[Tib]

Chapter 49

Showdown

I had a good off-season, as off-seasons go. Aside from not getting much sleep, my rehab went well. My knee got a lot stronger from all my hours at home on the treadmill. My vision returned. I received another 1-year $2.5 million arbitration contract. I was a little upset Chicago didn’t offer me a longer deal, but I suppose my injury might have convinced them to wait one more season. It won’t matter, I told myself. One day they’ll pay me.

The off-season was lucrative for other guys I knew. Von Jones signed a huge 4-year $36 million contract. Sean Pangle, who had done good things for San Diego, was traded to Boston and signed for a nice chunk of change. Denver signed a couple of KC teammates, Florentino Carrera and the still-young closer Carlito Fuentes. Sebastian Pena signed a $13 million contract with our rival Dallas.

However, for some the off-season meant the beginning of the end. Chicago released Dave Jenkinson. I knew it was a mistake, but Stump Wallace didn’t think so.
“He’s still good, skip,” I told him.
“He’s expensive, he’s been hurt and he’s losing velocity,” replied Stump.
“He was one of the best. It’s not right.”
“Maybe not, kid,” Stump said, “but it’s baseball.”


I started the season 0 for 12 and thought, here we go again, but my swing eventually came around. The team won and lost, won and lost. In early June we were 27-25.

The new grandmothers stayed with Gwen in two-week shifts while I was on the road in May and June. I should have taken them with me to baby-sit the team. The bickering started in May after we were outscored 24-11 in a three game stretch. I blame the press for part of it because I knew they were looking for a story. They blasted us. When they did, the blame game began.

In early May Jukebox was traded to Seattle for ace Latronne Volk and first baseman Neal Preece. It surprised some, including me, but not others. Some saw Juke as a showboat. They were critical of his not taking responsibility for some of the team’s scoring problems. I didn’t see it like that. He was hitting .302. I think he was traded because he wouldn’t take a piece of the blame pie. At any rate, that made me the new leadoff hitter and I was determined to make it stick. Unfortunately, I started out 2 for 15. Then Boogles got hurt (5 weeks) and I stepped it up a notch. I had a long talk with Roy Pecor about my approach at the plate and he set me straight on a lot of things I was doing wrong – from a pitcher’s point of view. It helped. We won 9 of our next 12. In June I hit in 13 straight (.356) and raised my average to .263. We won six in a row before the All-Star Break and found ourselves just three games back of Denver.

On July 9th Moose was called up to Atlanta. My congratulatory phone call to him did not go as planned. Moose told me he had been “bulking up” and that it helped his endurance so much he was producing again. He said that’s why he finally made it. I didn’t like the sound of that and I told him so.
“You always produced. You don’t need that stuff.”
“Sure,” he replied. “For the first hundred games I was fine, but after that I couldn’t hit ****.”
“That was because they played you too much, not because you were weak. Moose, you’re the strongest guy I know.”
“Maybe, but I was three seasons in A ball with no future before I started working out.”
“Is that what you call it?” I said. “Working out? And in case you’ve forgotten, you hit over a hundred homers your first three years.”
“What is it with you? I made it! I’m finally here and all you can do is ride me?”
“I’m happy for you, Moose. I am. You belong up here. You always did. It was just a matter of time.”
“Huh,” he snorted. “I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what Walt Washington told me while I was in Raleigh? He said I didn’t have the head for the game. He said my only way in was with the lumber.”
“Walt Washington is an ass. You handle the game just fine.”
“No, Davey. No, I don’t. I know that. You think I don’t know that? I’ve always had trouble with that. I can hit a five hundred foot home run but I don’t know when to call for a pitchout.”
“You do.”
“I don’t. If I didn’t start getting in better shape I had no chance to make it. No chance.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“Yeah. You think. Everybody thinks.”
“Well, I know steroids are wrong.”
“Is that right? What do you know, anyway? You never had any problems making it. You were in the Show in three years. You’re married. You have a kid. You didn’t have to sit there and listen to people tell you you’re too stupid to be a big leaguer.”
“Are you serious?” I said, getting angry. “Never had any problems? I got bounced around like a pinball for over a year. I got sent away twice from friends and people I cared about. It hurt to leave Hinesville. It hurt to leave Kansas City. I had a serious elbow injury, or don’t you remember that? That could have ended my career right there.”
“You should have worked out.”
I was shocked. “What’s wrong with you? You think you’re the only one who’s struggled? And even so, drugs are not the answer.”
“Drugs? You talk like I’m smuggling heroin or something. These aren’t illegal.”
“But they’re banned. They’ll get you kicked out of the game you love so much.”
“They got me called up to the game I love so much. And they aren’t banned.”
“Aren’t banned? Then why did you have to use my wedding bathroom to get them?”
“We didn’t. That’s just where we bumped into each other and started talking.”
I wasn’t convinced. “They are a health risk, at least. Do you honestly think you wouldn’t have made it without them?”
“Damn straight.”
How could he think so little of his ability? I thought. Who or what got in his head?
“You undervalue yourself,” I said.
“Oh, I’ve pretty much been told what my value is,” said Moose. “‘Home runs, kid’. That’s what they all said. ‘Hit home runs.’ So I did. And I did it the only way I could. You want to talk about hurt? You don’t know what it’s like to watch all your friends move away. Everybody moved before I did. Guys went up the ladder who couldn’t hit their way out of a paper bag. And where was I? ****ing Hinesville. You were in the goddamned playoffs with KC and where was I? Hinesville. That prick Keith Hart got launched the year I hit 38 home runs. I had to sit in that little house and watch him and his arrogant attitude walk to the plate in Atlanta. I got tired of being left behind, Davey. I’d think, when’s my turn? When do I get my chance? It never came until I went out and took it. So what if I bulked up? Who cares? It proved to people I could perform in the late innings. It moved me up that ladder. Now I’m here. I’m a big leaguer. And I’ll tell you something Dave; if this is what it takes to make it, then I’m okay with it.”
For a moment all I could see was Dave Guevara. “I’m not okay with it.”
“You’re not my mother,” he said.
“You’re mother wouldn’t like it either. And I think you’re big enough that you don’t need that stuff. You call a good game and you’re not stupid. You want to give the credit to these pills, but you’re a good ballplayer.”
Moose went silent for a moment. When he spoke again there was determination in his voice. “I’m not looking for a pat on the back. I’m here now and however I got here, I’m going to stay.”
“Even if that means more pills?”
“I’ll do what I have to. It’s my career. I only have one. I need to make the best of it while I have it.”
“Jesus, Moose, you’re not going to have a career if you keep this up. Don’t you see that? Just stop now. Let your own talent take you the rest of the way.”
There was long pause. I really wasn’t sure in that moment who I was speaking to. I wondered what had happened to my friend.
“I guess we’re not going to agree on this,” he said finally.
“I guess not,” I said.
“Alright, well, I gotta run. I’ll talk to you, you know, whenever.”
“Alright. For what it’s worth, congratulations.”
“Yeah.”

I didn’t talk to him again for four months.

At the end of July we were 58-48. At the end of August we were 68-62. I hovered between .265 and .285 until late August when all those hours on the treadmill paid off. My new fitness helped me hit .321 the rest of the season. Unfortunately, I tweaked my knee again on September 18th and made 8 errors in the final three weeks, falling from 3rd to 6th in UL fielding. The team really came together though. Part of our success came from trading for Latronne Volk and Tyrone Escalera. Those two really gave our rotation the punch it needed. Also, the veterans decided it was time to push. It was always strange to me how veteran players could always turn it up a notch when they wanted to. I never understood that. I mean, why not play at that level all the time? And boy, when they pushed they pushed hard. I pushed too, going 13-30 (.433) in the final week of the season. We finished on a 20-12 run, but at season’s end 87-75 meant a tie with Baltimore for the UL Wild Card.

The showdown was in Baltimore, in more ways than one. Gwen and Damon stayed in Chicago. Moose came up from Atlanta to see me play. He had a tough go of it since our conversation. He hit only .178 in 33 games with no homers. Needless to say, he didn’t make the playoff roster. I called him in late September to try to patch things up and got him to agree to come up for the game. It was like pulling teeth. I didn’t know if his depression was caused by disappointment or was something the hardships of the game had created in him. I’ll tell you; this game can really beat you up sometimes and it was cleaning the floor with Moose.

We lost the playoff 7-4. We were beaten by Don Cally, the man we traded less than three months earlier for Tyrone Escalera because Cally tore a bicep muscle and the Comanches didn’t want to wait for him to get healthy. Theo Garner knew when to take a calculated risk. Baltimore waited and was rewarded with one of Cally’s best performances of the year. Who did Cally outduel? Latronne Volk. I took my .267 average to the plate four times and went 0 for 2 but had 2 walks, 2 runs, and 2 stolen bases. I had 7 assists and 2 putouts.

Moose and I met for dinner at a restaurant near the airport.

“Tough game tonight,” he said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “So close. But in a way we weren’t ready to win that game. We came together too late in the season. I don’t know why we don’t work harder earlier in the year. I feel like sometimes everyone’s waiting to see how hard they should work before they start working.”
“You’ll get back to the playoffs. Chicago’s got the money to be a playoff team every year.”
“I guess. Thanks for coming up.”
“I had nothing else to do,” Moose, slowly stirring his coffee with his fork.
I felt a quick pinch of anger. Nothing else to do? Thanks a lot.
“You’ll make it yourself one day,” I said, pushing back a harsher statement.
Moose shook his head. “They signed Blas Urbano to a three year contract.”
“They did?” Blas Urbano was still only 22 at the time.
“Yeah,” Moose spat at me. “They did.” He pointed his fork at me from across the table. “After we talked last I thought about what you said. I went off the juice. I went off the juice because of what you said about my ability and what did I get? A buck seventy-eight in 30 games and not one dinger. Not one! And these weren’t starts, either. It was 33 semi-backup games, games with one, maybe two at bats, games where I didn’t even get to bat. And now they sign Urbano for three years. Three years! Those were supposed to be my three years, Davey.”
“Moose --.”
“Don’t. Don’t you even begin to explain this one. You always have some explanation for everything. Well not this time. Can you explain how I probably just pissed away my career because I stopped supplementing? Can you sit there and tell me they didn’t sign Urbano to be the number one guy? You can’t. You can’t because you know they did. They signed Urbano because I couldn’t hit and I couldn’t hit because I went off the juice and I went off the juice because of you.”
“You should never have been on the juice.”
“Well, then I’d still be in Hinesville, wouldn’t I? Or bagging groceries or playing in Mexico.”
“You can think that if you want, but you’re wrong. You can make it on your own ability, not because of some chemical.”
“No, you can make it. You can make it without supplements because you’re not a power hitter. You’re the smart infielder, the thinker, the quick one who plays with his head. You have more than one way to beat somebody. I don’t. It’s really simple for me; hit homers or go home. And I kick myself because I knew that. I knew that and I still listened to you. Now I’m back in Raleigh.”
“So this is all my fault?”
Moose dropped his fork. “You know, the world doesn’t work out perfectly for everyone else, Davey. It’s not a wonderland of success and beautiful wives and huge houses and babies and playoff shares and goddamn Ford endorsements. You got those things and I’m happy for you, but not everyone can live your life. Some of us have to take what we can get and make the most out of it. For some of us baseball is all we have.”
“That doesn’t justify putting your health at risk, not to mention your career, by relying on artificial talent. Merit is worth times work.”
“Don’t give me one of your dad’s speeches,” Moose snarled. “I’m really not up to hearing any great wisdom from the master. ‘Worth times work’ my ass. My career is going to be over! I’m twenty-five. How many years do you think I can play catcher in the minors before I’m written off entirely?”

That’s when I realized Moose was not slipping away from me; he was already gone.

“What happened to you?” I asked. “What happened to the guy who never cared about anything, who loved the game so much? You used to have fun, Moose. Theo fined you five hundred dollars once and you didn’t bat an eye. We used to crack each other up over that, remember? What happened?”
Moose stared out the window at the parking lot. “All I want is to play big league ball. Maybe I’m just willing to do anything to get there. Sorry if that bothers you.”
“Funny, all I wanted was to be the best ballplayer I could be. I was willing to do almost anything to get there, too. I figured the rest would take care of itself. But you know what really bothers me?”
“What?” he said.
“That you blame me for your problems. I didn’t create this situation for you. You did. I didn’t put the pills in your mouth. You did. If you want to play the woe-is-me game, fine. Just don’t bring me into it. I have what I have because I worked my ass off for it and if you think it was easy for me to be the only first rounder to be traded twice in two years then think again. If you think it was easy for me to live up to the expectations put on me by KC and Chicago, then think again. If you think it was easy for me to see my wife subjected to public ridicule over a scandal I had nothing to do with, then think again. If you think it was easy to take a ninety-five mile an hour fastball on the chin and not piss myself the next time I came to the plate, then think again. So Walt Washington says you aren’t smart enough to make it. So what? If I listened to even one person who told me I was too small to play in the Bigs I’d be bagging groceries, too. If you want to get your talent out of a bottle, fine. I’m not going to tell you what to do. You already know what I think. I just wish you’d realize you have friends who are pulling for you.”
“If you were pulling for me, you’d understand what I’m trying to do.”
“I do, but I don’t like how you’re doing it. God, Moose, if you could only meet some of the guys I’ve met. If you could talk for five minutes with guys like Paulino Tafoya or Doc Caswell I know you’d change your mind.”
Moose gave me a challenging look. “I’m not going to change my mind.”

That was a difficult moment for me, him saying that. It put me in a position I wanted to avoid. Remember what I said before about focus and how it can be a bad thing, limiting your ability to see what was happening around you? That’s where Moose was. He was so focused on getting to the Bigs he was ignoring the damage he was doing to himself, not just physically but mentally. I was past that. I already learned that lesson from Dave Guevara. And I knew this much: you can’t be more interested in someone’s well-being than they are. It doesn’t work. And as painful as this realization was, I knew also that I wasn’t willing to take on Moose’s problems. I had a family and concerns of my own. It feels cruel to write this, even all these years later, but at that time I didn’t have room in my life for people like Moose, whose problems had a way of becoming contagious.

He had made his choice, but worse than that he was forcing me to make one, too, so I did.

“I’m sorry to hear you say that,” I said quietly, meeting his stare.
“So, that’s it, then?” he said.
“That’s it,” I replied.

With a small nod he wadded up his napkin and tossed it on his plate. Silently he got up, paid his bill, and left the restaurant. I looked out the window and saw him drive off in his truck without a backward glance. I quietly finished my coffee. The waitress asked if I needed anything else.

Yeah, I thought, a new best friend.