by Guy Franks
One other thing made that story memorable: it was how the Kingsmen got their name. In Bristol, the team had been called the “Chrysanthemums,” better known as the “Bristol Mums” and Shake hated that name. As a condition of becoming a shareholder (and co-conspirator), Shake demanded the name change. Rex Lyon wanted the “New Britain Bolts” for obvious reasons but Shake played hardball and said he wouldn’t go along with the whole scheme unless Rex and the board agreed to the “Kingsmen.” Not wanting a rift with Shake, whom he recognized as a talented manager, Rex finally relented and the board unanimously approved the “Kingsmen.” And all ended well: Rex got his new stadium and kept his franchise, the big club was happy with the new venue, and Shake got his name change and shares in the New Britain Professional Baseball Inc. The shares hadn’t made him a fortune yet but that didn’t matter to Shake. The old man had pulled it off and he admired him for it.
“This is Kent—Orson Kent,” said Rex pointing to the young man next to him. “Horace Kent’s kid. Here to learn the ropes. Kent, this is Coach Glover.”
Orson stepped forward and shook hands with Shake. They both exchanged knowing smiles (they’d been introduced by Rex two days ago). Just then one of the parking attendants rushed in and stopped in front of Rex.
“I’m out of breath,” said the parking attendant bending over. He raised a finger to give himself a moment.
“How can you be out of breath when you have the breath to tell me you’re out of breath?” asked Rex. “What’s wrong?”
The story came out between huffs and puffs that part of the parking lot was flooded by last night’s rain and they were running out of parking space.
“Get some brushes and squeegees out there!” yelled Rex. “Come with me,” he added in a voice that was resigned to the incompetence of other men. The two left to solve the parking problem. Shake noticed that Orson was startled by Rex’s roar (Shake, on the other hand, was long used to it). He nodded to Orson to follow him into his office.
Shake offered him the same chair Hank had been sitting in. Orson opened his sport coat, hiked it up, then sat down genteelly and crossed his legs. Shake knew both of Orson’s parents and it was obvious to him that the young man took after his mother. He had the same doe-like eyes and turned-up nose, and the fact that his dark hair was perfectly coiffed, with tailored bangs to fit his oval face, made the similarity with his mother even more striking.
“He forgot he already introduced us,” said Orson after he settled into his chair.
“Yeah, he’s got a lot on his mind. Opening day and all.”
Orson leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I think it might be more than that,” he said. “I mean I drove over here with him and he got lost—lost driving to his own ballpark.”
Shake chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, yeah, the guy’s, what, eighty-two? Hope I can still find my way to the ballpark at eighty-two.” He looked at Orson’s skeptical face and saw he hadn’t made a dent. “Rex is a throw-back. He’s his own GM. He sells tickets, counts receipts, replaces toilet paper, sells advertising, spreads the tarp. He knows the name of every season ticket holder in the stands. Once in a while he forgets stuff but I wouldn’t worry about it.”
He could see that Orson wasn’t convinced. Hell, he knew Rex was getting forgetful. Everyone knew that. But he wasn’t about to let anyone make more out of it than that.
“Why doesn’t he get a GM?” asked Orson.
“He was supposed to. When he turned eighty, he was going to make his youngest daughter Corey the GM but they had a falling out. So, for now, I’d say you’re the GM… And I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d look out for the old guy.”
“’Course,” replied Orson. He reached out and turned the statue that sat on Shake’s desk. “Who made the hat?”
The thing in question was a foot high statue of William Shakespeare. The Bard, dressed in fitted hose, jerkin and cape, stood in a thoughtful pose with a book under one arm and other hand stroking his beard. On top of his normally bald head sat a miniature New Britain (NB) baseball cap.
“I think Speed made it but he won’t admit it.”
“Speed? The clubbie?”
Just then there was a knock at the door and Orson jumped up to let the groundskeeper in. He was with his assistant, and they were both in boots and covered in mud. His name was Doug (which Shake always imagined was spelled “Dug”).
“Seen Mr. Lyon?” asked Doug. “He told us to report to him.”
“He’s out in the parking lot,” said Shake. “How’s the field looking?”
Doug straightened to attention and his assistant Barry followed suit. “Excellent. Most admiral,” he replied proudly. “We just got down putting absorbine on the mound. You’re prima facie. The rest of the field’s in star-studded shape. We just need to make our repository to Mr. Lyon.”
“Good work, men,” said Shake as he glanced at Orson, who was holding back a laugh. “As you say, most admirable. You’ll find him in the parking lot.” Both groundskeepers nodded and shuffled out the door leaving a trail of mud. Once gone, Orson snorted a laugh in disbelief. “Don’t say it—just get used to it,” Shake said with another shrug. He nodded to the Bard’s statue on his desk. “As the man once said, ‘They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.’”
It was nearly time to take the field so Shake parted ways with Orson and headed into the locker room. He had heard the noise earlier but now it got louder as he walked in: dueling boom boxes. There was Country and Hard Rock mixed in with Latin Salsa vying against what he guessed was Hip Hop. He had a rule against boom boxes (only one at a time was allowed in his clubhouse) and in past years he had tried different tactics to solve the problem but with mixed results. He had a better idea for this year: a compilation CD. He would have Speed burn a compilation CD with all their music on it and it could play on one boom box. Problem solved.
Rick Burton saw him and yelled at the room to “pipe down!” Everyone left off what they were doing—playing cards, taping up, shooting the bull, reading Baseball America—and shifted their attention to their manager. The boom boxes went off. Shake nodded at Rick, who besides being his assistant coach was also his bench coach. Gathering up next to Rick were his pitching coach Larry Benedict, hitting and first base coach Teddy Larkin, third base and assistant hitting coach Bob Kalecki, and their trainer Mike Faust (who, along with four players, made five Mikes in the clubhouse). Lurking behind them in a three piece suit was the big club’s Director of Player Development, who was here for opening day.
Shake surveyed the faces of his twenty-five-man roster. Young and not so young, white, black and Hispanic, from small towns and big cities, they made up a microcosm of America. Like everywhere else in America, the blacks hung out together as did the Hispanics (or “Dominicans” as they were all called no matter what country they hailed from), while the whites tended to congregate by background. There was also a pecking order: at the top were the high draft picks—the top prospects—while next came the lower draft picks followed by the faded stars looking for a last hurrah. Elsewhere in the mix were the holder-ons, the guys who were kept on to provide a good example for the others (like he’d once been). It was a good mix; a good chemistry. Some managers dismissed chemistry as over-rated but he was a great believer in it.
One thing he saw on all their faces was a combination of eagerness and hope. The opening day face. It was there every year at this time, like blossoms on a cherry tree, and it always brought the same quote to Shake’s mind:
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings:
Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.
Manager Shake Glover gave his team a short pep talk and they cheered their approval. “On the field in five!” he yelled and turned around and almost ran into Speed. “Whoa, watch it, Speed,” said Shake as he danced aside. Clubhouse manager, equipment manager
, and gofer par excellence, Speed was like a sprite who was anywhere and everywhere. He did the laundry, supplied the seeds and bubble gum and chewing tobacco, sewed uniforms, and provided the post-game spread making sure everyone got their favorite beverage. He slept on a cot in the laundry room and lived and breathed for the New Britain Kingsmen. There was also not a thing that went on in the clubhouse that he didn’t know about.
“That reminds me,” said Shake, putting his hand on Speed’s shoulder, “I need you to make a compilation CD with everyone’s music mixed on it. Make a few.”
Speed
Make a what?
Shake
A compilation CD, with everyone’s music on it.
Speed
A copulation seedy?
Shake
Com-pil-la-tion
Speed
That’s what you said—cop-u-la-tion. How can I make you a copulation anything, even a seedy one? You have to do your own copulating.
Shake
That’s not what I said… I don’t have time for this. It’s opening day.
Speed
Good. You need an opening for copulation.
Shake
True enough.
Speed
Do you want me to wait for the opening or force an opening before I do your seedy copulation?
Shake
Criminy, Speed. Wait for it then. Meanwhile, be gone before I put my nine and half up your butt.
Speed
You’re talking about your shoe, right?
Shake
Ha! Go!
Speed sauntered off with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Why don’t you get rid of that fool?” asked Rick Burton, who had listened to the exchange.
“Find me a better clubbie in the Eastern League and I’ll fire him tomorrow,” replied Shake. “Anyhow, Lyon loves him.” He pulled the line-up card out of his back pocket, waved it at Rick, and said, “Let’s go to work.”
They headed for the double doors that led out to the field. Shake glanced up at the motivational saying above the doors. The big club had wanted him to put up the standard fare, stuff like “Practice winning every day” or “Winning is a habit, Success is a choice” but being who he was he opted for “It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.” It was from Julius Caesar and hit the mark as far as he was concerned.
They walked through the short tunnel and into the sunlight. After twenty-four years in professional baseball and thousands of games, Shake always got the same jolt when he walked out onto the field. The manicured infield, the vast green outfield, the looming stands, and the advertisements that plastered the outfield fences (giving it almost a tie-dyed look)—all of it gave him a pleasant jolt in the same way other people, walking into church, got that same happy jolt.
It was a sunny day with a few clouds left over from the morning’s rain. He left Rick and walked out towards third base. The chalk lines were in, the mound looked good, and there were no puddles to be found. He turned around and scanned the stands. They were filling up quickly. Across the diamond, the Reds were filing into their dugout. Suddenly the bright sunshine dimmed as a cloud passed across the sun. The deep, sonorous voice of the PA Announcer sounded over the stadium speakers:
The uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun
And by and by a cloud takes all away!
Shake smiled and saluted up to the press box.
In short order the players were introduced to the sold-out crowd, speeches made, and “The Star-Spangled Banner” sung. Their twenty-three year old ace lefthander got ready to lead his team out onto the field and Shake took his spot at the end of the railing next to the bat rack. He would stand there for most of the game taking it in, rubbing his chin, giving signs, yelling encouragement, and thinking three steps ahead of everyone else. “O Fortuna” (the theme song from the movie Excalibur) started up and the Kingsmen took the field.
“Shake!” he heard someone whisper loudly. He glanced around but didn’t see anyone trying to get his attention. After a moment he heard it again. “Shake!” This time he noticed Orson Kent crouched over at the opening of the tunnel summoning him with his finger. What the hell was Orson doing, thought Shake as he walked over to him.
“What is it?”
“Mr. Lyon, he’s lost.”
“Then go find him.”
“No, he’s right there,” replied Orson, pointing into the tunnel. Shake strained his eyes and looked into the dark tunnel where he saw a figure standing motionless. “He’s lost. He doesn’t recognize me,” added Orson with a worried look.
Shake quickly put two and two together and sent Orson up to his seat. He’d take care of this. He found Rex Lyon looking down at a blank piece of paper in his hand, and Shake came up to him and gently touched his arm to get his attention. Rex glanced up at Shake with a confused and slightly frightened look on his face.
“Rex, it’s Glover,” said Shake calmly. “It’s game time.” He stared into the old man’s eyes waiting for the light of recognition to come on but it didn’t. Shake took the piece of paper out of Rex’s hands, folded it up, and looked thoughtfully at the finished product. The old man loved baseball trivia—arcane, off-the-wall baseball trivia—and he often played it with Shake when they found a moment together. That gave Shake an idea.
“Alvin Dark… ‘They’ll put a man on the moon before he hits a homerun,’” said Shake with a grin. He waited for the comebacker. Another moment passed. “O Fortuna” was winding up and he could hear his left-hander’s warm-up pitches popping the catcher’s glove. Rex suddenly looked up as though he was tracking a lazy fly ball. He caught it.
“Gaylord Perry,” he answered with a smile, the light of recognition returning to his eyes. “And when did he hit it?”
“One hour after Apollo 11 landed on the moon.”
The old man sniffed a short laugh. “Right,” he said.
“Let’s go,” urged Shake. “Game time.” He watched as Rex glanced out the tunnel at the bright sunshine then back at him with a nod of understanding. “This way, my lord,” added Shake, “for this way lies the game.” Rex followed him out of the tunnel and Shake stopped to watch the old man climb the steps that led into the stands before taking his spot again next to the bat rack. He was in time for the first pitch. It was a strike, ninety-six on the gun, and they went on to win seven to one.
4
CHAPTER
Baseball statistics are like a girl in a bikini.
Toby Harrah
Their sweep was in jeopardy. After taking games one and two against the Reds, the Kingsmen were behind 6-4 going into the bottom of the seventh inning. Mental errors had cost them and Shake was none too happy about it.
Leading 4-2 going into the inning, their pitcher Chuck Davis walked the number eight hitter to open the inning. Walks were like avoidable accidents and they drove Shake crazy, especially when it was against a career .245 hitter who has already struck out twice against you. The next hitter, the Reds pitcher, did exactly what everyone in the park knew he would do—bunt. In these situations, the organization taught their infielders to aggressively crash the corners, with the shortstop and second baseman rotating to second and first respectively. Shake was a great believer in the play. Done right, there was a high probability of gunning down the lead runner at second and about a twenty-five percent chance of turning a double play if the hitter wasn’t too fast. This probability diminished if they sent the runner on the pitch.
On the 1-0 pitch, the Reds sent the runner and their pitcher laid a bunt down the third base line. The walk aside, this was mental error number one. When the runner broke, yells of “He’s going!” rang out, but the Kingsmen third baseman Mike Goff, who heard the yells and had to know the runner was going, fielded the bunt and forced a throw to second. Not in time�
�and the throw back to first base was too late. That put runners on first and second with no outs.
Next came mental error number two. The Reds lead-off hitter lined a 2-1 pitch into the left center field gap that Hank Prince cut off nicely. The play there is to concede the run and hit the cut-off man, keeping the other runners at first and second, but Prince decided to show off his arm and throw home. The throw was off-line and late and both runners moved up to second and third. It was 4-3 with no outs.
Davis got the Reds number two hitter to pop up and there was one down, but their next hitter got lucky and hit a bleeder down the third base line that Goff, who was playing back at double-play depth, was not able to get to in time. That made bases drunk with the Reds clean-up hitter and big bopper coming to the plate. Shake knew this guy to be a first-pitch fastball hitter; the scouting report said he was a first-pitch fastball hitter; hell, everyone knew he was a first-pitch fastball hitter. Mental error number three: Davis shook off the curve and went fastball, outside corner, but he caught too much plate and the result was a bases clearing triple. Shake looked over at his pitching coach as if to say “Are we the only ones who read the scouting report?” Larry Benedict nodded and asked Shake whether he wanted him to go out and talk to Davis.
These options played out in Shake’s mind:
1.Pitch to the next guy and play the infield in.