by Ryan McCord
CHAPTER 4 SUPPLEMENTS
The clubhouse’s main white board, used primarily for organizational news updates, has been updated to inform the players-in both English and Spanish-that no afternoon games will be played today. The second bit of important information, emphasized with money signs and exclamation points, prompts everyone to keep their phones on for the next 24 hours for further direction.
Gerry didn’t think much of what he read. He was both mentally and physically creamed by now. What little energy he had left, is now focused towards feeling good about his efforts; like an old man does after spending an autumn Saturday stacking wood along the house for the winter. In fact, for the first time in his professional career, Gerry was proud of his efforts. It’s a unique feeling as a competitor knowing that you gave everything you had for your team that day. And if he had done anything different at all, the outcome wouldn’t have gone in the team’s favor. And he knows that if it weren’t for him, they would have gone something like a combined 0-17 versus the Travelers as an entire organization during this spring training. This is what making a difference feels like, he thought.
The primal part of his spent conscious begins to flicker over from feeling prideful to pleasure seeking, in finally realizing that its now okay to unwind some. The workday has completed. So he heads over to his equipment space, nods to an unfamiliar face now occupying the space next to his, drops his gear in, picks up his 14 oz. red plastic beach cup, and proceeds to the ice machine in the trainers office and scoops about 12 quarter-sized ice chips into the cup. He then sets his cup down on the counter below the cabinet that reads “Beijing Cocktail Mix” in permanent marker on a strip of duct tape. Gerry opens it up and proceeds to sprinkle in his palm two ibuprofen then two Aleve (consume together with water and you have the critically acclaimed Beijing Cocktail). He then makes his way back to his locker space, and carefully places the medicine up on his hat shelf before pouring himself a double scotch. All the while he is doing this, anyone could have greeted him, but because he is gassed, he wouldn’t even have noticed if the owner of the team himself was making a friendly appearance. All he can think of now is ice cold Johnnie Walker Black, and how that first sip would taste better than the first bite on Thanksgiving.
Like the first wave that knocks the young ocean wader off his feet, the first gulp of scotch refreshingly shook Gerry from his trance. But the feeling of enrichment is short lived. Once he can tune out the distracting zippy Latin music heard throughout the clubhouse, he begins to notice a dichotomy of human spirit throughout. Many of the guys, having just finished showering or getting themselves ready for a hot rinse, are naked and uninhibited in a manner that is common for this setting. But there is also about seven or eight other guys who are still wearing the pants they played in, and most of those them have a look in their eyes like they just found out their mother was hit by a transit bus. But in all likelihood, it probably meant that the Presidents indirectly told the individual that he was not good enough to make a minor league roster this year by giving him his organizational walking papers.
I’ll sit here for 10 minutes, Gerry thought, already half tingling from the confluence of scotch. Then I’m showered, dressed and gonzo.
“Everything okay?” The street-dressed, teenage-looking kid in the locker next to him asks.
Sitting on a short stool in front of his own locker space, Gerry turns to respond, but before he does, he notices the surname and number (Penprase, #99) hanging on the jersey.
“Yeah,” Gerry responds half-convincingly. “Penprase, Penprase.”
“Rookie,” Lonnie-Paul Penprase smiles, revealing an imposing tobacco wad stuffed in between the lower bottom jaw as if it were something out of a bald eagle’s nest.
“I just got shipped back from the other camp. I’m L.P.,” as he offers a handshake.
Back in June, the Presidents selected L.P. in the first round. He’s a 21-year-old third baseman from Huntington Beach, California, who started his baseball career as a walk-on at Cal State-Fullerton. Until today, he had been participating in the Big League camp, where he managed to hit .331. What will make him a great ballplayer someday is the fact that he not only embodies the carefree California surfer dude persona, but he’s also half redneck. He has not one iota of atavistic fear; which means his informational processing system will never undermine his approach in the batter’s box.
That’s correct: he doesn’t do a lot of thinking up there. The guy just slugs.
An intimidating 98 mph fastball thrower doesn’t make Penprase think twice, or even once, about crowding the plate. He once punched a great white shark in the nose-not out of survival reflexes-but because it bit a chunk out of his $8,000 surfboard.
Scholars would call Penprase slow. State college coeds call him The L.P.
“You didn’t get canned or nothin’, I hope?” Penprase asks.
“No. But I’m still one of the guys who can’t afford to relax,” Gerry grimaces as he crosses his leg in order take his first cleat off.
As he continues to undress, Gerry then strikes up a conversation with Penprase over his unique choice of athletic supplements, most notably, Johmibe Bark.
“My buddy lives in Sayulita, Mexico,” Penprase begins to explain. “He gets me Viagra from P.V. But I told him not to send me any until I know where I’m going to be for the season.
“I’m hooked. I even take ‘em before the game.”
“You can play with an erection?” Gerry says, smiling skeptically.
“Ball games, surfin’, fishin’, skate boardin’, poker tournaments, ridin’ lawnmower, bus trips, whatever,” Penprase says nonchalantly.
“This johmibe bark; it’s all natural. I’m trying it out because I’m worried about getting addicted to Viagara though.”
Penprase then picks up the johimbe bottle, squints at the label and shrugs, “It’s ah-aight.”
They say that behind every great man, stands a great woman. But for James, who has all but decided he will head back home for good in a few days, the idea of meeting and falling in love with his soul mate, who has all the attributes and resources necessary to help mold him into becoming the accomplished sports writer he wants to be, appears to be in jeopardy.
James’ relationship with sportswriter Tina Chaffe began when he was a senior in college. James’ favorite professor urged him to take a crack at reaching out to some of his favorite sports writers. “Since you’re the only journalist in or associated with your family, it wouldn’t hurt to make an effort to make some contacts,” Professor Krochmal told him bluntly during the first week. “Industriousness will get you to where you need to be someday. But kissing ass and exchanging names is a part of hard work these days, also.”
Ever the docile one, James took the wisdom seriously enough to occasionally abstain from Saturday nights of drinking keg beer with ballplayers and chasing freshman broads in order to practice the lost art of prudence.
James sat down one Fall Saturday in his father’s den and made a list of the top 25 sports writers that were then affiliated with a newspaper outlet or wrote for a popular website. He wrote individual letters to every Mitch, Mike, Bob and Dan in every major media market in the U.S. whose opinion the intelligent sports fan valued reading every week.
After making one or two brief, customized points as to why he admired the work of each writer he was reaching out to, he immediately followed by laying out his pitch to launch a two-way correspondence:
…And while I always plan to be a student of the field, I will soon be a graduate of print journalism from Washington State University.
As you might expect, I am concerned to be venturing into an industry that you would probably concur is in a state of crisis on many fronts. From an outsider’s perspective, I am willing to do whatever it takes for three years before earning my first staff job. If nothing transpires by the then, I will gladly swallow my pride and choose a new career path.
I am writing you because I expect the worst for a significant p
eriod of time, and therefore would like to engage in journalistic conversations with someone who is at the top.
I am looking for a mentor of sorts. A monthly letter or email exchange would really give me the needed insight and hope that I assure you would benefit the both of us.
If you or anyone you know in the field would be interested in something like this, please write me.
Sincerely,
James McEwing
Washington State University
Senior-School of Communication
Tina Chaffey was about six months into her first full time reporting gig at the Chicago Tribune when she found James’ letter to Hank Jacobs, a columnist, pinned to a bulletin board in the break lounge next to the sports desk. Jacobs handwrote a footnote at the bottom of the letter under a line of stars that read: For anyone who has time. Don’t say I never gave you anything-Sincerely-HJ.
At the time Tina grabbed James’ letter off the bulletin board, she was about sixth months divorced and was open to something offbeat and fulfilling.
The only reason why she is even working as one of the local college reporters in the first place is due to the principal need to support herself financially once more. Her stock-broking ex-husband is a classic borderline personality whose middle name is Insatiable. All was peaches and cream during the yearlong engagement period, then like a switch, he became mentally abusive and unfaithful. Tina knows he subconsciously saw the marriage as an opportunity to take advantage of her hospitable nature.
Tina, 27, is an anomaly because unlike most modern day American women, she gets more satisfaction out of cooking a meal or planning a weekend than shooting for a promotion or getting up at six AM to break a sweat. She is wired to be a nurturer, and uncommonly, she embraces it as a skill.
You don’t meet women like Tina anymore: sugar, spice and everything nice but still not doormat either. The fact that she is a divorcee is not fluke, nor is she the exception to the rule; she is simply a divine representation of a time when America was Boss. You could call her old school.
Tina Googled James’ name and began to read both his reporting work from Wazzu and his blog, Fish Food, which provides his unadulterated, comical take on the sports world. She felt the technical side to his reporting was still very raw, and a little flawed because of it. Then she took a look at the blog, where at the time James had opined about a central problem in the Tiger Woods scandal that nobody appeared to be looking at:
“…It’s true that there is one surest way to a man’s heart: through his stomach. But how does going in the opposite direction work exactly? Men have to be able to command some level of skill in three very distinct areas: 1.) Women love to laugh. If both of you don’t have a good sense of humor, then it’s Game Over already. 2.) Women love to dance. So unless you are a stand up comedian, I suggest you shell out $200 for you and the Mrs. to spend your Wednesday night’s learning to Tango, Waltz and Foxtrot at the local high school gym. 3.) Women not only need a handyman, but are turned on by them as well. Can you see Tiger fixing a clogged toilet? Sure I can: With a sand wedge.”
Tina laughed out loud when she first read this, and soon decided she saw a glimmer of potential for long-term sustainability in the business for James. Her crush on Hank Jacobs immediately went by the wayside, and a commitment towards a personal letter correspondence was established. It wasn’t long before she took a shine to James as the man he is.
Going on two years as pen pals, James and Tina stayed loyal to their unique means of communication during that time. James has always encouraged Tina to shoot for the stars (and stay out of bars), since she was already in the professional playing field. While Tina has always encouraged James to stick with it, read and write everyday, and eventually, great things will happen to him in this business. James loved to read little anecdotes about Tina’s life as a sports reporter, while Tina really got a kick out of reading about James’ travels along with the trials and tribulations that come with being a struggling artist.
In order to preserve the authenticity and élan that letter writing provided for their relationship, James and Tina rarely exchanged emails. But since James did not currently have a return address, he is now writing Tina an email from the library. He explains what happened with New York, and tells her all about his first spring training experience. What he did not want to tell Tina was that he planned on heading for home. He especially didn’t want to tell her he would be bagging his plans of becoming a professional sports writer.
He knew that if he told her he was heading back west, that she would want him to stop through Chicago in order to try to talk him out of it. But right now James impulsively wants the security blanket and support of home, as he also felt like he didn’t have any other choice. Of course he knew that moving back home wasn’t going to be easy in the short term, but in the long term, it would eventually feel like home again.
But shame was the real driving force that kept James from telling Tina the truth. He wanted to see her and meet her for the first time, and he assumed she felt likewise. But because he failed once again in his attempt for success, he felt small when thinking about the idea of facing Tina bearing bad news. By now he had so much respect for her that he did not want to disappoint her with the news that he was going home to settle. So he selfishly spared her the news by lying and stating he did not know where he was headed when spring training was over. He figured he would just write her a letter in a month explaining everything.
James went on to check the rest of his emails before he got the text in waiting from Gerry for a ride home.
“Hey Gerry G, you got a minute?”
It was double-A coach Mick Blakenship, whom Gerry played for last season. Blakenship was a longtime bullpen catcher for the Philadelphia Phillies. His claim to fame is he happens to be the guy who caught Joe Carter’s World Series clinching homerun ball, as it flew into his outstretched catcher’s mitt from his spot in the visiting team’s bullpen located directly behind the left-field fence in what was then known as the Toronto Skydome.
By this time, Gerry was dressed down to just his slider shorts and shower slippers. He acknowledged coach Blankenship’s request anyways. He even brought his cup of scotch along and threw on some shorts out of respect to his coach.
Okay, looks like I’m headed back to Double-A. Coaches don’t release players; the field coordinator does that.
But as Gerry made the transition from locker area into the hallway leading to the coach’s offices, he noticed that Blankenship almost went out of his way not to look at him.
Now all the emotionally laden scenarios are racing through Gerry’s head: someone else will pick me up, I hit 20 bombs last year. Or maybe he’s just giving me a funeral hello, trying to show respect to the clutter of other guys who have all but been told that they aren’t good enough for this organization today. Maybe they’ll offer me a coaching position. I’m certainly admired around here. I’m pretty sure my baseball IQ is respected enough as well. If it’s over though, can I still marry Molly? (His fiancé, who resides in Seattle) Or does this mean we’ll have to postpone the wedding (which is scheduled for the weekend before Christmas) until next summer? Wait a second: I dominated today. Dominated. I’m going to double-A.
Then they walked into the office, to which Gerry immediately detects an uncharacteristically dank wave of energy. He now knows he has just walked into a booby trap net-fully weaved and in mental degradation.
Gerry then looks down at his glass of scotch with C.P.R.-like desperation before shivering to himself a gentleman’s portion. He looks up at Blankenship who is looking at his white board with names scattered around a drawn up baseball diamond. Gerry anxiously takes a quick peak at the area of first base. His name is not there.
Maybe they want me to stick to the outfield then, he thought. When will this guy speak already?
“Listen I think you have Big League potential,” Blankenship says firmly, now giving Gerry weary eye contact.
It’s
over. Gerry doesn’t actually think this, but suddenly feels an unsettling flushing sensation going on inside his upper torso.
“Unfortunately, it’s just not being realized soon enough for the big wigs,” Blankenship pauses while looking back at that sheet again, which is an unconditional release form, to make sure it reads Gerry Galloway. “You know I like ya. But this call came from down town, and they say its time to let you go.”
Blankenship then turns the sheet over and sets it face up on the end of the desk so that Gerry can read it. He then kindly pats his hand on it before reaching out to give him a handshake.
Gerry obliges. Then as he takes a deep breath, he reaches deep down into the well of his soul’s emergency reserves for honor and integrity, collecting just enough to mutter, “Ship the Skip, thanks for the opportunity.”
Blankenship nods as he heads for the door, patting Gerry on the shoulder before kindly telling him to take his time in there.
Gerry is supposed to be full of piss and vinegar right now. He always said to himself, if this day ever came, he would tell an executive in the organization that the Washington Presidents are the biggest joke in sports. But in actuality, that thought couldn’t be any further from his mind right now. In fact, he strangely feels somewhat emancipated.
He then sits down in a chair in front of the desk, crosses his leg, and just decides to stare at the wall until he thought of something else that made sense of his heightened sense of liberation.
He soon recalls the resonating quote that his oldest brother, Scotty, a former minor league player himself, once told Gerry: “If you hang around the game of baseball long enough, it will bring you to your knees.”
I see it all too clearly now, he thought. I will get another shot to play pro baseball somewhere else. No likeable guy in his twenties hits 20 bombs one year only to become completely shunned from the game the next year.
If I retire: my career becomes plain black and white over. If I play elsewhere, the pulse stays a beat and the hope stays alive.
Man life can be messed up.
Gerry then slowly picks himself up from the chair and shuffles to the door, but before he exits the office, he wants to be the first guy in the history of minor league baseball, who still owns a passion for the game, to exit the coaches office with a sincere look of a winner on his face.
You just had one of the finest days of your career, he thought. This game is not going to stomp on my psyche. Not on My Day. After all, isn’t that what I’m supposed to remember about today? The performance? I’ll proudly tell my grandkids about today.
He heads out and begins to pack up his equipment. Soon he will text James this message: Hey pal can you move yer bed for me temporarily? They want me to clean my locker out!