Chapter 51
Them That Gots Has Gots
I spent off-season 2011 playing with Damon and watching the
SportsReport for signs of life in the Chicago front office. Chicago fans got a nice Valentine’s gift on February 14th when the Comanches signed Pat Laubach to a 4-year contract extension. He may have been hurt for most of last year, but he was a quality arm and could do a lot of good for us if he stayed healthy. Chicago also signed my former KC teammate Steve Parris. Jim Hirschman, a good third baseman, was signed to somehow replace Rich Cowden’s .324 average after Cowboy was traded to Dallas for Thin Bill Hunter. Other than that, the Comanche core remained the same.
I read in
Baseball America that Atlanta released Keith Hart. I thought about the roller coaster his career had been and was thankful my own seemed to be chugging along quite nicely. Although I would have to think about arbitration and free agency soon, and I would have to improve on my .267 average last year, I felt very secure in Chicago. The city and the people were growing on me. Gwen was from the Midwest, so she loved it there, of course. And my investments were doing well. Things were good.
Lino Lopez won the Defensive Ace Award for 2010 and got a big one-year deal from Seattle. This is petty, I know, but I’m going to confess it anyway: I was happy he was out of Kansas City. He won the Ace in KC, treading the same ground as 12-time Defensive Ace Horatio Munoz, my hero. Something inside me didn’t like that he got to play where Horatio Munoz played. Something deep inside me wanted that memory to be mine and only mine. And now he won the Ace. Now he had something I didn’t have. It was like he was dogging me, going where I went, playing where I played – playing better than I played. And in Seattle he was going to play with Jukebox. I suppose I still felt he was a threat, even after four years. Or maybe I just felt possessive of my memories. He was a good player, and he had power I didn’t have. I guess I always had this fear he would pop up and take my job again. Our careers were always weirdly linked in that way. Looking back, it’s ironic I was so apprehensive about him.
I wasn’t the only one with a nemesis. Ross Watts hit a league record 66 homers and every time he was shown on the
SportsReport with another gorgeous actress I got a call from Von complaining about him.
“Look at that primadonna son of a bitch, Davey.”
“Hello to you, too.”
“You got it on?”
“Yup.”
“I mean, ****, he ain’t nothing but a pretty boy with muscles. What’s he got that I ain’t got?”
“Tickets to the Oscars, looks like,” I said. “And Regina Flores on his arm.”
“Man, you ain’t no help at all.”
“You kicked his ass in that fight we had, though.”
“Damn straight. I did that. But ****, look at him. He don’t deserve that. He can’t even hit a high slider.”
“Them that gots has gots,” I said, thinking of one of Cliff's favorite sayings.
“I don’t believe that,” said Von. “I didn’t have ****. I went out and got mine.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “You did.”
“But damn, Davey,” he continued, “I gotta get me ten people to follow me around like that.”
“It’ll never happen, Von.”
“Why not?”
“First you have to find ten people who like you.”
“Well **** you very much, you applesauce eatin’ mother****er.”
“Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, alright.”
To round out the off-season, my old roomie Sean Pangle had become quite a hitter. He signed a 2-year, 6 million dollar deal with Dallas. And Yoogie signed a one year deal with Atlanta after a 62-inning, 3.53 ERA season. They had worked hard, and now they got theirs.
By early May we were 16-13 and first in team batting and homers, thanks to Hirschman’s incredible start. Called upon to fill the gap left by Cowden, Hirshey had 16 home runs by mid-May. I was cooling off after a fast start myself, and was fighting my knee again. On April 26th I led the league in fielding. On May 3rd I was 14th. We were scoring tons of runs and I was still hitting .287, but our pitching was atrocious. My knee flare up wasn’t helping an already stressed out pitching staff.
On May 10th Von dislocated his shoulder when he hit the bullpen fence in New York. It was bad news for him, but good news for Cleveland’s UL Central opponents. By June 1 we trailed the Hammers by just one game.
Off the field it was a busy year as well. Gwen became the weekend sports anchor on Channel 6 Chicago (“The Windy City’s Only Channel for Sports!”). The tough thing about that was her long hours on the weekends. Between my night games and her evening schedule (“All the news at 4:00, 6:00, and 11:00!”) we didn’t see much of each other. Come midnight one of us was always thoroughly unconscious in bed. The nice thing was we could be together with Damon during the day.
On May 8th the Comanches broke ground on the Happy Hunting Grounds, their new $600 million stadium/promenade/South Side renovation project. Built one block over from South Side Field, the Hunting Grounds was an incredible undertaking. It was the first stadium to have many of the features we consider common in today’s game: underground parking, a completely automated traffic control system, SmartHouse environment control technology, individual player GPS for playback and analysis, liquidscreen TVs at all the concession stands, holographic advertising, and even internet ports in every luxury seat.
It was the first stadium anywhere with a SensiDome. It was the first baseball stadium made with Stone-crete, which made the underground parking possible. It had six huge escalators which carried 660 people per minute from the lower parking area to field level. It had three restaurants, two bars, 125 luxury boxes and its field sprinklers were controlled by computers. The tech department for the Hunting Grounds had 45 employees.
It was a real welcome-to-the-future thing. Did I mention it was funded entirely by the Bassone family? Like I said, them that gots has gots and the Bassones gots lots.
On June 3rd I was batting .279 after an 8-game hitting streak (.367). I hadn’t made an error for a month and I had climbed back into Defensive Ace contention. Free agency was getting closer with every game, and Chicago had started talking to the Magic Man, but I decided to wait a little while longer. I liked Chicago, but I didn’t want them to think I would automatically say yes to anything they put on the table. I was on the phone with Noah Reyes, my new agent, discussing contract incentives when Gwen beeped through to tell me the Associated Press had just reported V.O. Tratt’s death from complications of pneumonia. He was 101. I begged off from Noah and called Cliff.
Cliff’s own health had deteriorated since his hospital scare some years earlier. He was not as mobile as he once was, walking now with the bat/cane I made for him. He resented the fistful of pills he had to take each day. He still lived in his house in Hinesville and still walked to Gents games when his legs felt up to it, but the chili and fried foods he so relished were now forbidden him.
We talked. Tratt’s death was a sadness for him, to be sure, but I got the feeling there was a deeper sadness behind the news, one that was affecting Cliff on a different level entirely.
“He was a good man,” Cliff said. His rich baritone voice had become cracked with age. “He gave so many talented boys the chance to play, yet he only played a year himself. Why, when I played in the BBA it was already established. I think you could say it was in its heyday. So many good memories of that time. And now it’s gone.”
“You okay, Cliff? You sound tired.”
“At my age you get tired, Davey. It seems like every day I find one more thing I can’t do as well as I used to, or that takes more effort to do at all.”
“I understand,” I said.
“You know something?” Cliff went on. “For every one of those things I lose, I gain one more memory of the past. It’s like my life is draining away drop by drop and being replaced by hollow memories.”
“Cliff…”
“Some are good memories, mind you. Of course some of them are bound to be. But it’s the recollections of things I used to do that remind me of the things I can’t.”
“You want me to come out with Damon during the All-Star Break? It doesn’t look like I’ll be making the team, and Damon would love to see you again.”
“Now don’t think like that! You’ll make the team, I know it. You’ve got to stay positive. Don’t start getting like me, worried about something that isn’t even real. No, Davey. You stay in Chicago with your family. That’s where you ought to be. ‘Sides, I’ve got Beatrice to keep me company.”
“Is she still there on the mantle?”
“Oh, yes,” said Cliff. “She’s watching over me now. I’m sitting here in my parlor and I can still see the mark on her where I hit a home run against the Farm Kings that broke the windshield of the mayor’s car. See? Some of the memories are good ones, Davey, but every one reminds me how old I’ve become. But don’t you worry about me. I’ll be around long enough to see you in the Championship Series.”
“I hope so,” I said.
“You can count on it,” he said, but I wasn’t so sure.
I didn’t make the All-Star team. Flash got there by hitting .335 and stealing 21 bases. Pangle got there by hitting .356. Ross Watts got there (what else is new?). Scott Haslam did, too. But the biggest surprise was Boogles Tafoya, who was leading the league with a .373 average. It was the highest average for a catcher at the All-Star Break in CBA history, and the highest for a catcher in baseball since Matt Finn his .375 through 61 games in 1899.
Moose’s numbers were good (.288/15/43 in 78 games), but he remained mired in AAA behind Blas Urbano. I thought about him. I wanted to pick up the phone, but I didn’t. What was I going to say? In a way, I felt he was getting what he deserved, too.
I was hitting .272 (a whopping .480 in late or extra innings!), with a .372 OBP. I was 4th in UL fielding. Not a bad year, just not All-Star material.
The Comanches were 43-38, five games behind Flash, Von and Al Gills in Cleveland. I felt if we could get the pitching we needed we could be a very dangerous team, but Roy Pecor went down with a shoulder injury for five weeks and we were hurting for awhile.
On July 5th I got a call from Noah Reyes. Chicago wanted to talk extension. When Noah and I got to the Comanche offices, Mr. Bassone was there in the lobby to greet us. I took this as I good sign. We sat in couches around a coffee table in his giant penthouse office. This was also a good sign. Mr. Bassone brought only one lawyer, Ned Newmore. This was a great sign.
“You’ve got the talents we’re looking for, Davey,” said Newmore. “We would like to offer you a three-year eight million dollar contract extension.”
Mr. Bassone quietly stared at me. I tried to read him, but it was impossible. I quickly realized he was trying to read me.
“You were looking?” I joked.
They didn’t laugh.
****, I thought,
maybe they were
looking…
It may have been clear from my reaction that I was expecting more money. Reyes echoed my thoughts: “Just eight million? Davey’s worth sixteen if he’s worth one.”
“I’m afraid sixteen million is out of the question,” said Newmore.
“I see,” said Noah. “He’s got the talent you want, but only if it’s in your price range.”
“Basically, yes,” said the attorney.
Noah and I exchanged a look. This offer was low, lower than the one we thought they would make. Noah warned me about negotiations. He told me not to get emotional over the arguments and justifications that will arise. “Don’t take any of it personally, Dave,” he said. “They’ve got the money. You want the money. You’ve got the talent. They want the talent. It’s just the process."
I was about to get a heavy dose of “the process”.
“Five years, seventeen million,” said Noah.
“No.”
“He’s in the prime of his career.”
“He’s streaky. He has knee and shoulder issues.”
“He’s played hurt dozens of times for you. He’s been in the top ten in UL fielding at his position every year of his career.”
“He has never hit higher than .301 at any stage of his career.”
“He’s not primarily an offensive player. He saves runs with his fielding, which is phenomenal.”
“Our numbers rank him sixth overall among UL shortstops.”
“Our numbers rank him fourth. Two of the other three are under long term contracts and you couldn’t get the third for anything less than four and a half per year.”
There was a pause while the two negotiators took a deep breath to continue. Mr. Bassone sat motionless across from me with his arms crossed. I studied him. I wasn’t sure he was even breathing. He seemed to just be waiting patiently for “the process” to be over.
Christ, I thought,
this is my future they’re deciding.
The two negotiators plunged in again.
“Three years, ten million.”
“Not nearly,” said Noah. Five years, sixteen million.”
“He strikes out too much.”
“He’s averaged 73 walks a year,” said Noah.
“And hits only .262.”
“His OBP is in the top third of UL infielders.”
“Yes, by .12.”
“Your point?”
“Mr. Driscoll is achieving only 77 percent of his projected career numbers, far below other first round draft picks like Von Jones and Joel Kral.”
“First of all, Dave is not an outfielder. Secondly, it is unfair to compare him to other members of the Squires, a group of players who enjoyed a rare success under unique circumstances. If you want to make him feel bad just poke him with a stick, why don’t you?”
“Nonetheless, 77 percent.”
“Projected to increase during his prime. Plenty of players were lower than 77 at his age. Bootsy Moralez was, Emilio Condon was. Even Carlos Toreno, and he turned out pretty well.”
“Mr. Driscoll is not a first baseman.”
“So lets talk about shortstops then, shall we?” said Noah. “In the next year eleven shortstops will be available through free agency. We can toss out seven of those right now. Of the remaining four Davey is the cream of the crop.”
“We can trade for a shortstop.”
“Then why are we here?”
It seemed the verbal boxing match was taking another short breather. I finally spoke up, something Noah told me absolutely not to do.
“I don’t understand all of this,” I said to no one in particular. “It’s like you’re trying to come up with reasons not to sign me. If I’m so bad, why make me an offer at all? Go get Lino Lopez or Jeff Wills or one of these other guys with trophies.”
“Davey…” began Noah, but I was already started.
“No, really,” I said. “Time out here for a second. You’ve got enough money to sign whoever you want. You’ve got money and draft picks and Ken Hauser waiting to take my place. What have I got to offer you? It doesn’t sound like much, coming from you. And if it’s all the same I’d rather you traded me back to Kansas City because at least there something like the Squires could happen. Not here. Not when you’re breaking down your own players right in front of them to save a little money.”
Noah gave me a panicky look. I turned to Mr. Bassone.
“Maybe I don’t understand this process, Mr. Bassone, and maybe I’m way off base here, but I’ve got to say something out loud: do you want me to play for you or not? All players get hurt. All players go through slumps. It seems to me the way to put a winning team on the field is to find players that work well together. The team has talent. You paid for that. What has it got you? Finger pointing and tension and a first class seat right behind the Cleveland Hammers. Success might breed success, but it can also breed selfishness.
“I can’t guarantee you a championship. I can’t guarantee you any more than 77 percent of my projected career numbers, whatever that means. I can’t guarantee I won’t get hurt. I can only guarantee you one thing: I will put my team first. And if you find me 24 other guys who can do the same you will have something you haven’t had in ten years.”
Mr. Bassone stared at me, arms crossed. He hadn’t moved an inch. I was barely breathing.
“What haven’t I had in ten years?” he said.
“A team.”
Mr. Bassone only sat there, unblinking. I learned first hand why he was so intimidating. It felt like he was looking right through me. Noah was quietly returning papers to his briefcase. Newmore re-crossed his legs and stared out the window. I remember hearing the electronic
blip blip, blip blip of a call waiting in the other room.
That’s my future right now, I thought.
On hold.
Finally, Mr. Bassone broke the silence. “Four years, fifteen million.”
Noah’s head snapped up.
“Deal.”
Next time: Chapter 52: And Them That Don't...