The Wax Pack

by Brad Balukjian

  6. Randy Ready

  But Randy is always up for a challenge. Nothing has ever come easy to him—at five feet ten and 175 pounds, he has always been the little guy. While many boys have to fight to break free of their older brothers’ shadows, Randy had to follow in his sister’s footsteps, she of eleven varsity letters in high school. One day when he was fourteen and taking batting practice, coaches stood around the cage and said, “Gee, Randy, don’t you wish you were as good as your sister?”

  Every day at JFK High School in Fremont, California, he would go to baseball practice, come home, eat a box of macaroni, go to bed, and get up five hours later to make his graveyard shift at Winchell’s donut shop on Fremont Boulevard. He got to keep some loose change for himself, and then he turned the rest over to his parents to help with the rent—his mother, Jeanne, was a waitress, and his father, Max, worked on the Alaskan oil pipeline, spending much of the year away from home. During the summers Randy went up to work in Alaska himself, starting when he was only thirteen (illegally, of course). He started off on the docks cleaning fish and driving a forklift, and before long he had a union card saying he was eighteen and had joined Max on the pipeline. He worked fourteen-hour days, seven days a week, and with union wages pocketed $500 a week, good money in the mid-1970s. If that kind of schedule didn’t test his resolve, the tragedy that soon struck certainly did. At 4:00 a.m. on the day Randy and his family were scheduled to fly to Alaska to start a three-city vacation with Max, they received a phone call at the house: Max had dropped dead of a heart attack. Randy was sixteen.

  “I didn’t want to grieve, so I played baseball, played all the time, and eventually it got better,” he told the Los Angeles Times back in 1988.1

  He was a solid player in high school but not a great one, and it took a couple of years at Cal State Hayward and a standout season at Mesa State College in Colorado for Randy to catch the attention of big-league scouts. The Milwaukee Brewers signed him in the sixth round of the 1980 draft, and three years later, he made his Major League debut. The Brewers liked his bat, liked his play, liked him—newspaper accounts invariably referred to him as “friendly” and “fun”—but there was always someone a little bit better ahead of him on the depth charts.

  The 1986 season started well enough, with Randy making the team out of spring training and doing what he always did best: living up to his last name, whether starting a game or coming off the bench to pinch-hit. But his playing time shrank, his bat went cold, and by early June he had been sent back down to the Brewers’ Minor League team in Vancouver, British Columbia.

  But before Randy could board the plane, word came in: he had been traded to San Diego. He called home and told his wife, Dorene, who screamed, “We’re going to San Diego!” when she heard the news.

  And now, sitting in his locker, having just been upstaged by a guy fifteen years his senior, he sighs and packs his bag for the hotel. They have one more game against the Dodgers in the series, and who knows, maybe manager Steve Boros will give him a chance at redemption. He thinks of Dorene and immediately feels better—she will be flying to San Diego from their home in Tucson in the morning. Dorene makes everything okay.

  Back at the hotel, he calls her like he always does when he’s on the road, and they talk about her trip in the morning. He asks about their kids—Andrew, age three, and twins Jarrod and Collin, only ten months. They discuss looking for a house in San Diego during her visit. Within minutes, Graig Nettles couldn’t be further away from Randy’s mind.

  And then a couple hours later, the phone rings again.

  But it isn’t Dorene.

  It’s her cousin, who has just discovered Dorene on the floor, completely unconscious. The message is clear: we have no idea what happened, just get here as fast as you possibly can.

  Randy dashes to the San Diego airport, even though there aren’t any flights until the morning. He calls a friend, prays so hard his hands ache, and waits and waits and waits. He has often described Dorene, a ballet dancer, as the family rock. He met her during spring training in Phoenix in 1981 when the team bus pulled up to their motel and he spotted a group of young women by the pool. Randy had gotten off the bus and gone straight to a burger shack nearby to grab some food when he saw her come by in a bathing suit, still dripping wet.

  “Didn’t I see you by the pool?” he asked.

  “What was your first clue?” she shot back.

  A little more than a year later, they got married in El Paso, Texas, where Randy played Minor League ball. Their congregation consisted of two people, and the foursome celebrated by ripping down the highway in Randy’s 1968 Chevy Nova blasting Frank Sinatra. They were young, poor, and unimaginably happy.

  And when Randy walks into Dorene’s room at El Dorado Hospital at 10:30 a.m. later that morning and sees all the machines and the wires, hears all the beeps and hums, for the first time in his life, he realizes he might not be ready.

  * * *

  *

  I grab one of the high-top wood tables by the window of a Dallas restaurant / brewery / bowling alley named Bowl and Barrel, located in one of the ubiquitous suburban plazas. Earlier this morning I spoke with Randy on the phone as I drove in on I-45N past the most bizarre storefront I’ve seen yet: “Condoms to Go” (imagine the alternative).

  “Do we have a plan today?” he said, his voice peppy and younger than his fifty-five years.

  I told him no real plan, just meet and chat. Keep it casual.

  “Just toolin’ around and shootin’ the bull,” he affirmed. I like him already.

  My server, Rose, is a Latina with a comely combination of light skin, dark hair, and high cheekbones. She brings me a mimosa, and I tell her I’m working on a book about baseball.

  “Yeah, I don’t really follow that at all,” she replies, already bored.

  I show her Randy’s baseball card with his slight grin and thin mustache.

  “It’s from thirty years ago,” I say.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t even born then,” she replies, spinning and walking to the next table.

  A black Chevy Silverado whips into the parking lot, and I watch Randy dismount. He comes in cool, his dirty blond hair slicked straight back, looking trim in a blue-and-white golf shirt neatly tucked into a pair of navy shorts with a belt and complemented by a pair of sandals and wraparound shades. A fringe of facial hair borders his bottom lip, a kind of inverse mustache, and his skin is bronzed from the Texas sun. He’s half an inch shorter than me, handsome and lean. There’s a lot I want to ask him, but nothing more so than the epilogue to Dorene’s story. Newspaper accounts tell of her vegetative state stemming from the heart attack and the $24.7 million award Randy received from a lawsuit alleging that a doctor’s diet pills had caused the attack, but after that, the trail runs cold. I don’t even know if she’s still alive; I do know from my research that Randy got married again, in 1994, to a woman named Tracy. Along with Garry Templeton’s illegitimate child and Doc Gooden’s drug addiction, it is one of the hardest things that I plan on asking about on my journey. The fan in me is at odds with the journalist—I want these players to like me, to confide in me, and so I don’t want to risk upsetting them. But I know that my responsibility is first and foremost to the story, even if that means alienating my heroes.

  I also want to kick his ass in bowling, which is why I’ve chosen to meet here.

  “What’s up, kid?” Randy says, gripping my hand firmly, cologne wafting off his quik-dry golf shirt.

  I show him the Pack, always a good ice breaker. He laughs as I recap my visit with Tempy, one of his old friends from their Padres days, and he stops when he gets to Jaime Cocanower, by far the most obscure of the Wax Packers.

  “Jaime!” he says with genuine delight. “I hid out from a tornado with him in Milwaukee in a cellar one time. That thing bounced right past the house we were living in and tore up a barn like five hundred yards away. It was eerie. You’ve got to say hi for me.”

  I tell him that Carlton Fis
k, the only Hall of Famer among the Pack, refuses to talk to me.

  “He’s one of those old-school guys. Some of them just kind of shut down with the media. Something probably left a bad taste in his mouth, or he had a bad experience at some point. I think we all have at some point. But it goes with the territory, you know?” His hands are crossed, sitting straight up, his words full of vim. He says everything with an easy grin and a wink.

  Rose comes by to take his order (a Miller Lite and a water), and as she walks away Randy’s eyes light up.

  “She’s cute,” he says conspiratorially, and I nod in agreement. Baseball players are known for their wandering eyes, but as I’m about to find out, Randy’s got every reason to wander.

  “What are you up to nowadays?” I ask. His playful demeanor has me completely at ease.

  “I’ve got some downtime now. I came out of the game and decided to start drawing my Major League pension.” Beginning in 2002, Randy followed the typical postplaying career path of coaching and managing, working his way up the Minor League ladder and landing a gig as hitting coach with the Padres in 2009.

  “I’ve got one son in med school, one in law school, one runs a recording studio, one’s in college in Kansas City, one went into the Air Force Academy last week, and I’ve got the last guy, he’s a rising junior at Jesuit College Prep School,” he says, ticking off the list of children (six sons: three with Dorene and three with Tracy). “And Mrs. Ready decided to go her separate way, so I’m dealing with her too,” he adds.

  I do a double take, not sure I heard him correctly.

  “Wait, what?” I ask.

  “She decided to go, time for her life. She wants a divorce,” he replies, matter-of-fact.

  “You’re getting divorced right now?” I ask, still incredulous.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you were making a joke.”

  “It’s been painful. It’s been going on eight, ten months now. She decided she wanted her life. She was tired of being Randy Ready’s wife and the kids’ mom,” he says.

  “Did that blindside you?”

  “Yup. I didn’t see it coming.”

  He asks me to turn the recorder off so he can discuss details off the record, and I comply; the last thing I want is to somehow hurt his position legally.

  “Okay, we’re back on the record now?” I ask a few minutes later.

  He nods.

  “How are your kids taking it?”

  “It’s tough. They’re having a tough time,” he admits.

  I can relate. I tell him about my childhood, how I was the typical firstborn, ever dutiful. My parents told me not to swear, and I listened, chastising myself on the rare occasion when a swear word slipped out. They told me to stay away from drinking and drugs, and I did, always straightedge. I imprinted on their example of the ideal marriage, wishing the same for myself, convinced that I had found it at twenty-two when I met Kay. And then a few years later, when I was still reeling from having left Kay, my mom called. I knew from the way she said “Hi, Brad” that something was amiss.

  “Your dad and I are getting divorced,” she said, knocking the wind out of me.

  It was unthinkable. Not only that, they had both met other people. The castle of stability and certainty that had been my foundation was obliterated. And I was mad, mad at them for not practicing what they had preached. I felt like they were hypocrites.

  Most of Randy’s kids are now grown, just as I was when my parents split, but I know that doesn’t necessarily make it any easier. I wonder if they are feeling what I felt, especially the oldest.

  “The best line I heard is this,” Randy begins. “I was in Guatemala doing this mission work, and I just got home like ten days ago. This guy that was bunking next to me, this dentist, Mike, was sixty-nine, and we’re talking a bit, and he asked me if I was married, and I said, ‘Yeah, I’m going through a divorce right now,’ and he goes, ‘Well, I’ve successfully completed two marriages.’ I said, ‘Mike, can I use that?’”

  Randy is down but far from out. He radiates positive vibes, practically glows, chirping with strangers nearby, ribbing me at every turn, bouncing around like a caffeinated beagle, his greenish eyes dancing. He tells me about enjoying his newfound independence, living on his own once again. Today he got up at six, went to yoga class, paid the bills, cleaned up “the pad,” made himself something to eat, and then hung a picture that one of his sons sent him for Father’s Day. He takes out his phone and shows me a photo of him with all six of his boys; every single one is taller than him.

  “You’re short, Randy,” I tease.

  “Dynamite comes in small packages too,” he replies. “This guy, he’s six feet, three inches and 235. Never played baseball. He’s a frickin’ animal, dude,” Randy says.

  “Six boys, what are the odds of that?” I ask.

  “Just shots in the dark,” he says with a smile. “I don’t know, you’re the scientist.”

  A new server arrives, bearded and in his midtwenties, and Randy orders a refill.

  “Where did Rose go?” he asks. “Send Rose over here, dude.”

  “I know, she’s way cuter than me, but she had to go home,” he replies.

  “Would you ever get married again?” I ask him.

  “I haven’t got that far yet, kid,” he replies. He thinks for a second. “Shit, I’ve got to get out there again!”

  I glance down at my phone and see the orange-and-white flame icon.

  “Have you ever heard of Tinder?” I ask. His eyes brighten even further, eyebrows arched.

  “That’s the dating site, right?”

  “It’s an app, it uses the GPS on your phone. I can set a radius for how many miles around me I want to cast a net. And I can specify an age range,” I say, opening it up to show him my settings.

  “Wow, Brad, an age range of twenty-one to fifty-five?” he says. I feel my cheeks darken.

  “I’ve set the radius to twenty miles,” I say, changing the subject.

  “No, change it to four. Let’s see if there’s anyone around,” he replies, getting excited.

  He’s holding the phone now, his index finger hovering an inch above the image of Erica, a thirty-one-year-old self-described skeptical vegetarian.

  “I’m gonna say no,” he says politely.

  “Okay, so you swipe left.”

  I’m on Tinder with Randy Ready. Jesus Christ.

  “There’s got to be some crazies out there, too, though, right?” he asks.

  “The last girl I dated I met on there. She wasn’t crazy, just too restless.”

  “I’ve got to stay off of all that because of the divorce,” he says, coming back to reality and handing my phone back. “My first wife, it was kind of weird dealing with her having the injury and everything, but my second wife, we liked to do all the same stuff. We liked to boat, water ski, I taught her how to shoot guns, how to hunt, fish, and we had great vacations and stuff. But we sold the house we built just four years ago, with the divorce.”

  Dorene. It’s the first mention of her, just in passing, with no elaboration. I consider asking him what happened, how things ended up, if she’s even still alive. But it’s not the right time, not yet.

  Instead, I go back to our anchor: baseball. Like Gary Pettis, Randy was not heavily scouted in high school and had to prove himself during three years of college ball. I ask him why he thinks he made it to the Show when so many others failed.

  “Well, there’s no such thing as a bad Major Leaguer. Even if you just get a cup of coffee, you were there,” he says. “I was never a gifted defensive player. I was adequate. But the old school has a saying: if you shake a tree, ninety-nine gloves fall out and only one bat. And I could hit.”

  But the real separator, even beyond his bat, was above the shoulders. Don’t be fooled by his carefree spirit at the surface.

  “You keep telling me no, just keep telling me no,” he says, reflecting on the struggle. “You’re telling me I’m not fast enough? I’m gon
na work on my speed. I can’t hit? I’m gonna be a better hitter. I don’t hit any homers? I’m gonna understand some things to slug a little more.”

  Randy’s not just a doer, he’s a thinker, which is why he has always been in demand as a coach since he quit playing in 1997. That year, after a season overseas in Japan, he went to spring training with the Anaheim Angels. He was thirty-seven years old. Before one of the exhibition games, he was messing around in the outfield catching fly balls over the fence and landed funny on his knee, his first injury in seventeen years. He was placed on the disabled list and then joined the Minor League team in Lake Elsinore for rehab. The general manager, Bill Bavasi, told him they were about to make some roster moves on the big club and to sit tight.

  “‘Tell you what,’” Randy told him. “‘I’m going to make a move for you.’ I said, ‘I’m going home to my family to figure out everyone’s name. This is the end of the road.’”

  His phone immediately rang with offers to start coaching, but Randy knew better. He knew he had to ease himself back in when the time was ready.

  “You don’t want to come in too hot,” he says. “There’s that transition where you’ve got to get the player out of you.”

  He enjoyed retirement, taking the family on vacation to the California redwoods, hanging out by the pool, just being a dad. He joined a softball team, perhaps the most stacked softball team in the history of beer leagues: Randy, Kevin Mitchell, John Kruk, Kevin Towers. They called themselves Spike and the Fatboys. When the time felt right, he came in cool, starting as a manager for the Single-A Oneonta Tigers.

  Having been out of professional baseball for the past year and a half, he lets me in on a secret: he wants back in.