“Well, I will be ring shopping.” Then, to throw her off the scent, “But it might be a few months till I have enough paychecks to get you the ring. We’ll see. Speaking of a ring, you’ve been sending me pictures for ideas and they’re all great, but I had some ideas of my own. First, is there a certain amount I have to spend?”
“Of course not. I want it to be nice, but you don’t have to make it a pricey ring just for the sake of making it pricey.”
“That’s a relief. There is a guy on my team who bought three rings for three different girls during his career, and spent close to twenty grand on each of them.”
“That’s insane!”
“No, not really.”
“Yes, really. Twenty grand for a circle on your finger? Ridiculous.”
“Honey, put your baseball goggles back on. You’re looking at a world where everyone is operating with unrealistic stereotypes and expectations. Why do you think the parking lot here is full of hundred-thousand-dollar cars when a well-appointed Accord would be plenty for anyone else? Guys make millions in this sport and still find a way to get into debt because it’s all about image and excess. Wives aren’t immune to it. They land an athlete and they get big expectations too.”
“Not this wife.”
“It’s that very reason why I’d buy you whatever you want.”
“I’d feel terrible lugging around a hunk of rock worth more than my car. However”—she paused for effect—“I would like it to be worth more than your car.”
“My Corolla?” I objected. “Its beauty can’t be quantified in dollars.”
“It’s a rusty pile of crap,” said Bonnie.
“It got me to you all winter.”
“That, or I want a diamond as big as an Escalade parked on my finger.”
I bit my tongue. “Very well, my beloved, a ring worth more than fourteen hundred dollars. Next question: does it have to be a diamond?”
“What else would it be? Glass?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I was thinking, your favorite color is pink, so why not a pink sapphire?” I made a strong and robust case for the idea by expressing numerous facts about the hardness of the stone, its rarity, its beautiful range of hues, and the vast difference in price.
“I want a diamond.”
“Come on, at least have an open mind about it. You said you wanted this wedding to be us, special, unique. I think it should be. How many people could say they have what you have? Also, you wouldn’t have to worry about the whole blood diamond issue. Speaking of which, you should see that movie. It’s got Leonardo DiCaprio in it. He dies in the end, just like Titanic—you’d love it.”
“Alright. I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you, darling. Now, one last thing. Are you going to be okay coming to see me in an apartment that other players also live in?”
“I think so, why?”
“Let me rephrase that. Are you going to be okay with staying with me in an apartment that probably has only one bathroom and three men?”
“What kind of men are we talking about here? Boxed-set-porn men, or real men?”
“Portland is a pricey place to live, especially on a minor league paycheck, so I had to go in with some roommates. It was either that or putting off getting your ring until Lord knows when. I found two guys to room with, both really nice and married.”
The two gentlemen in question were both position players. The first, Luke Carlin, was a catcher. We’d worked together in the past, a few days at almost every level in the system. When I first met him, he was a real tough nut. His parents were involved with the military, which I thought had to be the reason he had such a tactical feel to him. When he’d pay a mound visit, he’d march out like he was policing a firing range, explain to you that you needed to quit malfunctioning and execute, soldier. He looked remarkably like the liquid robot killing machine from Terminator 2, especially when he walked, as his head was always down and scowling like he’d locked on to John Connor. Over the years he’d mellowed substantially, which probably had something to do with getting married and having a daughter. Even the toughest soldiers tend to soften when they have a little lady in the house requesting their presence at an officers-only tea party.
Despite his military mannerisms, Luke had no ego, and never carried a grudge. He was always honest, especially about how much he hated Democrats, and he’d do his best to support you, even if his words of comfort were a tad blunt.
The other guy was named Chip. He was an outfielder who, in a former life, was a high-round pick on the fast track to big league glory. Things didn’t go quite according to plan, however. He was definitely talented but, like many of the players who populate Triple A, he had a smattering of big league time but never seemed to stick there. Chip was also black, and although he was a really easygoing guy, I was nervous I would unknowingly say something racially insensitive and then wake up to a bat to the head. Aside from that, I didn’t know too much about Chip because he was in big league camp and, while I had met some of the pitchers up there, I hardly met any of the position players. In the few conversations I had with Chip, he seemed funny and upbeat, and more worried about me being rowdy, since I was the one in the group who wasn’t married.
In fact, the pair actually requested me to go in with them as a third. They knew I was a social dud, a trait they found appealing in a roommate. Back in the early years of pro ball when young studs were “living the dream” and looking to sow their wild oats with every baseball-crazy female who crossed their paths, a roommate like me was avoided like the use of a condom. Now, in the higher levels, where players have families and don’t want all the drama of explaining why there are Bacardi bottles with thongs stuffed in them to their visiting wives, a guy like me is a hot commodity.
“Are these guys married married, or baseball player rules married?”
“They are good, trustworthy, faithful guys. And they both have kids, which means more alimony losses should they even think about crossing the line.”
“That sounds okay, then.”
“Yeah, but, depending on what kind of arrangements we land, we could all be there at the same time. Kids, wives, one big party—one little apartment.”
“If there are more women there, I’d actually feel better about the whole thing.”
“Okay, well, that’s all I have. Everything else will take care of itself, though I really do hope you consider the pink sapphire. I think they look good, and if you agree the ring is a symbol of our love, I think that symbol should be distinct to us.”
“I’ve already pulled up three sites online.”
“Three? Obsess much?”
“It’s my ring, I can obsess all I want.”
“And?”
“It’s unique ... I like that.”
“So, is it you? Is it us?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Well then, maybe you’ll see that ring when you visit after all.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Holding on to the countertop for support, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror at around four in the morning. My eyes were bloodshot and the skin of my face hung under the weight of its own fatigue. This was just the first of many rude awakenings ahead of me. In Portland, we would fly everywhere, and it would not be the friendly skies. Every away series Portland played would mean a seat on the cheapest red-eye flight available, headed to towns scattered all over the Pacific Coast League. I had traded marathon bus trips for sleepless nights and knuckleball flights aboard puddle jumpers and discount ferries. But it was an easy trade to make since, in a matter of hours, I’d be in Portland on the team built with the express purpose of reinforcing the big league squad. Even though I hadn’t left the spring training hotel bathroom yet, I had never been closer to my goal.
The manager of the newly christened squad was Randy Ready, the same manager from last year’s San Antonio team—he earned a promotion just like many of the players who served under him. His first edict as skipper wa
s to mandate suit jackets and slacks for all team trips. He said that’s what we’d wear in the big leagues, and, since Triple A was about getting guys ready for the Bigs, that’s what we’d wear here. However, since I didn’t have a suit, or even dress shoes, I had to borrow the necessary items from team members who’d been playing long enough to prepare for such dress codes.
Last year, when I broke camp with the High A team, I was the oldest guy on my new squad. This year, I was a young man once again. In fact, I could probably play for the next eight years and still not be the oldest player on my Triple A team. That’s because of all the levels in minor league baseball, Triple A’s player composition spans the widest range. On any given day, you can find rosters showcasing teenagers with phenom powers, as well as salty veterans who use their experience to make up for what their bodies can no longer do.
Equally diverse are the pay scales in Triple A, ranging anywhere from 16K for the first timers like me, to 120K for experienced players, to checks peaking in the millions for big league rehabbers. However, what makes Triple-A the most unique minor league level is not the variations in demographics or financials, but what lies above it.
As a Triple A player, there is no way to tune out the fact that the big leagues are just a phone call away, and with it all the powers, privileges, and money reserved for those lucky enough to receive it. This proximity to the Show influences everything—from kangaroo court rulings to dress code requirements. And living under its influence for a prolonged period of time can do one of two things to a player: make him very hungry, or make him very bitter.
Naturally, every player who enters pro ball wants to make it to the big leagues. Why, then, are some players bitter when they find themselves on the cusp of doing just that? That has everything to do with how they got there. For the hungry up-and-comer, the golden carrot they’ve chased for so long has never been closer. On the other hand, for the veteran who has tasted the fruits of the Bigs and now finds himself on the outside, Triple A is a poor substitute.
While it’s certainly one of the most exciting leagues in the game, Triple A can also be one of the most bitter since it’s crammed full of veterans who feel they should be in the Bigs, much the same way prisons are populated by criminals who swear they’re innocent. The Brass factors this in when they assemble teams, especially ones with large amounts of rookie prospects. While most Triple A veterans are gracious about biding their time, helping their younger teammates until their own services are once again required by the big club, others turn venomous. And, since all power in baseball is reserved for those with seniority and service time, having a batch of bitter veterans on a team can be like living under a militant baseball dictatorship. That zest to achieve, which management hopes to nurture in its prospects, gets beaten out of them by a veteran with a chip on his shoulder. After all, it’s not every profession that asks you to play nice with a guy who’s making you obsolete.
I suspected this year’s team would be more of a democracy, if only because there were so many young, approved Grady’s boys on it. In fact, almost all of the players and staffing who made last year’s San Antonio team so good were here, including Texas League Player of the Year, Chase Headley; Frenchy, the surgical lefty with a Bugs Bunny changeup; Matt Antonelli, or “Anto,” who was making a run for future big league second baseman after hitting .500 for an entire month last year; Kip Freckles, last year’s Texas League Pitcher of the Year; Caesar Ramos, the polished, left-handed first rounder from Long Beach; Nick Hundley, or “Hundo,” an intense, power-hitting catcher with a watchdog arm; and Will Venable, consummate all-around athlete and son of the team’s hitting coach, Max Venable.
With so many prospects being groomed for serious big league service, it was unlikely the management would weigh the squad down with toxic players. Indeed, those players returning for another year in Triple A were all upbeat, positive professionals, like Chip, Luke, and the organization’s triple batting title holder, Brian Myrow.
Even the pitching staff, the group most notorious for being mad at the world for getting screwed—as well as the one I would be spending most of my time with—was a solid bunch of lively personalities. Abby, last year’s San Antonio pitching coach, was back. His unassuming country-boy candor had a way of soothing even the most wild of pitchers’ paranoia. Ox was with us again, in close proximity to his favorite Mexican Whoopee cushion, Manrique. There was the veteran lefty Hamp, who was often referred to as Quadruple A player since he’d been up and down so many times it was like he belonged in his own separate league. There was a mysterious and reclusive Latin pitcher who didn’t speak any English named Zarate, whom we called “Z.” There was Fish the tall, quiet, right handed split-finger specialist who was so long legged he practically strode to the plate while delivering. And finally, Chad Bentley, another Quadruple A player and our team pretty boy who possessed an uncanny knowledge of skin lotions, designer clothes, and luxury cars.
There was only one bad egg in the whole group: Dallas Preston. And when I boarded the shuttle bus to the airport, he was already talking the heads off of two rookie pitchers.
“The thing about this fucking league,” said Dallas, “is the parks are fucking launching pads. If you get beat up, you can’t feel bad because it’s common to have a high four or a five ERA here. Like, last year, I had bad numbers, but it’s because of the parks, mostly. I pitched good, I thought.”
“I have heard this league is a hitters’ league,” said Frenchy.
“I heard that too,” said Kip.
“Hell yeah, it is,” affirmed Dallas. “Not like International League, where every park is a graveyard. I need to get my ass traded to the International League, snap!”
Kip and Frenchy exchanged concerned looks about their futures.
“You’ll be fine,” said Dallas. “Besides, I’ll be here to help you, and the first thing you need to know is the chicks in this league are outstanding. Ain’t they, Bentley? There are some sleeper towns in this league, huh?”
“I hardly think you need to be worrying about that, Dallas,” said Bentley, who was reclined in a seat with a sleeping mask over his eyes.
“I ain’t talking for me. I mean for these guys.” Dallas turned back to a pair. “For my money, Salt Lake City has some of the finest girls on earth. Mormon chicks are hot, and they’re wild. And then there’s fucking Vegas.”
“That’s right, we go to Vegas in this league,” said Frenchy.
“What’s that like?” asked Kip.
“We play like shit, that’s what it’s like. Fucking, no one sleeps. Best home field advantage in baseball, snap!” Dallas noticed me sit down and immediately roped me into the conversation.
“Dirk, you drink now, right?”
“A little.”
“You ever hit a bar called Dante’s Inferno when you were in Portland?”
“I haven’t.”
“You gotta go, you’d like it.”
“Why is that?” I asked, wondering what made him think I’d be interested in attending a place named after hell.
“There is just a lot of weird shit in there. You’re into weird shit, ain’t you? Like this one time”—he turned back to the pair of first-time pitchers—“this undead clown guy was hosting and he kept high-stepping around the place like a Nazi. Then there was this chick dressed up as a police officer and she was stripping. Her face was busted up but, damn, she had some nice titties.” He reached across the aisle and grabbed hold of Z and shook him by the shoulder. “Some nice titties, Z, you like titties where you come from, don’t you?” Z stared back at Dallas, mouth open, completely lost.
“Anyway, every day they have something crazy going on in there, people dressed up as spacemen and shit, stripping.” He took a sip of his coffee, swallowed hard, then looked at me. “Come to think of it, you probably wouldn’t like it at all. Hell, it’s amazing what you think is interesting when you’re drunk, ya know?”
“Uh, sure, happens to me all the time,” I said flippantly.
“Oh, alright then,” said Dallas, now locked on to me. “All these years and you’re still a smart-ass, I see. Fucking Dick Gayhurst, everybody.”
That comment woke me up in a hurry. How could he spend all that time dumping on me privately, and now that he had an audience, decide that he could insult me? I tried to think of something to say to all the faces waiting for me to retort to Dallas’s jab, when Chip, my future roommate, broke into the scene.
“Watch out now!” shouted Chip. He was in the middle of the bus aisle moving to some music playing over the bus’s radio. “This song right here, mmm, don’t matter what time it is, you have to love it.” The bus driver had tuned in a smooth jazz radio station—an odd choice for this early in the morning—featuring Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together.”
“I’ll tell you what, mmm, I think I was made to this song.” Chip continued to work it, acting like he was singing to us. We stopped what we were doing and accompanied Chip by snapping our fingers to the beat—all except Z, who just stared at Chip.
“Help me now, help me!” said Chip, calling out to all of us on the bus as the song built to its chorus. Then, if you were a bystander outside the bus doors, you would have heard a choir of Triple A baseball players singing, “Whether times are good or bad ...” Good or bad, indeed, I thought, taking my seat as the bus pulled out for Portland.
Chapter Twenty-five
Our flight touched down around 9 A.M. A shuttle bus took us from the airport to the Doubletree Hotel next to the Lloyd Center Mall and Holladay Park. The hotel graciously put out fresh baked cookies for our arrival—we devoured them like a plague of locusts, then choked the front desk to a halt demanding our room keys. After which, chocolate chip stains around our mouths, we piled into the elevators until the weight alarms rang, thundered down hallways, slammed all of our doors, and cussed, loudly, when our roommates beat us to the toilet. That’s right, Portland, your 2008 Beavers were in town; make way for your new role models.
Out of My League Page 13