A popup and a fielder’s choice latter and Borelli strode to the plate. Embroiled in a slump, Borelli’s batting average hovered at a cool .288. Three pitches later, he pushed an outside fastball down the right field line scoring both runners.
Borelli’s big hit provided all of the energy the Panthers required. In the ninth inning, Mike Schmidt, the Panthers’ power-hitting third baseman, launched a solo shot over the center field wall finishing the scoring.
Drawing to a half game of the Lakers with the 7-4 win, the Panther locker room sounded joyful and exuberant. Loud shouts exploded across the room.
Hours later, sitting on the roof of the Sealy’s house, Ryan sipped on a glass of ice water, in quiet relaxation, looking up at the stars.
The Sealy’s were a local family who generously shared their house with him whenever he came near Glen Allen Park, about twelve miles east of Glen Allen Lake.
Ever since the Sealy’s had become empty nesters, a decade earlier, they’d extended their generosity to struggling minor league players willing to help them on their modest farm.
While most minor league players took second jobs to make ends meet, Uncle Mitch advised Ryan to stretch his signing bonus in creative ways, the better to allow him to concentrate on developing his career.
“Arrange room and board and provisions,” Uncle Mitch firmly instructed him. “It’s as good as money. Maybe better.”
Uncle Mitch kept his message logical and precise. Besides the fierce competition, low pay was the biggest concern a minor leaguer faced. Like a deathtrap, the inadequate recompense of minor league players quickly extinguished the excitement of those looking to score a big payday.
“Remember, Son,” Uncle Mitch reminded him, “the typical minor league ballplayer will make less per year than a burger flipper or fast food worker. If your dream is the major leagues, then you chose a tough road. Don’t sign on the dotted line unless you’re eyes are open.”
Uncle Mitch’s right. I’ve seen a lot of ballplayers end up in the poorhouse because they never realized pro ball is a business first and a game second. Take care of your family and then love the game.
“Everything okay man?”
Haddox quickly opened his eyes. Lane Hunter sat staring at him, curiously.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Why?”
“You were grimacing, I think.”
The camaraderie alarm for his wellbeing
“Just pushed my legwork more than usual tonight.” Haddox worked hard to sound convincing.
Hunter’s eyesight dropped to Haddox’s legs and shook his head. “It looked to me like you were moving your arm funny.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Haddox dismissed the man’s unease. “Naw,” he asserted, shaking his head, “my arms fine.”
Hunter, the Panthers platoon first baseman and utility player, one of the many ballplayers who signed a professional baseball contract right out of high school. Eight years later, Hunter refused to alter his course. “My time’ll come,” he passionately announced. “I’ll wait my turn in line. When my number’s called, I’ll take my place along the baseball elite.”
To the outside world, Lane Hunter fit the minor league ballplayer profile. But if someone took the time to look closer, a different image than most people envisioned emerged.
Hunter dreamed as much of building a life outside of baseball as he did of being a major leaguer one day.
“Did you write a song today?” Haddox asked, exuberantly.
Hunter caressed the edge of the guitar, showing off brand new strings. “I’m a country bumpkin—you know, man,” Hunter replied, discharging a heavy laugh.
Hunter sang a country tune providing the proper twang. Always playing in tune and proper intonation, Hunter displayed careful polish.
Showing appropriate respect, Haddox leaned back and closed his eyes, listening intently.
When Hunter wasn’t playing ball, or picking an instrument and writing country songs, he talked about finishing his vocation. “This offseason, I’m planning on working to finish my degree.” At one point, he’d hoped to work for an accounting firm.
Typical of most minor league ballplayers, Hunter believed in keeping all of his options open. The problem didn’t come down to focus, baseball’s primary requisites demanded focus more than any other function. Instead, the problem lay in the far corners of a mind that refused to release the boyhood dreams of yesterday.
A mind unable to release boyhood dreams even as it matured and adulthood placed demands and obstacles in its path.
They were the dreamers…
Always the dreamers…
Minor league ballplayers, not proficient or accomplished, told sad stories.
Broken men.
Frozen between the career path of the average adult and the pursuit of greatness within the glory of a boy’s game. Caught up within the turmoil, refusing to give up a boyhood dream, they dared attempt to become masters of the game.
Time became the relentless enemy, applying pressure upon the vulnerable soul, forcing the dreamer to confront realities certain to kill all but the most fervent hope.
On the one hand, Ryan the dreamer played a game meant for boys and loved every aspect of his freedom. On the other hand, Ryan the father naturally owed a parental obligation to his son. Not only financially, but—in the hopes of creating a secure setting in which to raise a family—he felt compelled to make a matrimonial commitment to the boy’s mother.
Up until now, he’d managed to overcome many of his financial shortcomings. Many other ballplayers, worse off, relied on far more drastic methods to survive.
Dispersed throughout minor league baseball’s culture lay the remains of shattered lives and broken hearts. Men whose commitment to the dream of the game provided the energy and structure to a world where the true artist could still live.
These true artists transcended the limits of reality, no longer playing a boy’s game to achieve the ultimate dream of playing in the major leagues. While this remained a dream, these true artists played the game to merge with its pureness.
Playing the game at its artistic level, the virtuosos altogether embraced its wholesomeness. Incapable—unwilling—to establish a safety net, they gave everything to the game, choosing to sacrifice much of their life and financial stability for a prized moment when everything melted away and the sunlight revealed their childhood essence.
A pivot and a throw from deep in the hole, or a laser to complete a bang bang double play, transformed them into the uncontaminated image of a true artist frozen eternally in the mystic moment of perfection. A numinous splendor when bat made contact, when, in the twinkling of an eye, glove extended beyond the body and intercepted the flight of the ball.
These moments of unadulterated youth existed throughout and within the fabric of the game. In the form of an addiction to a substance, baseball entered the blood. It captured the soul of an artist willing to give up everything to freeze a moment in time and recapture youth.
Of a certainty, those moments of completeness and true artistry came to Haddox in the crystalized reward of completed windup and release of a white sphere into a framed zone.
Upon the mound, Haddox realized his purpose to exist.
Pitch to pitch, Ryan became younger and regained his youth.
Upon the pinnacle of accuracy, words lost meaning and communication became superfluous.
Ryan’s pursuit to attain this summit created a financial storm leaving him and everyone around him looking at a dangerous future. In this way, Ryan—like many other minor leaguers—lived below the poverty line, fearful of tomorrow.
This fear took on the form of a gigantic fire threatening to burn down everything he deemed valuable in his life.
Baseball constantly infringed on their relationship. Many a women obligated to come to terms with a grown man striving to play a boy’s game to perfection.
“Before I met you, before we had a child together, it was to make Uncle Mitch and Aunt Dorothy proud of me.”
Ryan ran his hands through her long flowing hair. He still found her exciting and sometimes struggled to share the fullness of his adoration. “Now, it’s more complicated.”
Stephanie closed her eyes as Ryan continued to massage her scalp. “Why?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It just is.”
After a brief silence, Stephanie sat up. She’d been laying across the sofa, her head on his lap. Eyes aflame, she confronted him in his perceived exposure. “Why?” she demanded.
Ryan didn’t like sharing his feelings. He determined a woman needed to know where a man’s greatest weakness existed and enjoyed driving her feminine violence against it.
Stephanie hated Ryan showing such vulnerability. The excitement some women desperately craved—a man sharing his susceptibilities—didn’t appeal to her. Rather, she hunted for Ryan’s liabilities to make him stronger.
She viewed it her primary spousal duty.
“Tell me,” she demanded, more forcefully.
“Because of you,” Ryan admitted.
“You’re blaming me?”
“No.”
“But you said—”
“Look at you. You’re beautiful. Every time I see you, I wonder what a woman like you sees in a man like me. I want to deserve your love. And then I realize… if I can’t achieve my dreams… all I can do is love you.”
Driving her cold eyes fiercely into him, she announced savagely, “Don’t you realize that’s all I need… all I want?”
Ryan knew the answer to her question but didn’t dare answer.
She squinted her eyes and gave him a side-glance.
Rather than answering her question, Ryan softly said, “I’ve always known you were it for me.”
“Why me?” Stephanie asked, shifting her attack.
“Because, from the first time I saw you, I knew I couldn’t live without you,” he quickly replied. “I need you, or I can never be truly happy. Nothing will matter without you.”
He answered the only question that mattered.
4th Inning
When a pitcher's throwing a spitball, don't worry and don't complain, just hit the dry side like I do.
—Stan Musial
Half the plate's yours, half is mine. You don't know what half I want. But if you're going to take away half of the plate that I want, you're gonna pay.
—Nolan Ryan
After the heat waves of summer, there came the sultry days. Hot and humid, the days of summer moved across the field, drenching the ballplayers with sunlight.
Catching fire, the Panthers won 9 out of 12 games, taking a two game lead over the Lakers and Chiefs in the standings. Only the Climax Heights Dragons loomed ahead of them in first place, three games up.
Winning a championship should’ve been the driving force behind the Panther’s recent surge. Instead, the compelling factor behind the winning streak was the Southern Side-by-Side.
In early June, Dalton won three games in a row in five starts, while Ryan faltered and remained winless during the same time.
In turn, the following week Ryan evened the standings somewhat, winning two in a row, while the rookie pitcher lost two in a row.
Through mid-June, to mid-July, the pitchers were virtually neck to neck, with Dalton holding a slim margin over Ryan in wins and ERA—8-4, 3.48, to Ryan’s 7-4 3.37.
In the heat of summer, Ryan’s shoulder pain did not diminish. Only able to maintain a velocity of 84-86 miles an hour, he feared that even if he won the competition, the parent club might not find him desirable anymore.
It’s my arm
“The mortgage…” Stephanie’s voice trailed off.
Ryan didn’t look up, ignoring her, hoping the problem disappeared.
“We can’t pay it. Not all of it anyway.”
It was the worst fear Ryan harbored—to lose the roof over their head.
The struggle to pay the bills affected every part of their existence. The end of the month brought thick consternation.
She refused to ignore their financial troubles.
The phone’s incessant ringing haunted her throughout the day and night. Leaving it off its cradle temporarily gained her the peace she craved.
“Say something,” Stephanie insisted.
“What do you want me to say?” Ryan sounded tired.
The inability to pay the bills caused them much heaviness. A new pressure—dark and sinister—emerged and loomed over them.
The pressure of possible doom and failure.
Neither of them spoke about the new pressure, but its heaviness materialized throughout every area of their existence and threatened them in tenacious grips like the coils of a boa constrictor.
In addition to the bills weighing upon him, relentlessly, pride led him to a greater downfall. Ryan refused to accept any help from Stephanie’s family. Moreover, he rejected the idea of petitioning social services to help him feed his wife and son.
The entire mess resulted in food becoming a central theme in his family’s day-to-day struggles.
“I can go myself,” urged Stephanie. “I’m not ashamed. We care about our baby and want to make sure he’s healthy.”
“Stephanie,” Ryan called out in hurt. “When have you or little Mitch ever gone hungry?”
Stephanie quickly replied, “It’s not us I worry about. It’s you, Honey. You have to be healthy and able to pitch. You can’t pitch without eating?”
Ryan couldn’t tell her if his arm trouble was a direct result of not eating properly. Although impossible to verify, he found it difficult to reject the possibility.
To admit such a likelihood left him considering every player in the minor leagues who faced the same dilemma. Eating junk food in the minor leagues was a common occurrence, and yet other player’s arms remained healthy.
“Let’s think about this some more.”
The tone in Ryan’s voice caused Stephanie to rivet her attention on him. She sensed the inner turmoil within Ryan. She feared it would soon lead him to a terrifying decision.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” answered Haddox.
“I want you to say it again.”
Haddox remained silent.
Stephanie stabbed him with a piercing stare. “Ryan, if you don’t want our relationship, then—”
He reached out and took her by the shoulders. “I didn’t say I wanted out.” He stroked her hair. “If that’s what I wanted… I would’ve left a long time ago.” He held her tightly, and then released her. “Most of the time I feel I’m not good enough for you and little Mitch. I don’t want you to suffer.”
“Why don’t you let me decide how I choose to live my life and who I choose to live it with? Little Mitch needs a father. He needs you to love him and do the best you can.”
Haddox started to turn away again.
“Talk to me, Ryan, please!”
He stopped and stood unmoving.
“What is it?” Stephanie yelled out, in exasperation.
“It’s my arm!” Ryan hadn’t meant to raise his voice.
Stephanie froze. Shock, fear, flashed across her eyes.
“It’s my arm,” Ryan repeated, softer, his voice almost a whisper.
Slowly she turned and walked to the bed. Sitting down hard on the mattress, she lifted her head and stared at him again, not able to say anything.
“It’s my damn arm… it hurts,” Ryan finished.
Without warning, Stephanie started to cry. “I knew something was wrong,” she sobbed. Losing control, her crying became louder.
Immediately, Haddox moved to her and, taking a knee in front of her, he held her closely. “Don’t cry, Baby. Stop crying. I can still pitch. I’ll fight through the pain.”
“You can’t,” Stephanie said, shaking her head. “Honey, what will we do?”
“Listen to me: All I need to do is make it to the big leagues.”
Their eyes locked, as if reading each other’s minds.
“I won’t tell them my arm’s i
n pain.” Ryan’s whisper sounded guttural.
Stephanie stopped crying. Her amazement to his declaration made him feel guilty. Wiping away her tears, she again shook her head. “You can’t. Ryan, it’s illegal… isn’t it?”
The innocence Stephanie often times demonstrated amazed Haddox. To hear her confront his dishonesty caused even heavier guilt to flood over him. “Baby, what do you think they’re doing to me...? It’s illegal to make us work so hard and pay us so little. This is pay back.”
The miniscule minor league pay scale, far below the poverty level, made it nearly impossible to survive. Ryan recalled the many times his family subsisted only because of the generosity of other’s kindness. The frantic calls to relatives who he wasn’t particularly close to came to mind. The uncomfortableness at the other end of the phone, or the awkwardness in a face-to-face rejection.
More often than not, circumstances forced Ryan to approach his parents for money.
All these years of struggle, having to live like a second-class citizen. Finally, I can get some payback.
Stephanie got up, walked to the window, and stared out at the rural countryside. She loved living in Brownsville. When they’d first moved into the two-story house at the edge of town, she immediately called her mother to share her happiness.
“What does that make us?” she asked quietly.
Without moving, Haddox answered, “It makes us parents… doing what we must.”
She turned to face him. “Does it? What are we passing on to our son if being dishonest is how we survive?” Walking back to the bed, she again sat on its edge. “I’ve always supported you, Ryan. No matter how hard things have gotten, I’ve tried to give you all my love.” She shook her head. “I don’t know about this.”
Ryan listened to Stephanie. He valued her opinion. But he’d already decided. Nothing else seemed important to him.
Getting at least one big payday. He’d long ago stopped caring how the big payday came.
“Whoever’s called up on September 1st will get the full $80, 000 contract amount even if they don’t pitch a game.” Haddox’s hazel eyes were large with hope, his facial skin taught and ashen. “All depending how well things go, Hounsfield might sign me for the following year.” Haddox reached out and stroked Stephanie’s hair. Little Mitch slept in his pack ’n play in the next room leaving the Brownsville home to sit quietly. “Signing a major league contract guarantees the Major League minimum. Do you remember what the league minimum is?”
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