“What about Feh?” Eric asks. “At what point do you draw the line in the sand, if not for Feh, for yourself? Because I hold you accountable for Feh’s decisions.”
“If I hadn’t seen any growth or progress in how he’s coming to conclusions this would be a much direr situation,” Theo says. But he also adds, “It could not work. He could just not be cut out to manage. I don’t think that’s off the table.”
It doesn’t help that Fehlandt, whose former teammates in the Mexican League called him “Ferrari Lamborghini,” hasn’t lost his high-performance temper, which still goes 0–60 in seconds. “Don’t tell me where I got touched on my body!” he shouts at one umpire who calls him out on a pickoff attempt. “There’s no guessing in baseball.” The next day, he leaps off the bench in San Rafael to argue a call, kicking the dirt the ump has just kicked off the plate right back onto it, then detouring to argue with the field ump before returning to the plate and taking a 360-degree crab walk around it, using his hands to pile dirt onto the dish from every direction. When the ump runs him, he complains about how awkward it is to get ejected in the Pacific Association: With no showers and cramped clubhouses, there’s nowhere to go let off steam. Worse, when he gets ejected it leaves a hole in our lineup and forces one of our backup infielders to play the outfield.
In fairness to Fehlandt, some Pacific Association umpires are awful: One guy holds his chest protector in front of him like a shield when he’s behind home plate, and another stands well behind the catcher and steps back as the pitch approaches. (The latter once called ball four on a two-strike pitch Kristian Gayday actually swung at and tipped, as our whole bench said “Foul!” in unison.) Few of the umps make an effort to defuse conflicts. But Feh’s explosions are impotent and pointless, raising the team’s temperature without a corresponding rise in morale. Even when his anger is directed inward, it’s a distraction. During another game in Pittsburg, Feh makes a weak out, comes back to the dugout, and pounds his bat on the bench. Moch, one of the few players with the edge required to talk to Feh when he’s hulking out, calls out from the on-deck circle, “Someone doing carpentry over there?”
Feh turns that temper on me, Ben, and Theo in a meeting in the dugout during batting practice shortly after the conversation in Eric’s office. We’ve reached a deadlock on how to use Sean. We’re going to try one last time to make it clear how much we, Feh’s bosses, want to see him do something different.
“But you’re asking me to go against something that my whole career has taught me,” Feh says. “I’m in a damned manager role right now. I’ve almost fucking died out there a million times as a player, and now I get to have a say, and you’re trying to tell me that it’s not that important. You can’t not have a lights-out guy in the closer role.”
“I know the value of the closer is obvious,” I say, “and that every coach has told you that—”
“It’s what the game has taught me.”
“And that’s fair. But no time in history has the team’s best starter been the closer. Nobody tried to make Roger Clemens the closer.”
“Everything was great and then one bad week and all of a sudden we have to take the closer out of his role,” Feh says.
Ben jumps in. “It’s not a response to—”
“But that’s what it looks like!”
Ben lets out a sickly groan: Eeeohgggh.
“Whatever you think it looks like, to everyone out there it’s not a good move,” Fehlandt continues. “Guys, listen: I’m not going to fucking take the closer out. Every game this week has shown me that you need a fucking closer. We lost one and then they just lost one and I feel like those games happened to make the fucking point. How demoralizing it is for the fucking starter to give it up because he doesn’t have somebody shut the fucking door. You guys don’t fucking—I can’t have this talk anymore.” He walks away, yelling at the sky. “This is Baseball 101. This is just Baseball 101 because you haven’t fucking played it.”
In the game later that evening, Fehlandt lasts three pitches into his first-inning at-bat. After a first-pitch ball, he takes a strike on a reasonable call that he’s convinced is a crime. Fuming, he chases the 1-1 and then says something to the umpire that ends his day. The ump ejects him, and Feh gives him hell at home plate, treating the grandstand to the full extent of his profane firepower. Eventually he returns to the dugout, grabs his gear, and heads for the clubhouse. Just like we had hours earlier, we watch him walk away, yelling even louder than the last time.
11
PULLING THE TRIGGER
After the failed dugout meeting, the early Lentini ejection, and the Stompers’ third straight loss, Theo and I are restless. Normally, we would grimace and go our separate ways: I would walk home, and he would drive home to Santa Rosa or go back to the office to count tickets sold. (“Not enough” is the usual total.) But tonight we want to talk, so we drive to La Casa, a Mexican restaurant just off the town square. This eventful day isn’t done.
We like La Casa because it’s open late (by Sonoma standards), the staff is friendly, and the food comes quickly. We’re also fond of the painting in the corner farthest from the door. A young Mexican girl in colorful clothes sits on a blanket, barefoot, gazing out at the viewer. Behind her is a pile of unshelled peas and two older women, maybe her mother and grandmother. The grandmother looks forlorn; the mother holds out a hand, palm up, as if asking for aid. The girl is supposed to seem similarly sad and beseeching. But the slight tilt of her head and the purse of her lips, and the way her left eyebrow lifts up, make her seem exasperated, disappointed that we haven’t done better. It’s an expression we’ve gotten used to seeing this summer, so we feel at ease while she sits in silent judgment, an instant away from an eye roll.
Jessie and a few friends are on their way out when Theo and I arrive. We’re too late to eat, but we stay for a drink—green tea for me and a Diet Coke for Theo, because that’s the way we roll. My only agenda is to blow off some steam, so I tell Jessie how things went with Feh while she makes sympathetic sounds. I’m glad we talked to Feh, I explain, but also discouraged because I can’t see a way to work things out. A willingness to talk is the minimum we want from our manager, and Feh failed that test. Even a civil discussion made him flustered enough to exit dugout left.
“I wish you were the manager,” I tell Theo. It’s a frequent first-half refrain, at this point more pie in the sky than real request. But to my surprise, Theo doesn’t dismiss the idea with his usual smile and self-deprecating comment. Instead he says, “Me too,” and starts listing logistical concerns: Would he have time? Would the players support him? Would Erin leave him for a less baseball-obsessed spouse? And in that moment, my motivation changes, the way it did at the moment all of this started, when Sam and I told Dan Evans that we would take a team, and he actually considered it.
This is my second chance to get Feh fired. The first came in March, when the soon-to-be-manager was on thin ice for his inflammatory Facebook posts. Instead of lying low, he created another account under an alias, Franklin Fettuccini, whose profile picture was a naked boy swinging a bat with a helmet on his head and nothing below that blurred out. It occurred to me then that a guy who couldn’t abide by his boss’s orders about Facebook probably wouldn’t welcome our input about baseball. When Theo set up a conference call to ask Sam and me whether we thought Feh deserved to be fired, I was tempted to drop the hammer. But I’d met him only once, and I’d found him friendly, and I didn’t know enough about him to put him out of a job, even if he’d have no trouble finding another in a higher league. Instead, I said something wishy-washy, and Feh escaped the ax.
This time, I’m coming at the king. The dugout fight and the latest early ejection have cleared my conscience. For one thing, our failure to communicate clearly isn’t all our fault. Negotiations have failed, but only because Feh walked away from the table. For another, firing Feh no longer feels like a self-serving power play. He’s always been in our way, but, before, the franchise
was fine. Now, though, he’s the distraction that Sean never came close to becoming, terrorizing umpires, putting his temper ahead of the team, and disturbing the peace at family-friendly Arnold Field with salvos of highly audible swear words. Lastly, either age or the demands of managing have made Feh’s on-field performance more dispensable than we expected. He’s hitting .289/.345/.459: very good, but far from the transcendent slash lines in our preseason predictions. He’s been worse than our average hitter. We could live without that bat, and Hibb could handle center.
Like a captive hero held at gunpoint, stalling until he can turn the tables, I try to keep Theo talking. On the way to his car, we take a detour to see the Stompers’ old office from the pre-Eric, even-more-microscopic-payroll days; Theo tries the door and discovers it’s locked. I suggest a nightcap, so we drive to Safeway, buy a bottle of wine, and bring it back to my house. When we get there, Theo takes out a tin of dip, a guilty pleasure from his ball-playing days, and grabs an empty can of garbanzo beans from the kitchen counter to use as a juice receptacle. “You’re not allowed to tell Erin about this,” he says. (If Erin is reading, the statute of limitations has expired.)
We light a Duraflame log on the stove and bring it to the backyard, where we gather around a small circular table. I carry a speaker outside and DJ while we talk; my first song selection is “Mr. Manager” by Badfinger. (Subtlety isn’t my strong suit.) On-the-nose song aside, I don’t push too hard, because I don’t want to make Theo more stressed than he already is. He’s juggling a number of competing pressures, on top of the usual conflict between his personal life and baseball’s all-consuming summer schedule. Eric is upset with him because the Stompers aren’t undefeated. Feh is upset with him because two statheads are meddling in managerial business. I’m upset because our meddling hasn’t made more of a difference. Theo is no more fond of confrontation than we are, and thus far he’s been more of a mediator than a manager. It’s not in his nature to lay down the law.
I’m elated at the thought of having a manager who’ll go along with (and actually agree with) what we advise. Theo says he’s simultaneously thrilled and terrified. I try to tamp down his terror by pointing out that there’s precedent for gaps in the wall separating front office from field staff. Manager/GMs were once common in the majors, lingering into the early 1980s, when Whitey Herzog served in both capacities for the St. Louis Cardinals. And in mid-May of this season, the Miami Marlins moved GM Dan Jennings into the manager’s office. Granted, the Marlins are far from a model franchise, and the move made them an object of (even more) ridicule. But the players went about their business and, instead of cratering, the team’s winning percentage rose slightly, from .421 under their ex-manager, former major leaguer Mike Redmond, to .444 under the intruder from upstairs. Theo is well liked by most members of the team, and even if some of the Stompers aren’t pleased with the switch, what’s the worst that could happen in six weeks?
We touch on other subjects, but the conversation keeps circling back to Feh, each time coming closer to a real resolution. Theo says he’s sick of his own insecurity. He’s been depriving himself all summer—he’s on a diet, and I’ve yet to see him consume a solid calorie—and now he’s tempted to treat himself, to take a chance despite his misgivings. Eventually, hours after we left La Casa, he acquiesces: If Eric approves, he’ll take over for Feh. I wish I could ask for a sworn statement: I’m afraid that if I don’t pin him down, he’ll come to his senses once his tobacco high wears off. Instead, I ask him for Eric’s number and tell him I’m going to get the Gullotta blessing in the morning. It’s still a few days away from Perseid season, but before Theo leaves we see a shooting star, which primitive cultures would have interpreted as an omen of upheaval. I’m hoping they would have been right.
In the morning, I call Sam and fill him in on the La Casa coup. He has no objections to a transfer of power. After we hang up, he sends me a text: “This idea excites me to the point that now I will be devastated if it doesn’t happen.” I forward it to Theo to fend off cold feet. “At the end of the year, I’m going to lie and tell Feh he was fired for kicking me out of kangaroo court,” Sam adds. He also points out that, if possible, we should trade Feh to another league; if we release him, the Pacifics will sign him in a second, the way they did with Sergio Miranda. We don’t want Feh with us, but we don’t want him against us, either.
A little after nine, I text Eric and ask if he has time to talk. “Of course,” he says, after an agonizing wait. “Call me in 30 min?” I spend the time mentally polishing my script, adding imaginary bullet points in favor of firing Feh. Lack of discipline. Double standards. Quick temper. Doesn’t work well with others. Makes scenes. Not fan-friendly. And the big finish: Theo and Sam and I have discussed it, and we’re all agreed. I decide that I don’t need to remind him about the bad Facebook behavior, the near-collision with his wife’s car, or the suspicious odor that wafts from the team van whenever Feh is inside.
Thirty seconds and two bullet points into the call, it’s clear that I hardly had to rehearse. Getting Eric’s assent is by far the easiest part of the process. He’s no fan of Feh, and he says he’ll support whatever we want to do. The only caveat is that he’ll have to talk to Theo about how the team’s tiny staff would handle the business side of the Stompers if the GM is in the dugout for hours a day.
I call Theo to tell him Eric is on board, and he reveals that his wife has endorsed the idea. Then, a day later, he backs out, as I’d worried he would. He’s thought about what it would mean for his family if he were the manager: all the road games in Vallejo and Pittsburg, the hours even longer and more stressful than those he already logs. He can’t do it. But Yoshi, the coach Kristian Gayday once described as “our baseball Yoda,” who was so enthusiastic about our “evidences” before Opening Day, can do the job. We’ll have the first Japanese-born manager in American professional baseball, and somebody who (we hope) will actually want to hear what we can add. It’s not our first choice, but it’s a victory.
The only remaining impediment is the fact that Feh is still a Stomper. With Theo’s blessing, I email Arizona Diamondbacks scout Chris Carminucci, whose travels around the independent leagues give him an encyclopedic knowledge of team needs, making him the perfect facilitator. “I will pass this along to a few teams,” Chris says. “I know Ricky VanAsselberg in the Atlantic League may be looking for an offensive type guy.” This sounds like a fit; Feh is a recent Atlantic Leaguer, and he’s offensive in more ways than one. Sixteen minutes later, I get a text from Theo. “Ricky wants him,” he says.
Holy hell, this is happening. We’re in first place, a few days away from a first-half title, and we’re firing Feh.
* * *
Before the home game against Vallejo that night, Eric and Theo huddle with the Stompers’ dead manager walking in Feh’s office. When the meeting breaks up, Feh storms out of the clubhouse without a word, and Theo addresses the team, looking sterner than I’ve ever seen him. In a brief speech, he tells the Stompers that Feh has been suspended because of his conduct toward umpires, and that Yoshi will take over in his absence. Theo doesn’t mention that he’s using the suspension to stall while he puts the finishing touches on a trade with VanAsselberg’s team, the Bridgeport Bluefish.
The game must go on. Hibbert slides over to center and goes 3-for-4. Baps crushes a line-drive home run, lifting his average to .339, fourth-best in the league. Schwieger makes his best start of the season, striking out nine over eight innings. We win, 9-2. It’s the most runs the Stompers have scored in nine days, and multiple players remark that the mood in the dugout is looser than they’ve felt it in weeks. No one makes any inspiring speeches about winning this one for Feh. If anyone minds that the manager is missing, they keep their complaints quiet.
The next day, Sunday, is the Stompers’ first chance to clinch the first half. By the fifth inning, both the game and the title seem well in hand. Gregory Paulino is throwing a shutout, we’ve scored a few runs, and we’re ra
llying for more. Meanwhile, our manager is serving out his suspension in a white utility truck on the far side of the center-field wall. Sam, in the dugout, takes out the binoculars that we bought for still-unspecified scouting purposes and sees two guys standing on the bed of the truck—Feh and his old rap partner. “He was there yesterday, too,” Paul Hvozdovic tells him. Sam grabs his notebook and walks out to see the suspended manager.
“Whoa, bad timing,” Feh says when he sees Sam, who suspects that he’s just taken a hit. (Our team smokes so much weed.) Sam asks him how he feels about the summer so far, and Feh confides that he’s been in some miserable leagues. He’s been in clubhouses that weren’t this loose, he’s dealt with asshole team veterans and asshole ornery coaches, and he’s stayed in cities where teams told their players it was too dangerous to walk the four blocks back home after the games. He’s been in leagues whose seasons were twice as long as this one, but that had so few teams that he’d end up playing the same team a dozen games in a row. Once in the Atlantic League his team was out of the pennant race and had to spend the entire last month of the season playing Bridgeport—the same Bridgeport where we’re currently trying to trade him.
“And that’s the worst place to play,” he says. “We’re just in hell for the whole month of September, just there playing at the worst place over and over. Bridgeport’s the hood. And the port, where the ferry comes in, in right-center field and center field it’s just that whole industrial center that’s the backdrop. It’s just a shithole. No fans come.”
Sonoma has been better than that. He’s been back at home, been a mentor to a number of players who have thrived under his hitting advice, been a friend to players who go over to his house and (we’re told) smoke weed with him between batting practice and the game. His sister got a job with the Stompers. His mom sometimes sat in the front row behind home plate. We started 18-3, and everybody left him alone, but since then—man, he doesn’t know. He’s not even sure if he’s going to run out there and dogpile with the players if we win this game, which seems all but certain. (The score is now 6-0.)
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