[Tib]

Chapter 40

Bootsy, Boogles, Ron-o and Jukebox

Only one team spent more on salaries than the 2008 Chicago Comanches. The Comanches payroll was a whopping $94 million, but it was still $2 million less than guess who? The Cleveland Hammers. However, we had them beat soundly in one category: nicknames. By far, the Comanches had the best nicknames in the league. $94 million can buy a lot of talent, and we had a lot of talent, but no amount of money can buy a good nickname. Every afternoon during homestands guys with names like Rube, Joystick and El Conquistador assembled themselves in the Comanche locker room, known affectionately as The Sweatlodge.

The Sweatlodge was named by Pete Kryniak (who else?) and the name was accurate. South Side Field was an old park even when I played there, and the ventilation was not up to 21st century standards. Some might say the ventilation was not up to 19th century standards. Come to think of it, the plumbing wasn’t so good either. And the electrical could have used a kick in the pants. Nonetheless it was a grand old park, a sturdy grey working man’s park, the centerpiece of the Bridgeport section of the city. It was full of stories and memories, and on game days it was full of yardsmen, truck drivers, foremen, bricklayers, contractors, dockworkers, and anyone else who knew what a day’s work felt like. When The Hunting Grounds was built in 2014 it dwarfed its sire by over 12,000 seats, but it lacked the blue collar atmosphere of South Side Grounds, and its locker room, a monstrous state-of-the-art technoplex, was a perfect example.

The Sweatlodge was small. Its gray concrete walls resisted even the most determined light, which angled down in dull yellowish sheets from four rows of fluorescent fixtures. Its lockers were cramped, anemic slivers of metal with what seemed like twenty coats of dark green paint. Its showers were a small maze of opaque white tile walls and thick hard tile floors. There were half as many drains as spigots, which created puddles in the corners and round-the-clock humidity. What’s worse, the humidity from the showers would make its way into the adjoining press area, making post-game interviews as much perspiration as interrogation. This led to the practice of conducting post-game interviews at a local bar.

For over 40 years that bar was McLeod’s, then it was Moriarty’s, then it was Blake’s and finally it was Cobblestones. In a tradition started by McLeod’s and continued by subsequent establishments, the current Comanche manager had a booth all his own in a specially arranged corner of the place that could accommodate up to twenty reporters at a time. Star players also had a booth to their name. Although I never had a booth of my own, I shared Willie Aguila’s on more than one occasion. Sharing booths with big name players was commonplace. It was also an indication of the prevailing team politics. Cliques are common on baseball teams. Who shared booths at Cobblestones was a tip-off to the different factions on the team, to who was getting along and who wasn’t. I stayed out of most clubhouse alliances during my career, but in Chicago things were different. You can’t stay neutral in Chicago. The city doesn’t let you.

When we returned from our road trip we had a quick two games against the Sentinels before flying to Texas to meet the Marshals. After a fruitless day of house hunting I arrived at the Sweatlodge for my first home game. I found my locker without any trouble and discovered I was next to second baseman Justin Moralez. Moralez, a ten-year veteran, had knee surgery in the off-season but still played the cornerstone with quickness and intelligence. I’d always admired his defensive skill and now here I was right next to him. Aside from Doc Caswell, “Bootsy” taught me more about opposing hitters than anyone in my career. He was also a terrific contact hitter who rarely if ever struck out. When he came up and held out his hand I felt like I was 15 years old again.
“Driscoll,” he said. “Good to meet you. You think you can help us?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“How does it feel to be in Chicago?”
“Good, I guess. All I did was look for houses, so I’ve seen a lot of the suburbs. It’s a nice place.”
“It’s nice and mean and pretty and ugly and a little of everything else,” said Moralez. “You left a fiancée back there, right? That must be tough.”
“Yeah. It kind of messed things up a little. We’re getting married in Kansas City this fall after the playoffs, but we don’t know where we’ll be living yet.”
He paused in the middle of securing his knee brace. “Listen,” he said, “I heard you guys were pretty tight in KC, calling yourselves the Squires and all. But this is a good group here. The guys are good guys and we all know we have a shot. For some of us it’s our last shot. When we found out you were coming it was a party in here.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. The pressure is on. Guys like me may not see another September in this league. We’re counting on you to help get us there. One thing for sure: you better play shortstop better than I could or the press will be all over your ass. Personally, I know I don’t have what you have, so it’s no big deal to me. Anything you want to know, you just ask me. The city can be tough on you. The writers, especially. I’ll steer you clear of the hacks and put you in with the good ones.”
“I’d really appreciate it,” I said. This was a big deal to me; someone taking the time to offer to help. He didn’t owe me anything. Moralez could have been bitter they didn’t move him to short. He was a veteran and former shortstop himself. Instead he extended his friendship and it made me want to do the same if I was ever in his position. Besides, I experienced what the press did to Joel Kral and Von Jones in Kansas City and I didn’t want it happening to me here.

That night I went 2-4 with a walk and an RBI in what was labeled “an auspicious home debut”. We still lost. After the game Moralez invited me to Cobblestones. It was quite a place. First of all, it was packed with fans wanting to rub elbows with the team. The team, however, was sequestered in the loft with the press. Bootsy led me upstairs and put me at a table with a couple of writers from the Bell, Paul Doyle and Martin Velasco. Before long the questions about the housecleaning in KC came up. I took the high road, describing how much fun we had while it was happening and how thankful I was for the opportunity.
“That’s funny,” said Boyle. “Von Jones has a very different view.”
“Well, Von is Von,” I said.
“He says KC couldn’t pull their heads out of their asses long enough to see the talent on that team. He called the Knights organization a joke.”
“He did?”
“It was in the Cleveland Caller today. He said you agreed with him. He said you were both happy to leave.”
“I never said that! Von isn’t too good with the press. Maybe he was baited.”
“So you’re saying Jones is easily manipulated? That he’s dumb?”
“No, of course not.” What’s wrong with this guy? I thought.
“Hey, sorry. Don’t get so emotional.”
“Von and I are friends,” I said, my anger rising. “You don’t even know him. We spoke only about why KC would trade away so many talented guys. That’s all.”
“Were they tanking, do you think?”
“Tanking? Why? They already had six first rounders on the roster.”
“Then why trade them? There’s a rumor the team is going bankrupt.”
“Then it’s a bad rumor.”
“What about you? Is it true the trade ended your engagement?”
“What? No. Absolutely not.”
“But you are separated from her, right? What’s her name? Gail?”
“Gwen,” I growled. “Her name is Gwen. And we’re separated because she’s still got a career in Kansas City.”
“Unlike you, right? Hey, don’t get up! Relax, we all friends here.”
“Where are you getting this stuff?” I demanded.
“We receive information from various sources,” said Velasco cagily.
“What sources?”
Just then Moralez walks up with my beer. “From me,” he said with a grin, putting the beer in front of me.
“What’s going on?” I said. “You trying to burn me?”
The three of them began to laugh and I realized I’d been had.
“Just a little taste of Chicago, Davey. Don’t worry. Boyle and Velasco are two of the good guys. We’re just making a point about the Chicago press.”
“And having some fun with you,” said Boyle. “Bootsy put us up to it. I hope you don’t mind. Martin and I are big fans of yours.”
“Thank God,” I said, relieved. “I thought I was going to have to kick your ass.”


The Sweatlodge had hardly any room to dress without bumping into someone. The space was so tight you couldn’t help but jostle each other once in a while. It was worse in my case because directly behind me was our catcher; stocky, powerful Paulino Tafoya. I can’t tell you the number of times I was hit with a flying buckle from his gear.
“Damn it, Tafoya,” I once complained, “Can you find someplace else to put that on? You’re killing me here.”
“There ease no place else,” he replied in his thick Dominican accent. “Why don’ you go someplace else? You are the small one. You move!”
“Why don’t you get carbon fiber gear instead of wearing that ancient plastic crap? The new stuff doesn’t have buckles.”
“I like the boogles!” he shot back, waving the offending boogle in my face. “My father wore the boogles, my brothers wore the boogles, so I wear the boogles. Boogles are for catchers and the Tafoyas are a family of catchers. Get used to it, because that ease the way it ease.”
Since that day I called him Boogles. Hey, I didn’t have to be the only one with a goofy nickname, did I?

Tafoya never saw a fastball he didn’t like and he never missed one that had the misfortune of coming in low, no matter how fast. He was the best low ball hitter I ever played with. He used to shank pitches that went for home runs. He was that strong. He used a monstrous black-as-night 40 ounce LumberTech Diablo, complete with custom flames. Believe me, there were pitchers who cringed when they saw it. Unfortunately, he never saw a low outside slider he could lay off of, either. He and I were almost the same age, and once we realized we both liked brunettes we got along just fine. I helped him with his English, he taught me the book on myself and helped me anticipate pitches.
“You ain’t so new anymore, Dreesco,” he teased me once. “I watch you. I learn. You don’ fool me so much.”
“Yeah?” I replied. “Well just so you know: all those bases I stole were off of your rag arm.”
“What this means: rag arm?”
“Limp. Weak,” I said, flip-flopping my wrist around.
“So,” he said. “Like your deek.”


At third was 31-year old Ron Holleman. When Chicago traded Melian Ozwego in 2007 they were left with a rather big hole to fill at third. Ron did fairly well there, but I think he put too much pressure on himself to achieve Ozwego’s power numbers. He never hit for average, but he was a good glove. No range, though. It didn’t matter to me; I’d played with guys like that before. Other than Otis Parikh he was our only left handed bat with any pop.

In early August we were in Cleveland for a crucial three-game series. Was I a little nervous? You might say that. Al Gills, Von Jones and Flash Richards were in the opposing dugout. It was the first time I faced Von since the trade. He and I made eye contact several times. I disregarded my strict personal rule never to compliment an opposing player when I congratulated him on a double. He glanced quickly at me, but said nothing. I was not surprised.

To make matters worse, I was in the middle of a 1 for 16 slump. In the 8th inning of this eventual 3-2 loss I made my 11th error, bouncing a ball in front of Aguila and into the dugout. I took some time after the play to gather myself and take a little walk into left field. As I turned around, Juan Arteaga jogged into second and called across to the new batter: “Hit it to him again!”

Stuff like that never bothered me. Guys are going to talk. It’s part of the game. I never took it personally because that meant they could get to you, and you didn’t want them knowing that. It might be poor sportsmanship to wish ill on another player, but baseball is played by both gentlemen and jerks. Arteaga wasn’t really a jerk. He was just trying to get at me. Then I hear Holleman yelling at Arteaga. “Hey, ****head, you better not come down here. Come in here and I’ll shut your mouth for you. I’ll knock your teeth out, you little mother****er.”

Well that raised my eyebrows. “Ron-o” was a quiet, show-up-and-play type of guy. It just wasn’t like him to challenge another player like that. I learned right then there was a place you didn’t want to go with Ron Holleman. You didn’t disrespect the game around him or he was going to set you straight. Arteaga seemed to realize it, too, because he fell silent and concentrated conspicuously on the pitcher. Dan Mills, the third base umpire, said to Holleman, “You tag him anywhere near his mouth and your gone, Holleman.”
“I’ll tag him where I want, Mills,” said Holleman.
The next batter flew out to end the inning, but I noticed Arteaga make a very wide turn at third. He wanted no piece of Ron Holleman.


Flavio Viveros was the perfect leadoff hitter: left-handed, quick as a cobra, and supremely confident. Sometimes it felt as if he carried the attitude of the entire team on his shoulders. He was so exciting to watch. He could do things to opposing pitchers. He could unravel their confidence like he was peeling an apple. It was amazing to me how he could siphon off a pitcher’s field presence for himself. Before long everyone was watching him, not the mound. And the more rattled he made them, the more effective he was. As Merl Warnicki wrote in the Bell: He was thin as a whip and twice as dangerous.

The second week of August we were close behind Cleveland and enjoying a 9-2 lead in a game against Indianapolis. We had both been pulled for the day and he was walking frenetically up and down the dugout, talking to whoever would listen.
“I was good today, wasn’t I? Huh, now? Wasn’t I? Yes I was. I was indeed. Gimme five. No, make it ten ‘cause tomorrow we’re going to do it all again!” Then he burst forth with that high-pitched staccato laughter of his. One thing about Flavio Viveros: he cracked himself up.
“Go bug somebody else, Vivo,” said Fabio Mendez, one of our outfielders.
“Oh, now don’t be hard on the man,” returned Flavio (he was always calling himself “the man”). “Okay, then. I’ll just go over and talk to my friend Dave, here. What’s up, Dave, Davey, Daverino? How was I today?”
He sat down next to me on the bench and threw about forty sunflower seeds in his mouth.
“You were good, Flav,” I said as I tried to watch the game.
“Oh, come on, you can do better than that, man.”
“You were an unstoppable force,” I said.
He inclined his head like royalty. “Yes. And?”
“Uh, you were – uh, you were… I don’t know.”
“I was like a ball stuck in the sewer. They couldn’t get me out.”
“Yeah,” I laughed. “You were like a fat guy at a buffet. They couldn’t keep you away from the plate.”
“Ho! My goodness!” said Flavio, turning to the others. “I think the boy’s got it! That’s right. I had more moves than a bowl of worms.”
“You moved faster than a pregnant bride to the altar,” I offered, using another one of Cliff’s many sayings.
“I was quicker than a duck on a bug.”
“They should call you ‘Jukebox’ because you’re full of hits.”
“Hey! ‘Jukebox’! I like that! Hey, from now on everybody calls me Jukebox!”

He was ignored. It didn’t matter to Flavio, though. From then on we were friends. His life moved as fast as he did, much faster than mine, so we didn’t see much of one another. We never really moved in the same circles – unless you count the way we circled the bases that summer. But against lefties it was him and me at the top of the lineup. I’m not exaggerating when I say that together we were busier than a three-peckered goat.


In mid-August I was hitting .290 after snapping out of my slump in a 5-0 rubber game victory against Cleveland in Cleveland. We were 63-53 and about to begin a two week stretch playing Baltimore (59-57), L.A. (62-57) and Joel Kral’s first place New York Admirals (70-52). The Hammers, meanwhile, showed no signs of weakness. In the battle of nicknames, Gilly, Flash and the Sorceror still held a 3-game lead with little more than a month left in the season.