickening look, grimacing with eyes at the corners.

Dave’s voice rose when he added; “My arm’s dead, man. My fastball is absolutely flat.”

“Forget the fastball. You don’t need a live arm to throw that cut splitter. Just get it over the plate.” He slammed the ball into Dave’s stomach, which right now was not his strongest point. Dave took the ball and gave Harry one more pleading look.

Harry silently walked back to the dugout. Dave sarcastically said; “Yeah, right.”

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Dave took his eight warm up pitches, two of which might have been strikes to Godzilla. He felt worse than before he started. Hector Ortega, the catcher walked out to discuss signals. With his glove protecting his mouth, Dave said; “The usual. Harry says all threes, cut splitters.” He looked behind him and Johnny Romo, the shortstop tapped his glove on his chest indicating that he was covering second. Dave nodded and rolled the ball around in his hand.

Ortega pounded his glove and squatted behind the plate.

Wilson stood ready. Infield chatter commenced; “Come on, Dave,”

“No batter up there,” “Hum, Davey,” and various other sounds that were supposed to be encouraging. The crowd noise elevated and elevated, eventually drowning out the players. Ortega flashed three. Dave went from the stretch, whirled and threw to second base, hoping some miracle would happen and that he could pick off the runner, rather than pitching to Buster. It would indeed have been a miracle as the runner was only five feet off the bag and Romo didn’t expect a throw, but managed to get there just in time. He held the ball a second and said; “Come on, Dave. You can do it. Just like yesterday.” He threw it back and the chatter again started and the crowd yelled. Wilson stood in.

Ortega again flashed three. Dave stretched and again threw to second base. Everything got so quiet that he heard the clap of the ball as it entered the shortstop’s glove. Romo looked

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worried and said; “Come on, man. Nuthin’ happenin’ here. Get the hitter.”

Dave caught his throwback and knew this was it. He picked up the resin bag and flipped it around in his sweaty right hand.

His legs felt as if he had just finished the mile. He stepped toward the mound. Buster, the man, stepped in. Ortega squatted and showed three. Noise came from all directions. Dave backed off and looked at his father, who stood with his arms folded against his chest. Dave thought he detected lips curled in disgust. Harry trotted out of the dugout and called for time.

When he got to Dave he didn’t face him, but rather stood at his side, eyes on the ground. Dave was looking at his father and was now certain that he was displaying disdain, if not out and out repulsion. Dave switched to Harry’s perspective and together they surveyed the many footprints on the dirt mound.

In a mellow voice Harry said; “What the hell is wrong now?”

Dave shook his head slowly and replied; “I don’t really know. ...... It’s like ...... It’s like I’ve been practicing and playing this game for close to thirty years now. Mediocre teams, meaningless games. I never gave a shit, you know what I mean?”

Harry whispered; “Yeah, I’ve been married a couple of times,” his tone indicating neither agreement nor disagreement, sounding somewhat like a half question.

Dave went on; “None of the games were important. I tried to do well, but if not, no big thing. There were always many more

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games on the way. ...... It was kind of relaxing and easy. But, now, you know, it’s like all those thirty years boil down to this one situation. Maybe, it’s the first time I really care what happens and I’m afraid that it will be a disaster. I just can’t do it.”

Harry calmly said; “That’s it?”

Dave shrugged and said; “Yeah. ... Kind of.”

Harry’s voice elevated to an exasperated level when he said; “Nelson, you think you are so God damned important.

Whatever happens, sure, everybody will be talking about it tomorrow. But guess what. The day after tomorrow nobody will even remember. They’ll be talking about the next movie star in rehab or some other bullshit. So, just throw the fucking ball.

... And I mean to home plate!” He walked back toward the dugout.

Dave smiled when he called out; “Hey, Harry. Fuck you. Just plain fuck you.”

Harry had stopped and was looking at Dave. He laughed, said; “Right,” and continued on. Dave looked to his father whose arms had taken permanent residence across his chest and mumbled;

“You really think I can’t, don’t you?”

Dave went to the rubber and somehow Harry’s helpful upbraiding had made the other feelings disappear. Noise started tenuously and rose steadily. The man stepped in and seemed to be sporting a derisive grin. Dave got mad. Ortega flashed three.

Dave stretched. He came forward and let it go. It started out

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waist high, then dropped below Wilson’s knees on the outside corner as he swung over it. Daugherty said; “Strike one,” and with his right hand pushed the little clicker button of his ball-strike indicator.

Ortega nodded approval and zinged the ball back. Dave caught it and paced around the mound like an anxious leopard. He stepped on the rubber and eyed Buster, who had not yet gotten back into the batter’s box. As he glared his mind said; “Don’t make me wait jerk. You ain’t gonna hit this thing anywhere, anyway.” Wilson stepped in sans grin. Noise started growing.

Ortega flashed three. Dave heard nothing and saw only a huge glove target. He stretched and fired. Buster swung and made only a breeze, looking like some busher from Double A, his bat two feet above the ball and way in front of it. Daugherty said; Strike two,” and pushed his ball-strike indicator button again.

Ortega looked the ambitious runner back to third, faking a throw as he had come fifteen feet down the line, hoping that the catcher wasn’t paying any attention to him. Ortega then threw the ball back to Dave. “He’s all yours now. Just one more.” Dave took the return throw and turned his back to the plate. He took off his cap and wiped his seriously sweating forehead with his Black Crow sweatshirt arm. He absently looked at his infielders who were calling out more encouragement and smoothing out the already smooth dirt with their spikes. He didn’t hear what they were saying as he was thinking about his next pitch. He thought;

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“Traditional wisdom suggests that I waste a fastball and if I get lucky Buster strikes out swinging at a bad pitch. A pitcher gets criticized if he makes an 0-2 pitch too good. Besides, I never liked throwing the same pitch three times in a row to anybody. Just let him look at one. But, my father had always said; ‘If he can’t hit it, keep throwing it until he proves he can.’ Harry also told me to throw the cut splitters. If I throw it and Wilson hits it, it’s their fault. Just following orders.”

He decided; “Fastball’s not what they want. Let’s get this over with while I’m hot. No fooling around. Get him with the cut splitter now.”

He turned to the plate with determination. This time Buster was waiting for him. As he looked in, Ortega, Daugherty and Buster broke into an argument about Buster’s foot being out of the batter’s box. While he usually stood as far back as he could, he had now moved the opposite way and was as far up as he could go, no doubt in an effort to nail the cut splitter before it took it’s dive.

Harry ran from the dugout and wanted to know what was going on. Daugherty explained; “As always the batter’s box lines have been wiped out through game activity. So I drew this front line with his bat. He’s standing behind that.”

Harry said; “He’s gonna step into it and when he does his front foot will be out of the box.”

“You can’t predict the future.”

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“The hell I can’t. It happened every other time he swung.

It’ll happen again this time.”

“Rules say he has to be standing in the box and he is. Case closed.”

“The rules also say that if a batter hits a ball while out of the batter’s box that he is out, but you guys never call that one.”

“Harry, discussion over. Grandpa, go back, sit down, shut up and let the youngsters play the game. All right?”

Harry knew that he had a correct, but losing argument. He didn’t want to get the umpire too mad and have him take it out on the players. He “accidentally” kicked a small amount of dirt onto home plate as he silently walked back to the dugout.

Dave called out; “Hey, Harry. Don’t worry. He ain’t gonna hit the thing anywhere.” He took a few steps toward home plate and chuckled at the sight of Daugherty bending over with his back to him brushing off home plate. Buster stared at him. Dave showed him the ball and laughed as he yelled; “The only way you’re gonna touch this is if you take it out of the catcher’s mitt and hit a fungo.”

Harry’s entire body and head winced. He thought; “Oh, good God. I got a mental midget for an umpire and a bi-polar pitcher who one minute can’t throw the ball and a minute later thinks he’s Bob Gibson. And I’m going to be judged based on what they do. Jesus Fucking Christ.” He sat by himself in the corner of

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the dugout, hung his head almost between his legs, folded his hands and whispered; “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou ...................”

First Base Coach John Kimbrel went to him and said; “You all right, Harry?”

“Fuck off, man. ...... amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus ..........................”

The infield chatter commenced. The crowd roared like a wounded, but still very vital lion. The shirtless drum man in the right field bleachers slammed out a loud beat nobody recognized, but after a few repetitions the standing crowd clapped in unison. As Dave pranced back to the mound, he realized that Wilson’s foot shift had changed the entire situation. He thought; “When a man is way up in the plate the best thing to do is bust him with the hard stuff, but my hard stuff had gone the way of the game of cricket.” He looked to his father and saw him flashing “one” in front of his zipped gray jacket. Dave looked bewildered as he thought; “You always told me to keep throwing it until he proves he can hit it.”

Dad correctly surmised his son’s dilemma and kept showing

“one,” now with increased motion. Dave looked to Harry, whose hands were folded with his head now between his knees, staring at the ground as if he couldn’t bear to watch. Dave looked back to his Dad, who was now frantically flashing “one” with his right index finger. The people near him must have thought that

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there was something horrible at his feet. Dave didn’t know what to throw. He decided to go with the majority opinion. Dave laughed and nodded. He thought; “One and a half votes for the fastball, a half vote for the cut splitter and one born again, evangelistic abstention. Here goes.”

He put his right foot on the rubber, leaned over and looked in. Ortega flashed “three.” Dave shook him off. The catcher thought that there must have been some misunderstanding, so he again flashed “three,” and Dave again shook him off.

Buster stepped out of the box. Ortega called time and trotted out to Dave. He lifted his mask and said; “What’s up, man?”

Dave said; “I’m goin’ with the heater.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ left, pal.”

“Hey, man. I’m feelin’ good. I’ve been having the best year of my life. He’s up in the box and I think I can conjure up one Walter Johnson fastball to top the whole thing off.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“I hope you know what the hell you’re doin’.”

“More than ever.”

Ortega took a few unsure steps toward home. Dave pranced to the chalked line between first base and home. He yelled; “Hey, Buster. Watch this.” He dug his right spike in and moved his foot back and forth obliterating two feet of the foul line.

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Buster and Ortega stared without expression. With his maniacally shining eyes glued to Buster, Dave strutted to the chalked line between third base and home and shouted; “Just so you don’t think that was an accident.” He used his left spike to destroy two feet of that foul line. Buster blinked his eyes, ground the head of his bat into the dirt and leaned on the handle. He looked into his dugout. Dave spit and said; “That’s fuckin’

equality.” As he walked back to the mound he saw that everyone except Buster, even Harry, had their eyes transfixed on him. He thought; “Never hurts to let your opponent think you’re a little crazy.”

Ortega put his mask back in place and walked back to home plate, shaking his head and mumbling something in Spanish. The only words Dave could make out were gringo and chalado.

Ortega pounded his glove and squatted behind the plate.

Wilson stepped in, further up in the box than he was before. The noise level rose to that of Niagara Falls at its base. The drummer could not be differentiated from the drummed. Dave toed the rubber and leaned in. Ortega flashed “one.” Dave nodded and rather than stretching he went from the full windup. He double pumped to let Buster think about it some more. Then he delivered.

The ball hit Ortega’s glove before Buster started his swing and Daugherty yelled; “Stee-rike three.” Dave started jumping and the rest of his team ran full tilt to him. Ortega lifted him

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off the ground and broad face laughed when he said; “God damned fanatic.” With the help of the others the catcher got Dave in the air. They carried him toward the dugout. Dave thought; “I can’t believe that I just did that.”

Dave started laughing and crying at the same time. He looked at the crowd, which had broken through security and was streaming onto the field heading for him. Thousands of feet decimated the remainder of the foul lines from the fences to home plate. He saw his father’s gray jacket, but oddly his Dad was not looking at him. Silver flashes, much like a mirror reflecting the sun, were emanating from a spot in the crowd and Dad seemed to be frantically trying to get there, but he was blocked in by the celebrating wall to wall throng. He was trying to push people out of his way, but when he moved one another took the same place. He was yelling and attempting to break through, just like everybody else, who were irritated thinking that he should wait his turn, just like them. His expression appeared to be pained.

Dave heard what sounded like a cough come from the area producing the silver flashes and simultaneously felt a pain like the bite of a fire ant. The next thing he knew he was on his back on the ground, looking up at the faces of his team mates.

They were hunched over and worriedly alternating their silent stares from him to something behind them Dave couldn’t see. Dave felt better than he ever had before. He was still laughing and

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crying, tears proudly streaming down his cheeks, as he raucously asked his friends; “What’s the matter? We’re champions. We’re the bona fide, certified, fucking champions.”

Dave’s gaze drifted to the space directly above him.

Between the circled heads of his ridiculously troubled team mates he saw a brilliant blue sky. Quickly that one small, seemingly irrelevant black cloud slyly maneuvered its way in front of the sun and everything went dark. He felt that warm southerly breeze come from between all the touching legs and two red-breasted robins hovered just above the crowd.

ANOTHER LYRICAL INDISSOLUBLE

VIVACIOUS ENDING

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