by Ryan McCord
CHAPTER 3 BONUS BABY
Barring serious injury, Dane “Captain” Morgan will be an All-Star pitcher for the LA Travelers in two to three years. He’s a big, poised lefty with the facial complexion reminiscent of a young Kurt Russell, relying solely on one type of pitch: a live two-seam fastball that always seems to ride its way down both edges of the plate for strikes. He compliments his cutters, when he feels like it, with a cracker jack of a curveball. Preferring to work from the stretch, he kicks his right leg up, tucking the ball from the hitter, then delivers the pitch with a violent lunge forward turned follow through. Anyone who has ever batted against him over the last few years will tell you that when he’s on, his balls look like strikes, and his strikes look like balls.
The Travelers made Captain Morgan their first round pick last year, and at the current age of 21, everyone in the organization expects him to be pitching in triple-A at some point this season. The only question mark surrounding his future role with the Big League club is the internal debate amongst coaches and executives to either begin gradually conditioning his arm to the extent where he can become a starter, or make him a closer, where he seems to possess the ideal mental makeup. Traveler executives also would like to see him develop a changeup pitch in order to protect his curveball from being so easily recognizable to the above average professional hitter. Veteran scouts often view him as a left-handed version of Jonathon Papelbon, the peppy All-Star closer for the Boston Red Sox.
“Lopey, who is this kid?” Gerry asks the catcher from his seat in the dugout, as Captain Morgan begins warming up for the bottom of the ninth inning.
“That’s Captain Morgan,” Lopey replies while pouring himself a handful of sunflower seeds. “Dominated a couple years at ASU before the Travelers made him their bonus baby last year.”
“What’s a bonus baby doing pitching in a glorified scrimmage at this point of spring?” Gerry invokes.
“It’s gotta have something to do with his overall pitch count for the spring,” Lopey insists. “He’s either well under the total pitch cap the organization set him up for this spring, and they figure their paying a lot of money for him to pitch, so he might as well get another inning in.
“Or its very possible they decided in the last 24 hours to make him a closer for this year, and it was the plan all along for him to pitch as many ninth innings as possible before camp breaks.”
Gerry is due up fourth. So there was certainly no guarantee he would be hitting at all. But for the first time today, however, he is a little nervous. After all, Captain Morgan is the guy who had Gerry anxious last night.
“I know this guy looks like a Big Leaguer, throws like a Big Leaguer, and will be a star at the Show,” Lopey adds modestly. “But the only thing you need to pay attention to is the ball itself, Gerry G.
“The eyes on the ball adage works more often than not. Especially with the way you’re hitting today.”
“Good lookin’ out,” Gerry G responds.
“Eyes on the ball. Soft hands. Quick hands. Okay?” Lopey assures him.
Thanks to a throwing error and a jammed-swing turned bloop single that happened to cause the bat to break, or “die a hero” as the players like to refer to it, the Presidents managed to get the first two men on base to begin the last stanza of the game.
With nobody out and men on second and first, standing on deck, Gerry knew it was a foregone conclusion that he would get another chance to hit. “A double play I could see here, no question. But this defense is simply not collectively skilled enough to turn a triple play.
Eyes on the ball, he thought.
Uncharacteristically agitated, Captain Morgan now can’t help but take umbrage towards this rag-tag Presidents team receiving goodwill from the Gods of Baseball at his expense.
On the 0-1 pitch to the next batter, Ramirez, Morgan’s delivered curveball slips out of his hand a little, and as a result, pegging his opponent in the elbow.
The table is set. And Gerry is well aware that his sparring partner, Captain Morgan, is now flat-footed.
“Forget the cycle, dude,” Gerry convinces himself after time is called by the Travelers catcher.
All you gotta do is make him throw strikes now.
If you see your pitch to hit, just concentrate on putting a quality swing on it. A fly ball and this game is ours. Heck maybe you’ll even get a single out of it.
Eyes on the ball, baby. Quick hands. Soft hands.
The coach scoots out to the mound for a quick word with Captain Morgan to remind him of three things: 1.) Forget what just happened, okay? That’s what separates the good from the great. 2.) Listen you’re going to need to come back inside to this guy. He’s been murdering the ball today, but for some reason, we have been pitching this long-armed, power-hitting lefty on the outer half of the plate. You see what I’m saying?
The coach trots back to the dugout.
The catcher then finishes with, “Well I don’t need to remind you this time that all walks score. Hey, you made this guy look silly back in Vero Beach. He can’t touch the velo in and he knows it. But let’s start him off with the deuce anyways just to fuck with his head.”
Captain Morgan just nods down to the rubber, glove covering his mouth, closing with a malignant grin favoring the left side of his face. The catcher then returns to home plate, but not before setting up the defense and reminding everyone that there were no outs.
The first pitch is in; a snapping curve that the catcher frames just right. It appears a little high to Gerry, but the Ump bellows out a variation of a strike call, then shortly follows that by motioning a high fist with his right arm.
Sonofabitch, Gerry thinks to himself. This guy doesn’t stay off track for long.
Just before delivering his second pitch, Captain appears to be shaking off the sign shown by his catcher.
Gotta be a bluff, Gerry thought. We got a guy on second, standard procedure.
The curveball comes in again, almost a carbon copy in quality to the first pitch.
Gerry is a little surprised, but arbitrarily, he also guesses its going to land just high enough to be called a ball this time.
He guessed right. The umpire turns his head away and casually deems the pitch a ball, followed by relaying the 1-1 count to Captain in holding up each index finger above his head.
Gerry now reminds himself that statistically, 1-1 is the most important count in the history of professional baseball. Whoever wins the 1-1 battle within the entire war of an at bat, usually succeeds.
You’re lucky to have it too, don’t kid yourself, Gerry thought. That last curveball fooled me frozen.
Gerry then managed to get the count to 2-2, after Captain Morgan missed the plate trying to come inside on a 1-1 count. Gerry then foul tipped the next fastball in.
Between the next pitch, the catcher attempts to conveniently engage in snaring dialogue between he and Gerry for the first time all game.
“So what do you need four-eight,” the catcher begins. “Just a single to hit the distinguished exhibition cycle?”
On any other day, like any other ballplayer, Gerry would have fired right back with something like, “You know, despite that fact that we haven’t beat you guys once all spring, all we could talk about once we heard The Travelers were coming today centered around a hot rumor going around the Grapefruit Leagues about a catcher in your camp that took it in the rear with a strap on from a 200 lb. Applebee’s hostess. Since you’re the only dumbdick with shin pads in the organization, I’ll just swear Captain Morgan told me it was you.”
But today bred sustenance for Gerry. So what if it was exhibition? Chances are, he will never forget today for as long as he lives. That homerun scene, after all, will forever be imprinted in his memory.
I hope Big Game saw that, he thought.
I got the Captain right where I want him. He can’t strike me out today. Just put a good swing on it. Even if he throws the deuce again, I can’t pull a Carlos Beltran vs. Adam Wainright here.
<
br /> Think win. Not cycle. Eyes on ball.
“Ah, whatever,” Gerry shrugs in response to the catcher as he settles into the box.
Seven pitches later, all fastballs in, and the count is now full. Gerry manages to foul off the first three, (one of which was two inches over the first baseman’s head only to hook and land foul by a foot, landing ten feet behind him) before watching another miss the plate by two inches to load up the count. The next three were all healthy cuts only to be fouled off as well.
Gerry feels great. He thought, unless this guy has a get-out-of-jail pitch in his repertoire that he doesn’t know about, like a slurve or a screwball, he is now dictating the at bat.
David Castillo is the only coach the Presidents assigned to supervise for this game. So by default, he’s working as the third base coach today as well. Gerry checks his way for any sort of strategy. Castillo puts his own ego to the side in giving Gerry freedom to do as he pleases, showing a handful of dummy signals to keep the opponent honest.
Gerry then observes Captain a little. No tip-offs. No clouds out today either. It must be 90 degrees in Florida and he’s cooler than a dog lying in shaded dirt.
Gerry thought, how long does this kid want or need to labor? He doesn’t have his best stuff today. But he’s a gamer. I respect him.
The twelfth pitch started outside. Gerry waited and studied a nanosecond for any implication that the pitch would change directions back towards the inside.
Screw it. Commit to the outside.
Gerry’s eyes are now like China plates. This pitch location turned out to be a replica of the one he hit out of the park last at bat. What to do with it?
0:00.
“Take your base!” The home plate umpire directs Gerry. “Ball Game!”
The Presidents, with only two men on the roster who are qualified, by law, to be sworn in for the actual office itself, had just beaten the Travelers. For minor leaguers and big leaguers combined, this was the first time all Spring that the Presidents beat the Travelers. And of all things on a bases-loaded walk against a hot prospect.
Just after blowing a fleeting kiss to the catcher, Gerry was halfway down to first clutching his fist high looking for Lopey to smile with. Soon after, everyone on the team made their way over to mutually show their respect for Gerry G and his outward display of competitive philanthropy.
Most of them are happy to utter, “Good job, mang!” along with a head nod.
Now James, down at field level, finds himself a spot on the fence near the players’ entrance to the field alongside three autograph seekers. They are thumbing through their individual card collection albums, debating on No. 48’s actual name.
Meanwhile, Coach Castillo has a quick post game word with his split squad, applauding their efforts and reminding them to keep up with the bulletin board in the clubhouse, as an influx of important news regarding their respective futures will be posted as camp begins to break in the next 24-48 hours.
“Number 48, Gerry Galloway,” James firmly nods to one of the super fans. “Call him Gerry G, he likes that.”
Not one Gerry Galloway card can be found between them.
“That’s a shame, gents,” James humors. “As you can see he’s a young, rising star in the organization.”
“Why is it so hard to find his card then?” One of them pleads.
“Because maybe he didn’t become a rising star until today,” James suggests. “You may have just witnessed a future big leaguer enter the elevator headed up to D.C.”
“He does look the part,” another said.
James takes another look at the post-game meeting on the field. Coach Castillo appears to be exchanging dialogue with a number of players. Given the present set of circumstances that are no doubt business influenced, this particular meeting might take longer than usual.
“Tell you, what,” James said to the super fans. “See that white truck over there behind the fence in left-center?”
They all nod in acknowledgement.
“Galloway is a good friend of mine. I got a stack of his cards from High-A Vermont in my truck. Just hang here a few minutes and I’ll be happy to give you my stack.”
James goes on to do his good deed for the day, and the card collectors can all breath a sigh of relief. That was the autograph that almost got away.
As James approaches the truck, he can’t help but notice a short row of, thin white objects that have been carefully placed between the windshield wiper and windshield itself.
And now two feet from the truck, what began as a peculiar sight develops a great deal more clearly as he begins to realize it’s a stash of everyone’s favorite narcotic.
“Vermont’s Finest,” James remarks appreciatively under his teeth.
He snags the joints and heads back to the truck’s canopy entrance. He then proceeds to seal the controlled substance in a sandwich bag he already had lying at the bottom of his small, dry camping cooler, where he had been keeping his food. He drops the joints in the cooler, thinking that they will stay relatively fresh in there and the lid should hermetically seal up any lingering marijuana smell.
Just got to make it out of the Bible Belt with those, James thought. One-hundred hours of court-ordered public service around here could very well include performing maintenance duties at a weekend pancake fundraiser ran by tenured members of the Ku Klux Klan.
James locks up the canopy, grabs the cards in the center console in the cab of the truck, and makes his way back.
As most of the players are now making their way back to the clubhouse, Gerry is signing an autograph for a young man who is impassively spending the day at the park with his father. Most of the kids’ focus is directed toward a hand-held video game system, even as Gerry attempts to engage in conversation while signing his baseball.
“What’s you name, man?” Gerry asks.
“Sander,” the kid responds robotically, fidgeting away.
“Do you want to be a ball player when you grow up, Sander?”
“No, I want to go to college.”
“Well that’s good. You got your sights set anywhere in particular?”
“UCLA or DeVry.”
Sander’s father then bashfully thanks Gerry for his time and wishes him good luck before moving along.
As promised, James then hands Gerry three of his cards for the super fans, whom appear to look pleased.
“These guys hung around just for you, Gerry G,” James tells Gerry.
“I appreciate the support guys,” Gerry said. He begins to hand the cards back to each one of the three. They each thank him back and, like spring training super fans do, waste little time in shoveling right off to find the next desired autograph as players abound within the spectator’s quarters.
Now that the fans are gone, Gerry can role adjust from professional to buddy. He takes his shades off and unwraps a big grin for James.
“Did you see the whole game?” Gerry inclines with anticipation.
“It’s going into the Big Game Hall of Fame my friend,” James replies with a handshake. “Congratulations are in order.”
Gerry often loves to lament about how shortsighted fans can be. In this case, he cites the recent three he just signed his old card for.
“Before you got here, they asked if I knew I was a single shy of the cycle,” Gerry says with grief. “When I answered ‘yes,’ matter-of-factly; they couldn’t believe I didn’t swing at that last pitch.
“If I say it once, I’ve said it 100 times: Baseball is like church. Many attend, few get it.”
“Amen,” James says facetiously, hoping to change routes within the conversation. “Listen, you just put up THE athletic performance of your career. How many clean cats in pro baseball can hit homeruns like that?”
“Off a quick-pitch,” Gerry winks.
The conversation didn’t last much further, as Gerry felt like he had to get back to see if his name was listed on one of the afternoon game rosters. The first pitch for that grouping
was probably about an hour away.
Gerry begins to make his way back to the clubhouse.
“I’ll shoot ya a text,” he said.
“I’m gonna go check my email,” James replies.
So James gets in his truck and heads off for the town library.