That prompted another meeting with Coach Koenig, this time at the hotel with only Momma and me.
“I don’t know quite how to tell you this, ma’am,” the coach began, “but your son is a phenomenon, almost a freak of nature. I’ve been in the game a long time, and outside of all-star big leaguers, this boy is the best hitter I’ve ever seen. He doesn’t get fooled. He doesn’t strike out. Well, you struck out once, right?”
I nodded.
“But in that at bat he hit foul his farthest ball of the year. He’s not a home run hitter yet. His power takes him only about three hundred feet. But, heck, he’s a child. They shifted on him, pulled in on him, threw at him, walked him intentionally. But they couldn’t stop him.”
“I’ve enjoyed watching him,” Momma said. “It’s been as exciting to me as to anyone. I’m a little scared, though. What am I supposed to do with a child like this?”
“Keep him doing whatever he’s doing. He’s a natural who also works hard. If he doesn’t get tired of the game, he’s going to be a superstar someday.”
“He’s a superstar now, isn’t he?” she said.
“Well, yes, ma’am, at this level. But I’m talking about the big time. The majors. This boy has unlimited potential.”
Clearly Mr. Koenig had come to tell me more than this. I just sat and smiled.
“Ma’am, American Legion is top-drawer amateur baseball. Some of the best teams in the country come from Illinois. The Arlington Heights team makes the state and national tournaments almost every year, and we’ve been beating them the last few seasons.”
I nodded.
“Stars from Legion ball play division-one college baseball. Many of them make the pros and a few have become big-leaguers. What I’m telling you is that big-league scouts watch our games.”
Was he going to tell me that they would laugh at a soon-to-be thirteen-year-old on the field? That Coach Koenig will look silly counting on a kid to carry his team?
“Ma’am, we won all ten of our preseason games. I’ve never seen crowds like that before, and I’ve never seen scouts at games that don’t count. They were there with their radar guns and their stopwatches. I know they were looking at our pitchers, who, by the way, didn’t allow as many hits in ten games as Elgin got off them in Hector’s tryouts.”
I was patient.
“Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, ma’am?”
“No, sir.”
“You need a lawyer.”
“Whatever for? And how could I afford one?”
“An adviser. An agent. Someone to represent you. These guys are vultures, and you’ve got a lot of legal things to think about.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that I had to jump through all kinds of hoops just to get permission for Elgin to play Legion ball. Can you imagine what it would take to allow him to play professionally?”
“Oh, Mr. Koenig, when that time comes, I’m sure Billy Ray Thatcher from Hattiesburg would be happy to—”
“Ma’am, that time has come! Three scouts want to talk to you now. Don’t talk to them alone. Don’t sign anything, don’t agree to anything. I don’t know if anyone anywhere could ever clear the way for someone who hasn’t graduated high school to play professionally, but if they can they will, and Elgin will be so much fresh meat. They’ll grind him up, use him, and discard him.”
“You’re scarin me, Coach.”
“I’m trying to. Can you imagine how noisy it will be if a child starts on a big-league path? It’ll be the biggest thing that’s ever happened to the game. No one will believe it until they see it, and if Elgin can keep doing what he’s been doing, he’ll be the rage.”
“What about school? What about travelin? I can’t afford to go with him on big trips.”
“Yes, you can. That’s what you negotiate. If someone wants Elgin, you’re part of the package.”
“But I have a job.”
“You won’t need a job.”
“But what if Elgin loses it? What if he is injured? Gets tired of it?”
“Momma!”
“You could, El. There are no guarantees. I know the odds against a player makin a living at baseball. What are the odds for a child who just turned thirteen?”
Jim Koenig leaned back on the couch. “Now you’re asking the right questions. Now you know why you need counsel.”
“Would you help us?”
He held up both hands. “No way. I don’t want to be accused of making money off a talent, and you need to have someone you’re paying to look out for your best interests. It has to be someone you know, someone you trust. This man from Hattiesburg you mentioned—”
“Billy Ray Thatcher.”
“Does he have experience with this?”
“He’s Bernie Pincham’s agent.”
“Well, there you go. Talk to him right away. The best I can do is keep these scouts away. I won’t give them your name or address or phone number.”
“We use the pay phone in the hall.”
“All the better. I’ll send everybody to Mr. Thatcher. Uh, could I speak with you privately for a moment, ma’am?”
I cocked my head and thought. “No, sir, I think anything you want to say to me, Elgin can hear.”
Koenig shrugged. “Suit yourself. I just want to tell you that you’re looking at some huge money here.”
“I gathered that.”
“I’m talking millions.” He sneaked a peek at Elgin.
“Sir?” I said.
He turned back. “Millions.”
“I’d say that’s a long shot, but let’s say you’re right. We’ll just make sure Elgin gets good counsel.”
“But, Mrs. Woodell. You’ll likely never have to work again.”
“Oh, I expect I’ll be plenty busy.”
I went to bed that night unable to sleep. My mind raced with my pulse. I had always dreamed of being a big-league baseball player. How soon could it happen? How old did you have to be? I’d heard of big leaguers who began in their late teens. Joe Nuxhall pitched for the Reds when he was fifteen, but that was when a lot of the regulars were fighting in World War II.
More than anything, I wanted competition. It was nice to be noticed, and if the day came when I tore up the big leagues, I guessed that would be all right. But something inside told me that I was simply ahead. I wasn’t the best ballplayer anywhere; not yet, not already.
I started the regular season batting second and playing second base, finally thirteen but still by far the youngest kid in the league. I had a little trouble in the field, sometimes getting taken out of the double play by bigger players sliding into me. I made a few more errors than someone five years older (or more) might have made. But as usual, I hit from the start.
Three games into the season I was five-for-eight with a double. I went two-for-three the next game to send my average well over .600, then saw how quickly the numbers can change when I went one-for-four the next game and was eight-for-fifteen, or .533. That put me third on the team and eighth in the league after five games.
I had already been made famous by local newspapers and television stations. It was interesting to people that a boy of thirteen had been cleared to play in a league where the next youngest player was eighteen. My mother had had to sign all kinds of papers to absolve the league of any responsibility for my health.
It was the stretch of the next five games that really put me on the map. Our Chicago Legion team—which began the season with a record of four-and-one—won five straight. I came to the plate twenty times, walked three times (twice intentionally), and was otherwise seventeen-for-seventeen.
I went three-for-three three times and four-for-four twice with three doubles and a triple. I had eight RBIs and scored five times. The five games were played in eight days. Jim Koenig said, “The kid had a nice season last week.”
In the eleventh and twelfth games of the year I was oh-for-two and one-for-three, dropping my average to .702. The second-best hitter in Legio
n ball in the state was hitting .505. Media swamped the games, and scouts from nearly every major-league team trailed the team. Stories in the daily papers covered behind-the-scenes maneuvering to somehow get around all the rules against a minor playing professional baseball. Everyone agreed: I deserved a chance to start moving up. The City League was considered a step down from Legion ball. And I could not play for a college team unless I attended that college. The only logical next step was the pros, and that didn’t seem all that logical.
I talked with my mother of nothing except the future. And I still spent just a little over an hour every night in the cellar with the machine I had come to love. I would never stop that daily regimen, I told myself. I knew it was the secret, a secret I planned to take to my grave.
In my next eight games I went twenty-for-thirty with thirteen RBIs, three triples, eight doubles, and fourteen runs. Best of all, I had a three-hit game that included a triple and a home run. I had thought I would never hit one out of a big park. I had a couple that bounced off the wall, but it was a thrill to see one drop straight down over the right field fence, just inside the line three hundred and five feet from the plate. I would not swing for the fences. I knew better. Until I grew up, I would not be a power hitter, but with the solid contact I always made, I knew the occasional home run had to come.
Batting .687 and becoming a flawless fielder, I was the heart of a fifteen-and-five team on its way to the state championship. I wondered if there was a pitcher anywhere who could get me out consistently. The best hitters in the majors were out almost seven times out of ten. What would that feel like?
50
Twenty games into the season I sent Elgin’s stats to Billy Ray:
At Bats Runs Hits Doubles Triples HRs RBI Sacrifices Average
67 24 46 14 4 1 23 6 .687
Billy Ray called me at my office. “You say this is with an American Legion team?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Elgin is thirteen now?”
“Just turned.”
He whistled through his teeth. “Yes, ma’am, I think I had better visit you.”
Now he sat in our transient hotel flat with his briefcase on his lap, his knees together to support it, the toes of his wing tips pointing at each other.
“What I need to know, Miriam,” he said, in his slow, liquid way, “is exactly what you want. I’m retiring, but I will gladly represent you for as long as Elgin plays the game. That could be a long time, but it could just as easily be a short time. I advise you to move cautiously with his best interests in mind. There is likely money to be made in short order. I expect that you would be wiser than your late husband was.”
“I’m assuming that’s not a question,” I said. “You know me well enough.”
“I know you,” he said with a smile. “You probably wouldn’t want a penny of Elgin’s money. Neither do I, but we’re both going to be involved until he’s of age. I will charge you only my hourly rate. That will not come due until he has realized some income.”
“Excuse me,” Elgin said, “but are you sure you don’t want a percentage? It could be millions.”
“Oh, it likely will be,” Mr. Thatcher said. “But I don’t need it and I don’t want it. Enough people will come to you with their hands out, and I advise you to ignore them. Very few will have your interests at heart. I never want to be accused of being one of them.”
“That’s why you’re here,” I said. “What happens now?”
“The baseball rules say a team can’t draft a kid until his high school class graduates. If he doesn’t sign and goes to college, he can’t be drafted until after his junior year.”
“Any way around it?”
“It’s never been tested in baseball. When I represented Bernie Pincham things had already changed in basketball. Years ago the hardship rule was instituted where a kid could inform the league if he was an underclassman and wanted to be entered in the draft. Now it’s just standard procedure. The NBA can’t keep a kid out of a draft just because he’s young.”
“Well, that’s the issue here, isn’t it?” I said.
“Everyone knows you can’t draft a high schooler till he graduates, but what about a junior high kid? It’s never come up.”
“So, what will you do?”
“Take the gentlemanly and inexpensive route first. I will inform the commissioner’s office that we want Elgin in the June draft. If that is refused for any reason, I establish the hardship situation.”
I stiffened.
“Now, Miriam, I know you’re a hardworking and proud woman. You’re solvent and even saving money. But the fact is, your income qualifies you for food stamps.”
“You know better than that.”
“Of course, but don’t be so proud that you stand in the way of your son living out his dream. Your humble means may help make Elgin the youngest player in the history of pro sports.”
“But you won’t go that route unless we have to, right?”
“Right. Meanwhile, I’ll set up at the Hyatt Regency downtown. Steer every request, every offer, every approach to me. I’m sure more than one team has already been in the baseball commissioner’s office trying to convince him it would be in the best interests of baseball to allow a child into the June draft. On the other side will be local social workers and the huge, independent baseball machine that has always been a law unto itself. Baseball doesn’t need this, but the public may force baseball’s hand.”
I scowled. “It’s a shame Elgin can’t play at a level where everybody else can compete with him.”
“Then you want me to push the commissioner.”
“I want Elgin to keep his priorities. No travel till school’s out, and he’s goin nowhere without me.”
Mr. Thatcher was taking notes. “This is good,” he said. “Elgin, how is your team going to feel if it loses you halfway through the season?”
“I don’t know,” Elgin said, “but I don’t think I’d like it.”
Thatcher raised his eyebrows. “If you do get into the draft and some team signs you, you’re theirs.”
Elgin said, “Somebody told me the rookie leagues aren’t much better than Legion ball.”
“Probably true,” Billy Ray said. “Are you saying you don’t want to sign with a team that starts you lower than, say, A ball?”
“How about double-A?” Elgin said.
Mr. Thatcher set his briefcase on the couch. “Try this on,” he said. “Let’s say we get you into the draft. Then you go on record that you won’t sign with anybody until the Legion season is over. That’ll make you look wonderful.”
“I’d go to the majors right now if I thought they’d let me, but nobody’s going to do that. I owe it to my team to stick with them.”
“That’s going to be good for Legion ball, because the crowds will start showing up for your games. We’ll stipulate that whoever signs you gets you only after the Legion season, provided they start you no lower than double-A and that you are invited to spring training with the big club next spring.”
I sucked in a huge breath. Spring training in the majors? Maybe Mr. Thatcher was getting ahead of himself.
“Let me explain it this way, Elgin,” he said. “Everyone will think it’s a publicity stunt. I will look like a bad guy. But if you’re a first-round pick, you deserve a huge signing bonus, and I’ll get it for you. A double-A first-round pick who goes to spring training, publicity stunt or not, gets a certain amount.
“Do I think you’re going to earn a starting spot on a big-league club before you’re fourteen years old next spring? Of course not. For one thing, your mother won’t let you play until school’s out. But you can go to spring training during spring break, and if you perform well, your stock will rise.”
Momma stood and paced. “Elgin, you’d better start getting changed. Mr. Thatcher offered to drive us to the game.”
More than a thousand crowded the little ball field that night. At least a dozen scouts were there, some with video camera
s. On my way to infield practice, two men in suits asked to see me.
“Son, I just need a second,” one of them said, and several others gathered around.
“I’ll want a minute too, Elgin.”
“Me too, son.”
“Ho! Hey! Wait a minute over there!” It was Coach Koenig. His face was red and he was running. “Woodell, get to your position if you want to play tonight! Now!”
“We just needed a second with him, Coach,” one of the men said.
“I told you, he’s not talking to anybody during the season. And when he’s available, he will have counsel.”
“Coach?” I said.
“I told you to get on the field!”
“I will, but I just wanted you to know that I have counsel. He’s here.”
“You have an agent?” one of the scouts demanded.
“He didn’t say that!” Koenig shouted.
“He did too! Now where is he?”
“He’s not an agent,” I said as Koenig dragged me away. “He’s an attorney, and he’s right up there with my mother.”
“Oh, Elgin,” Koenig whined, “you never should have told em who your mother was.”
51
I had just begun to tell Billy Ray about Lucas, and I was irritated that he seemed to ignore me. I stopped and waited for his attention, but when he spoke, he was still looking elsewhere.
I followed his eyes to a group of men, all seeming to hurry up the stadium steps while pretending not to. Mr. Thatcher leaned toward me.”Don’t say one word, understand? Don’t even acknowledge who you are.”
The men approached, notebooks and business cards in hand. Some had radar guns bulging from sport coat pockets. Most wore stopwatches around their necks.
“Are you Mrs. Woodell?” two asked.
It was all I could do to keep from nodding. What could be wrong with admitting who I was?
The Youngest Hero Page 26