by Guy Franks
“That’s just for show.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He told me.”
“He told you he was taking Deca?”
“In so many words… There’s a least five other guys on it.”
“Bullshit. Who?”
“I can’t say but trust me.”
“Where they get it?”
Greg leaned in closer to Dane’s ear. “I’ll tell you but you can’t tell anyone else.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone.”
“Promise.”
“Promise.”
Greg looked around to make sure no one was within earshot then leaned back into Dane’s ear. “Faust,” he whispered.
“The trainer. Bullshit?”
“I’m tellin’ you.”
Yeah, you’re telling me, thought Dane. He shook his head in mild disgust (because that’s all he could muster) and watched as Estrella walked out of the batting cage. The guy was ripped. He had all the tell-tale signs of Deca use—at least what Dane had read up on—including dramatic muscle growth, bulging veins and acne across his chest and back. If it wasn’t Deca then something else rotten was going on. But why was he surprised about that. Man was a piece of work and capable of just about anything. He wasn’t buying the “five other guys” or the whole Faust connection. That sounded like someone trying to talk themselves into a thing and Greg was definitely working hard at talking himself into taking Deca. He was just tired of Greg trying to make him his co-conspirator. He could come straight out and tell him it was a bad idea but what good would it do? Greg was past that point—there was nothing either good or bad with him that thinking couldn’t make it so.
Their group was coming up to hit and Dane flipped his bat onto his shoulder and rested it there. He’d made a decision. “Stop talking to me about it, dude,” he said to Greg. “Do what you want but keep me out of it.”
“Okay, I just thought you’d find it interesting.”
Dane ignored him and stepped into the batting cage. Shake had told him that the big club wanted to see him get some time in at the two spot in the batting order. See how he handled the bat with men on base. He meant to work on his bunting and on taking pitches to the right side. That was first on his agenda. Everything else was background noise.
During batting practice the pitchers stood around in the outfield shagging flies. They were usually in groups of two or three and one of those groups consisted of Chuck Davis, Phil Cappadona and Luis Santiago. Phil and Luis were talking together when Chuck, catching a fly ball in front of them, sauntered over and joined them.
“Is the bet still on,” he asked hoping the answer was “no.”
“No one’s backing out,” said Phil.
“It’s only April, amigos,” replied Luis with a confident smile. “I have till the All-Star break. I need time to work. An artist needs time.”
“I see you and Basset are becoming fast friends.”
“That we are.”
“You forgot he’s a born-again Christian, which means his girlfriend is too and probably a virgin.”
“Oh, she is,” assured Luis. “So is he. They don’t plan on having sex until they’re married.”
“Is that why you joined his prayer group? He’ll see right through you”
“You think so? I’m a Catholic, born and raised. Baptized, confirmed, the whole nine yards. He’s got no clue.” Luis took out the crucifix he wore around his neck and showed it to them to emphasize his point.
“Perfect,” sighed Chuck. “You’re gonna piss off Basset and piss off God all in one shot.”
“Not so. God doesn’t care if I take Gwen’s virginity. It’s not like they’re married. God doesn’t care if I get her first or Basset. It’s all the same to Him. And what’s the big thing about virginity, anyhow. You can’t say it’s a good thing or else you’d be insulting your mother. It goes against nature. It’s completely unnatural to preserve virginity; if we did it’d be the end of mankind. Virginity is a murderer. Plus I never met a virgin who couldn’t wait to be a non-virgin. The whole virgin thing is out of fashion and they know it. They can’t wait to get in fashion.”
“I see you’ve made a study of it.”
“What’s your plan? You got a plan, right?”
“Of course I’ve got a plan, but I’m not going to tell you two. You’ll try and sabotage it. But I got a plan. A flawless plan. For one thing, she comes to all his weekend home games, whether he pitches or not. She sits right up there.”
“What good’s that do you?”
“When I chart pitches on my off day I’ll have her all to myself.”
“Since when do you chart pitches on your off day.”
“Never too late to start.”
Both Chuck and Phil laughed. Luis was notorious for paying off rookie pitchers to chart pitches for him on his off-day. Now his plan was to chart his own pitches and work his magic on Gwen. It had a certain flair to it.
They stopped talking and tracked the flight of a fly ball that was heading straight for them. None of them moved or raised their glove. Suddenly Steve Basset streaked in front of them and caught the ball before it hit one of them.
“Hey, wake up, you guys!” he yelled back at them with a friendly grin.
In Shake’s office, with the door closed, Balt Porter was interviewing Orson Kent. Orson had set it up with Balt beforehand and gotten permission from Shake to use his office during batting practice. Here they could be alone. They were fifteen minutes into the interview and Balt had asked a lot of questions about the financial side of baseball. Orson answered each one carefully and professionally, though he couldn’t help admiring the part in Balt’s thick brown hair. It was on the right side instead of the left.
“Your father is majority owner but there are other owners,” prefaced Balt, “but here Rex Lyon is the single owner. Is that common in the minors?”
“Not so much anymore,” Orson answered. “Consortiums are the growing model for minor league ownership. Even here there’s New Britain Professional Baseball Incorporated. Rex is president but there are shareholders.” Orson went on to explain that even though NBPB Inc. had shareholders they weren’t really co-owners and Rex still ran the show financially.
“I heard a rumor that the Lyons were looking to sell the club.”
Even though Orson wanted to impress Balt in the worse way with his knowledge about baseball operations, a warning light went off in his head. He needed to be careful here. “That’s just a rumor,” he said. “I work with Rex on a daily basis and he’s never mentioned any such thing. As an affiliate, he’d have to tell my dad if he was shopping the club and my dad’s said nothing about it.”
“No truth to the rumor then?”
“None that I know of.”
Balt reached for his can of cherry cola and took a drink. Orson watched in delight as Balt’s Adam’s apple slid up and down. He wanted desperately to change the subject, to get onto a topic that would lower Balt’s guard, but so far he’d been unsuccessful. Balt set his soda can down but kept his hand on it, and Orson admired his short and beautifully manicured fingernails.
“You get manicures?” he asked nonchalantly. “Some of my frat brothers got manicures and swore by them, but I never got one.”
“Oh, yeah I do. My sister turned me on to them.”
“How about a pedicure? I got one once on a dare and kind’a liked it. It was from a guy—in the shop—not a gal but a guy. That was a little weird but it felt great. Sensuous is the word, or is it sensual, I can never remember.”
“Sensuous, I think. Sensual has a more erotic connotation.”
“Then it was sensual, for sure. The way he worked my foot was definitely erotic—least it felt erotic.
Balt laughed lightly. “I’ll have to try one,” he said
“But from a man,�
�� Orson added quickly. “I think that made all the difference… Bigger hands—that’s the key.”
“Bigger hands,” repeated Balt laughing again. Orson hoped he’d follow his lead, maybe even get the jest of it, but Balt to his disappointment changed the subject.
“What’s Lyon clear in a year? He’s got the best attendance in the league, so it’s got to be above average. What, a couple million?”
Orson was growing impatient with this interview. He had hoped for an opening, a chance to make his intentions known, to find out if Balt leaned the same way, to tell Balt he loved him and have him say it back, but every time he rattled the door knob he found it locked.
“Is it a million?”
“No, not that much,” he answered blandly. “You can ask Rex for sure but I’m not sure he’d tell you. It’s less than a mil. Minor league owners aren’t in it for the money—or at least to become rich. There are better ways to get rich. Most get into it because they love baseball.”
“You love baseball?”
“I love one thing… I love it enough to…” But Orson, so close to saying it, stepped back from the cliff, afraid of being wrong, afraid of the consequences of being wrong.
“Enough to what?”
“Nothing,” he said in a deflated voice. “Nothing.”
Balt studied him for a moment with those soft brown eyes. Orson even imagined for a moment that he caught a wave of warmth pass over those brown eyes. But like everything else he wasn’t sure. It was maddening.
Balt asked him a few more questions then wrapped it up and thanked him for his time. It was an opportunity squandered, thought Orson disgusted with himself. As he watched Balt turn off his recorder and put his stuff away he noticed a button on Balt’s satchel that said “LPGA.” He beat back his self-disgust and tried again.
“You cover the LPGA?”
“I did. I covered the Open last year in Springfield for my college paper.”
“If I remember right, you play golf. Weren’t we going to get up a game?”
Last time he’d asked him about playing a round of golf, Balt had put him off, and he half-expected the same now. But this time something wondrous happened.
“I’d like that very much,” replied Balt with a slight blush.
During infield practice, Kalecki hit fungoes to the outfield as the players practiced throwing and hitting the cut-off man. Hank Prince worked through the drill flawlessly despite being stoned off a blunt he had smoked earlier in the day. Weed relaxed him and made him feel like he played better, though the high usually wore off after his first at bat. The drill ended and Hank jogged towards the dugout but saw Coach Glover waiting for him by the foul line. His paranoia level jumped slightly.
Coach called him over and he veered off and jogged up to him. “Yeah, Coach,” he said, tucking his glove under his arm. He wore sunglasses and kept his cap pulled down low.
“You okay?” asked Shake.
His paranoia level jumped higher. “Whaddya mean?” he asked innocently. Being stoned kept his voice calm.
“Just wondering. Everything okay with you, your family? Your mom okay?”
“Yeah, good. Why ya askin’?”
“Eh, I don’t know. You seem off, like something’s wrong… Sure everything’s okay?
“Yeah, Coach. It’s all good.” He looked at his coach through his sunglasses and wondered what this was all about. Did he give something away during drills that made his coach suspicious? He waited a moment, hoping their talk was done.
“Take off your sunglasses,” said Shake.
Hank’s paranoia level went into high alert but he calmly removed his glasses and looked at his coach.
“You stoned?”
“What? Nah, that’s crazy talk. Why ya askin’ me that?”
“I know you’ve been hanging out at Quick’s with some lowlifes getting high. You’ve been breaking curfew and coming late to the park. If it keeps up I’m going to fine you and then start benching you.”
“I doin’ know where ya heard all that. Someone’s punkin’ me.”
“I know what I know, so keep it straight. You can’t keep hanging out with those people. You’re destined for something else—for greatness—and it’s right there in front of your face. You can’t be draggin’ yourself down with those lowlifes. Wake-up. You were heir-apparent to Leonard on the big club. Now he’s fighting injuries and you could be up there playing centerfield, but instead you’re down here getting stoned and partying.”
“I ain’t stoned, man. I doin’ know where you’re gettin’ all that. I mean, I’ve been down ta Quick’s and all but I doin’ hang out or nuthin’. And I ain’t gettin’ stoned. You’ll see. I promise ya right now that I’ll make the all-star team and get called up in September. It’s guaranteed.”
“Good to hear… Look, I’m not naïve. I know guys drink and get high on occasions but you can’t make a habit out of it. If you do, everybody knows it, and you don’t want that kind of rep. Balance in all things.”
“Yes, sir. Trust me, ya don’t need ta worry. You’ll see.”
“All right, Hank. Go on, go get dressed.”
Hank nodded and started to jog off, his paranoia beginning to evaporate like released steam. He felt like he’d dodged a bullet but knew he’d have to play it smarter from now on.
“One more thing,” said Shake. Hank stopped and looked back at him. “If you miss another sign I’ll fine you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Shake walked back into the clubhouse. The players were changing into their orange and black home uniforms and one boom box (one!) was playing a mix of their favorite music. Shake hovered about, one moment with the trainer, another with a player at his locker, another in his office shooting the bull with whomever happened to stick their head in.
In the hallway he ran into Rex, who greeted him with a “Hey, Glover” and a smile. Yesterday was forgotten, which didn’t surprise Shake. When he turned into a squall he raged and blustered but soon after turned pleasant once again.
The middle of humanity thou never knewest,
but the extremity of both ends.
“Ray Chapman,” said Rex, initiating the game.
“The only player to die from a beanball,” replied Shake. “Who was the pitcher?”
“Carl Mays, a spitballer. He’s the reason they outlawed the spitball.”
“Should be in the hall of fame.”
“He’s got the numbers,” agreed Rex, but his voice trailed off as he walked past Shake and headed for the concession stands.
Shake shrugged it off and went back to the scouting report he held in his hand. He had yellow-highlighted key sentences and words and reviewed them as he walked back to his office. There he re-filled his thermal mug with fresh coffee and walked out to the dugout, thinking about the game.
Every game was a Rubik’s cube of its own, a unique puzzle that had to be solved. Shake stood in his spot in the dugout and worked the cube. He immersed himself in the game like a chess master studying the pieces on the board, looking for the right set of moves that would give him an edge. Sometimes the right move was to do nothing and let the situation play itself out, other times a small thing like a visit to the mound made all the difference, and sometimes a big thing like making a pitching change at the right moment was the difference between winning and losing. And the job never ended. After the game came meetings, the post-game report, then off to The Mermaid for more analysis. And at no time, from coffee in the morning to slipping off to sleep at night, did Shake stop thinking about the game—about match-ups, tendencies, what he did right or what he did wrong, or an idea he had to help turn-around a struggling ballplayer. Whether in morning still or the evening mob, the business of baseball was a full time job.
10
CHAPTER
Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball
is pretty good, too.
Yogi Berra
Thursday was the beginning of a long, ten day road trip that opened with a four-game series in New Haven and ended with a three-game series in Glens Falls. So Wednesday wasn’t really the get-away-game since the bus to New Haven, which was only thirty-three miles away, didn’t leave until noon on Thursday. For young twenty-year-old ball-players and even a few forty-year-old coaches, that was an invitation to party it up after Wednesday’s night game.
Wednesday was also April 23 and Shake’s birthday. His mom called him on his phone in his office and they talked for about fifteen minutes. She wished him a happy birthday, told him she loved him, and wanted to know which players he was excited about this year. Jose Estrella was really crushing the ball, he told her, and Steve Basset was targeted for the bigs but he really liked a kid named Dane Hamilton who was a second baseman with soft hands, a quick bat and good baseball smarts. “Sounds like you,” she said.
His father had passed away in 1980 and his mom lived alone in the house in Daly City where he had grown up. He didn’t worry about her too much since his two sisters lived nearby, visited often, and kept her busy taking care of grandkids. She had season tickets to the Giants and was a permanent fixture in her seat behind the Giants’ dugout on the first base side at Candlestick Park where she kept score and stayed for the last out even on cold and windy night games. Besides his two sisters, he also had two brothers. His youngest brother had also played baseball in the minors and was now a college coach.
His other brother Gilbert surprised him by popping into his office right before batting practice. They hugged and Gil wished him “a happy forty-seventh” and he sat down and they talked for a while. Every family has a black sheep and Gilbert was the black sheep of the Glover family—not that he was a jailbird or a lowlife. It was just a case of squandered talents. Everyone in the family agreed that Gil would have made a sterling professor of English Lit at any college in the U.S., but Gil had decided to focus his energies on get-rich-quick schemes. And there had been many over the years. Shake invested in a couple early on but had learned his lesson and stayed out of them now. He half-expected Gil to hit him up for money after Gil told him he has headed for New York to meet with people about setting up a video game company. Video games were “the wave of the future” he told Shake and he was sure that this investment in a start-up would pay off big. To his credit, he didn’t ask Shake for money and they hugged each other goodbye, promising to get together for dinner once Gil’s business in New York was done.