When the GM left, Albie wanted to call Gloria again in Baltimore and talk about his “problem,” but realized that with the time difference between the two coasts she’d be asleep. He had promised to stop taking steroids, but now his new team was counting on his hitting ability and had paid dearly to get it. How could he let them down? The bottle, still half full, that he had picked up in Baltimore after the All-Star game, was in his suitcase. Albie reasoned that the next all-star game for his father was a year away and that he could postpone acting on his pledge until the current season was over. But he vowed that he would go into spring training and the next campaign free of steroids, certain that his father’s community of ballplayers would know it.
In his first three weeks with the Padres, Albie hit six home runs, one a grand slam, and the team won thirteen of its nineteen games. Three of the early victories were a momentum-building sweep of the Giants in Candlestick Park. On the team’s next day off, he had a call from his agent who informed him that the Padres wanted to extend his contract.
“I proposed a three-year deal for a total of twenty-one million,” he said, “but they don’t want to go beyond two. That’s okay, Albie, because they’re willing to pay sixteen million for the two years instead of the fourteen you’d get in the first two years of a three-year deal. And you’ll probably end up better off when it comes time for your next contract. I don’t think you’d do any better in free agency because word has it that the owners aren’t going to be throwing a lot of money around this fall. And remember that it’s all guaranteed as soon as you sign the extension. Without it, if you got hurt between now and the end of the season, you might have trouble getting a good offer.”
All Albie could say was that it sounded good but that he wanted a couple of days to think about it.
“How can I agree to it?” he asked Gloria on the telephone. “That’s eight million dollars a year. When I stop taking those vitamins I told you about, my hitting could go back to what it was two years ago. If it does, I won’t be giving the ballclub what they’re paying me for. Fifty home runs may become fifteen again, and that’ll mean half as many RBI’s, or even less. The fans will be booing every time I leave men on base, and blaming me and my fat contract for every close game we lose. What should I do, Gloria?”
There was no hesitation on Gloria’s part. She was too practical to allow her husband to let the opportunity he was being given get away. And if that meant acknowledging his belief that he could watch a game between old-time ballplayers at the Field of Dreams, she was up to it.
“Listen to me, Albie,” she said. “So far, your father has missed playing in only one all-star game. If you extend the contract, he’ll miss just two more. But he’s always going to be with those players, so not getting into three of those games is nothing. I’m sure he’d want you to take advantage of this and get us financial security, especially now that we know I’m pregnant. You’ve got to listen to your agent, Albie, and do it.”
Albie Knox took Gloria’s advice and gave the Padres everything they hoped for and more. From the time he joined them in the last week of July through the final week of September, his hitting kept them in the race. And when the Padres beat Colorado at home on the last day of the season, while the Dodgers blew a lead in the ninth inning to lose to the Giants, the two teams tied for first in the division. The joy of Padres’ fans lasted less than twenty-four hours, however, when the team, hosted by the Dodgers the next day in Chavez Ravine, saw its pitching fall apart in an 11–6 drubbing.
In the 1994 pennant race, in which Albie reached his peak of 53 home runs and 141 runs batted in, the Padres won the division but encountered disappointment again when they were knocked out of the playoffs in the final game of the first round by the Atlanta Braves. The mood in the losers’ clubhouse was somber until Albie called for silence and then shouted, “Next year we’re going to the World Series.” He was certain the next year would be his last, and his goal was to be a member of a world champion team before his playing days were over. “We’ll get ’em next year” were the words of encouragement that filled the room after Albie spoke.
And “get ’em” in ’95 they did. The Padres ran away with the division, swept the Mets in the first round and beat Cincinnati in the next, four games to two, to capture the National League pennant. They were in the World Series, ready to challenge the reigning world champion Minnesota Twins. Albie had batted just .250 against the Mets, with no home runs, flying out to the deepest parts of Shea Stadium on several, occasions, but came back to hit .381 against the Reds and be recognized as the MVP of the series.
The Twins won the first two games played in Minneapolis, and Game Four, in San Diego, pushing the Padres to the brink of elimination. In Game Five, Albie batted with two outs in the tenth inning and hit a walk-off home run to send the Series back to the Metrodome. The team carried the momentum into Game Six and squeezed out a 6–5 win thanks to a two-run double by Albie in the seventh inning and the performance of its closer who pitched the last two innings without allowing a Twins hitter to reach base.
Albie saw the final game of the Series as his swan song in baseball because he continued to doubt his ability to produce what was expected of him without his use of steroids. For a reason never adequately explained when it happens, especially in a situation where adrenalin is supposed to take over and push the athletes to greater accomplishments, Albie and the Padres came out flat for Game Seven. They fell behind early by four runs and never caught up, losing 9–4. During the quiet flight back to San Diego, Albie made it a point, without mentioning what he saw as his impending departure from baseball, to try and make his teammates see what a successful season they had.
During July and August the Padres had made overtures to Albie’s agent about a new extension of his contract. In each case, although the agent boasted that the deal he could finalize would make him one of the highest paid players in baseball, Albie put off any discussion of it. He insisted that he wanted to concentrate on playing without losing his focus in any negotiations. When the season ended, and Albie became a free agent, the Padres quickly put a proposal for a new three-year contract on the table. It was an offer they felt their star right fielder wouldn’t refuse.
“I’m not going to sign a new contract, Gloria,” he told his wife as they dined in a restaurant overlooking the city of San Diego. “I don’t have any of that stuff left and I’m not buying any more. I went along with what you said two years ago, but not now. I want to see my father play in that all-star game with the other ballplayers and there’s so many things I want to talk to him about. What I’ve got to do now is let the team know I’m not coming back next season.”
Gloria had been preparing herself for this conversation with her husband. She paid rapt attention to him as he spoke, and took her time, when he finished, before replying.
“Albie, this is one of the most important decisions of your life, and we’re going to do what you say,” she began, “but first tell me, do you think ten million dollars is a lot of money?”
“Of course it is, but I’m not going to take it under false pretenses.”
“That’s because you think you’ll be a lousy hitter without the steroids.”
“That’s right.”
“But you can’t be certain until some pitcher is throwing the ball and you’re trying to hit it.”
“Look, Gloria, the year before I went on steroids I hit thirteen home runs and batted about .260. I had just 57 homers in my first five years with the Orioles. If they were a better team, they wouldn’t have kept me around. And I was younger then than I am now.”
“But you’re more experienced now.”
“Just tell me your point.”
“Albie, we’ve got the twins and I’m due again in April. It would be wise for us to have you play another year and get us the additional financial security.”
“I told you I’m through with the steroids. I’m not changing my mind on that.”
Gloria realized she h
ad to make her position clear to Albie. “I don’t want you to. I just want you to play next year and do the best you can. If you can’t hit and want to leave the team, I won’t try to stop you. But if your experience helps you, you can earn a wonderful salary and still get to see your father in July.”
Albie stared at his wife, thinking about what she had said.
Gloria broke the silence, recognizing she had Albie on the ropes. “Tell the Padres you only want a one-year contract. When that gets announced and the media starts asking ‘Why?’ you can say you’ve been thinking of retiring—after all, you’re thirty-six—and want to take it one year at a time. Then, if you’re not hitting home runs and think you’re hurting the team, you can retire and it won’t be such a shock to everyone.”
“What reason would I give for retiring?”
“What did you plan to say if you quit now?”
Albie thought for a few seconds. “I’d say my goal was always to play in a World Series, and now I want to stay home and be a family man.”
“You can say the same thing later, and in the meantime you’ll be getting paid.” Gloria sensed that it was time to make the sale. “We can always use the money, Albie. Who’s to say we won’t have four children or even five?”
In the fourth week of spring training, Albie fractured his ankle on a late slide into second base. At the time he was batting just under .300 in the five games he had played, and had one home run and a long double to his credit. The injury kept him in rehab in Arizona when the Padres opened their season, and his recovery, including several games with their minor-league affiliate there, wasn’t complete until the last week of May. When he took his place in right field, batting fifth in the lineup instead of his customary third (“Just ’til we’re sure you’ve got your swing back,” he was told), he was surprised to find himself with a hot bat. He hit three home runs in his first thirty trips to the plate, maintained an average in the .260 to .280 range, and had twelve home runs at the break for the All-Star game. Albie was proud of the fact that the fans voted him onto the team for what he had accomplished in the two prior seasons. He declined to participate, however, offering a flimsy excuse about resting his ankle. In fact, it was because the game was being played in Tampa Bay on Tuesday night and he was afraid of not being able to make the necessary flight connections to get him to the Field of Dreams by Wednesday afternoon.
Gloria didn’t want to make the trip to Dyersville and attend the minor-league all-star game that Albie had been talking about for weeks. She envisioned the boredom of sitting in the bleachers for hours, knowing that nothing would be taking place on the field, and ultimately witnessing her husband’s disappointment at not seeing his father. Still, she knew the sacrifice he had made for his father in giving up steroids, and his willingness to agree to play for the Padres another year, at her request, despite his own reluctance to do so. Of course, as Albie would have to admit, it had worked out well and he had received a paycheck every two weeks while not having to suffer any embarrassment over his performance thus far.
So she arranged for her regular nanny to stay with the twins while she and Albie flew from San Diego to Dubuque on Tuesday, rented a 1996 Mercedes convertible there on Wednesday and headed toward the Field of Dreams. Gloria was pleasantly surprised when Albie offered to drop her at Bellevue’s Castle and pick her up later, after the game and his meeting with his father. She had brought a book with her, and would be able to relax in the comfort of the hotel, with an iced tea available to her whenever she wished. She protested at first, not sure if that’s what he really wanted, but was happy when he insisted upon it.
Albie joined about eight others in the bleachers and watched the continuing parade of tourists coming and leaving as the afternoon wore on. Several stopped where he was sitting, wearing his Padres shirt and cap, and asked kiddingly whether he brought the baseball glove he was holding because he hoped to catch some hitter’s foul ball. He was pleased this time that no one recognized him and that he didn’t have to sign any autographs.
Only minutes after the last two visitors climbed down from the bleachers, saying nothing to Albie on the way, and drove out of the parking lot, the ballplayers came jogging out of the cornfield. Most of them paired off and began playing catch in the outfield and along the baselines. Albie thought he saw his father when he spotted the number “14,” his father’s number, on what he thought was a Louisville shirt, but it turned out to be a Nashville uniform. After warming up for about ten minutes, one group of players took their defensive positions on the field and the game began.
Albie couldn’t understand why his father wasn’t among the twenty-six players he counted on the field. But his concern was relieved somewhat when he saw a handful of players come onto the field after the third inning, replacing the same number who returned to the cornfield. Additional replacements emerged after the fourth inning, and more after the sixth, but Arthur Knox was not among them. One last group of players came running out just before the eighth inning began, causing Albie’s disappointment to reach its zenith when his father wasn’t there.
The game itself held no interest for Albie, but near the end he saw that Jocko Kantor was again behind the plate for the team in the lead. When the final out was made, Albie caught up with Kantor as he headed for the cornfield.
“You’re Arthur’s son, aren’t you?” Kantor said as soon as Albie fell in stride with him.
“Yes, I am. Albie Knox. And you’re Jocko Kantor.”
“I remember you from when you were here before. It was three years ago.”
“You’re right, and you told me how I could get my dad to talk to me that day, and he did. I was sure I’d see him today, but he never came out, and there must have been almost fifty different players on the field at one time or another. Why didn’t he play?”
“I think I can answer that,” Kantor said, “but be patient with me because I want to get it right.” He took off his cap, and Albie saw him close his eyes as they walked along.
“When you left here that day, Arthur told us that you had promised to go off the steroids, and everyone was happy about that. Then we heard you had been traded to San Diego and were still hitting home runs at the same pace as in Baltimore. We suspected that the trade changed things for you and that you may have been forced, so to speak, to continue what you were doing, so we weren’t holding that against Arthur. Then we got word of your contract extension with the Padres, saw those fifty-three home runs you hit the next year, and almost as many last year when you gave your team the hitting it needed to get into the World Series. That put Arthur in a bad position again with the players, but he kept saying you’d made a promise to him and he was sure you’d keep it. Since we knew your contract was up last year, we waited to see what would happen. Then when the team announced that you had signed a new deal—but just for one year—and you’d be paid ten million dollars, we knew you’d have to stay on steroids to hit enough home runs to justify getting that much money. Arthur was devastated by that news.”
“But I did give up the stuff after last year,” Albie said, stopping to face Kantor as he spoke. “I did keep my promise. I signed the contract, but I was ready to retire right away if I couldn’t hit without loading up.”
“Yeah, well nobody here knew that, and when you were able to keep hitting them out after that injury you had, it sure looked like you were still getting help. So when the lineups were announced for the all-star game, your dad was left off again.”
“That stinks, Jocko. I stopped just so he could play. He must feel terrible. I want to talk to him and let him know I kept my promise. At least he’d be able to look forward to next year.”
They had reached the edge of the cornfield. “Wait here,” Kantor said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
A few minutes later, Kantor returned. “Listen, Albie,” he said, “you can’t see your father. When he found out he couldn’t play in the game this year, he told us it was no fun hanging around for nothing, and that he had decided to
retire. He left a couple of weeks ago.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. When guys leave here, they never say where they’re going. And you never get any mail from them.”
Kantor saw a few tears running down Albie’s cheeks and felt himself losing some control of his own emotions. “Listen, before Arthur left, he brought me this baseball and asked me to give it to you if you ever came back here.”
Albie took the baseball from the large catcher and looked at it. On one side, his father had written his name. On the other, it read “To my son, Albie, with love, Dad.”
He thanked Kantor for the ball and told him that maybe he’d return some day and watch another all-star game. “At least I’ll be able to show this ball to my wife and get her to admit that you guys really exist.”
“No, you can’t do that, Albie. You’re the only one out there who’ll ever see what’s written on it. Everyone else will just be looking at a plain old baseball. Good luck with your hitting.” Kantor winked, turned around, and disappeared into the cornfield.
THE RIGHT PITCH FOR CUBA
“I was never nervous when I had the ball, but when I let go I was scared to death.”
Painting the Corners Again Page 3