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Tib · 06-05-2004, 02:40 PM

CHAPTER 5:

Theo

March 15, 2003

Theo Garner came this morning. We were sitting in the locker room, Latino guys black guys and white guys. There was no conversation, just lone sentences spoken softly from around the room, punctuated by one-word responses. Gable and Costello were wandering around trying to find something to do. Gable checked his watch about ten times. A clock with a cage around it ticked away the morning. 9:30. 9:45. 10:05. All of a sudden he came through the door. Boom! Surprised all of us. Twenty-five heads snapped up.

The first things you notice about Theo Garner are his eyes. They’re this gray-blue color, like an eagle, or hawk, or something that hunts. He’s a big guy with powerful round shoulders, like a wrestler, a barrel chest and a hard gut the size of a small beach ball. He had huge calves, but little feet. His gray-white goatee fell around his mouth, thick like carpet. A lit cigarette dangled from his mouth, its one-inch ashes threatening to jump. The lines of his gray flattop were razor-straight and the top was table-flat. His teeth were yellow and even.

His too-short khaki slacks struggled to remain buttoned. An ancient leather belt helped his pants where it could. His faded yellow oxford had a distinct coffee stain and a missing button near the bottom. He wore a tee shirt underneath. I don’t know why; it was already ninety degrees. The bulging garment bag on his shoulder had an old-style faded Kansas City Knights logo on it, but the Ks had been scraped off over time, so it said “ansas City nights”. His jaw worked like a piston at a huge wad of gum in his mouth. I wondered how the hell he could smoke and chew gum at the same time. And even if you could, why would you? The ashes never moved, probably out of fear.

He paused there for a moment, looking us over. We returned the stare. Then he says, “You guys think you’re ballplayers? You ain’t ballplayers. You’re runners and swingers and throwers and that is it. You don’t know **** about being ballplayers. Thank God I do.” Then he walks right through us like Moses through the Red Sea, never glancing away from his office door. “Bobby. Larry,” he says as he passes them. “Lets get started.”

I don’t think he had one nice thing to say to us all day. We ran wrong, we threw wrong, we hit wrong, we scratched our nuts wrong. We wore our caps wrong, we organized our lockers wrong, and we even showered wrong. I had been showering since I was 8 and up to then I thought I was doing a pretty good job.

After workouts, Gable told us that Mr. Garner wanted to see some of us in his office. Guess which first round pick was first on the list? I go in and he’s leaning back in a metal chair that’s too small for him. He’s got papers all over his desk, peppered with ashes. A full ashtray shaped like a nude woman was within arms reach. It said “The Alley Cat. Mesa, AZ”. There was half of a meatball sandwich perched on the bookcase behind him. He had a cigarette in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. The place stank of Old Spice.

“Driscoll, I don’t play favorites,” he says to me, the cigarette bobbing up and down with every syllable. Smoke came out his nose. “I want you to know that up front. I don’t give a **** if you were weaned by Mother Mary herself, if you ain’t doing the job, you ain’t in the lineup. I don’t play favorites, Davey, but the organization does. They got some money in you and they want to see what you’re going to do. That’s fine with me. By all accounts you’re pretty good. It’s going to buy you two months, maybe three, but that’s it. This kid Lopez was hot **** in the Venezuelan winter league. He’s hungry. Probably hungrier than you. I have no problem seeing you on the bench. It’s all the same to me; I can spell “Lopez” just as easily as I spell “Driscoll”. By the way, two l’s in Driscoll?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“****,” he says. “Bobby! Get ahold of Karen and tell her to put another l on Driscoll’s jersey, would you? Thanks.”

He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Another thing, Davey. Hal tells me you’re a good team player but not team leader material. He says you lead by example, that you mostly like to do your own thing – keep to yourself.”
“Pretty much,” I say.
“Pretty much no mas, comprende? You’re a first rounder, Davey. That means you’re what the organization wants. Guys will look to you as a role model. You can’t do your own thing, anymore. I don’t expect you to get a personality transplant, but from now on people are going to want things from you, starting with me.”
“I understand.” Dave. My name is Dave.
“No, I don’t think you do.” He leaned close to me. He lowered his voice. “This is where it starts, Davey. This is baseball. Real baseball. Put away your press clippings because starting right now nobody gives a rat’s ass that you hit .420 your senior year. I will promise you only two things: I will never lie to you and I will never lie for you. I know you think you’re the next coming of Horatio Munoz, but you got a long way to go. I managed Munoz in Kansas City and I will tell you this: you’re better now than he was at your age. But all that makes you is another “phee-nom” who’s two short months away from swinging a hammer for the rest of his life.”
He paused and I saw this was no “rattle-the-player” speech. He meant it. “Wow,” I said.
“Yeah. Wow. You’re going to have a lot of ‘wows’ from now on. Do me a favor and keep them to yourself. Any questions?”

Yeah, I had a question. I had a couple hundred questions. But the one I asked defined our relationship. “You say you’re going to want things from me. How am I going to know when I’ve done what you wanted?”
“When I say ‘Thanks, Dave.’”
Son of a bitch.
“On your way out tell Kearse he’s next.”

Theo Garner knew talent. He knew ballplayers. He knew the psyche of a ballplayer better than anyone I ever met. He knew what you were thinking before you thought it. He just had trouble managing it. He was like a miner who could spot a chunk of gold in a mound of worthless rock but had no idea how to make jewelry out of it. He did make a distinct impression on a person. In my case it was the distinct impression of his boot on my ass.

Next week: April In A-Ball

06-05-2004, 02:40 PM	#17 (permalink)
Tib All Star Reserve Join Date: Aug 2002 Location: Paso Robles, CA Posts: 882	CHAPTER 5: Theo March 15, 2003 Theo Garner came this morning. We were sitting in the locker room, Latino guys black guys and white guys. There was no conversation, just lone sentences spoken softly from around the room, punctuated by one-word responses. Gable and Costello were wandering around trying to find something to do. Gable checked his watch about ten times. A clock with a cage around it ticked away the morning. 9:30. 9:45. 10:05. All of a sudden he came through the door. Boom! Surprised all of us. Twenty-five heads snapped up. The first things you notice about Theo Garner are his eyes. They’re this gray-blue color, like an eagle, or hawk, or something that hunts. He’s a big guy with powerful round shoulders, like a wrestler, a barrel chest and a hard gut the size of a small beach ball. He had huge calves, but little feet. His gray-white goatee fell around his mouth, thick like carpet. A lit cigarette dangled from his mouth, its one-inch ashes threatening to jump. The lines of his gray flattop were razor-straight and the top was table-flat. His teeth were yellow and even. His too-short khaki slacks struggled to remain buttoned. An ancient leather belt helped his pants where it could. His faded yellow oxford had a distinct coffee stain and a missing button near the bottom. He wore a tee shirt underneath. I don’t know why; it was already ninety degrees. The bulging garment bag on his shoulder had an old-style faded Kansas City Knights logo on it, but the Ks had been scraped off over time, so it said “ansas City nights”. His jaw worked like a piston at a huge wad of gum in his mouth. I wondered how the hell he could smoke and chew gum at the same time. And even if you could, why would you? The ashes never moved, probably out of fear. He paused there for a moment, looking us over. We returned the stare. Then he says, “You guys think you’re ballplayers? You ain’t ballplayers. You’re runners and swingers and throwers and that is it. You don’t know ** about being ballplayers. Thank God I do.” Then he walks right through us like Moses through the Red Sea, never glancing away from his office door. “Bobby. Larry,” he says as he passes them. “Lets get started.” I don’t think he had one nice thing to say to us all day. We ran wrong, we threw wrong, we hit wrong, we scratched our nuts wrong. We wore our caps wrong, we organized our lockers wrong, and we even showered wrong. I had been showering since I was 8 and up to then I thought I was doing a pretty good job. After workouts, Gable told us that Mr. Garner wanted to see some of us in his office. Guess which first round pick was first on the list? I go in and he’s leaning back in a metal chair that’s too small for him. He’s got papers all over his desk, peppered with ashes. A full ashtray shaped like a nude woman was within arms reach. It said “The Alley Cat. Mesa, AZ”. There was half of a meatball sandwich perched on the bookcase behind him. He had a cigarette in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. The place stank of Old Spice. “Driscoll, I don’t play favorites,” he says to me, the cigarette bobbing up and down with every syllable. Smoke came out his nose. “I want you to know that up front. I don’t give a if you were weaned by Mother Mary herself, if you ain’t doing the job, you ain’t in the lineup. I don’t play favorites, Davey, but the organization does. They got some money in you and they want to see what you’re going to do. That’s fine with me. By all accounts you’re pretty good. It’s going to buy you two months, maybe three, but that’s it. This kid Lopez was hot in the Venezuelan winter league. He’s hungry. Probably hungrier than you. I have no problem seeing you on the bench. It’s all the same to me; I can spell “Lopez” just as easily as I spell “Driscoll”. By the way, two l’s in Driscoll?” “Yeah,” I said. “*,” he says. “Bobby! Get ahold of Karen and tell her to put another l on Driscoll’s jersey, would you? Thanks.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Another thing, Davey. Hal tells me you’re a good team player but not team leader material. He says you lead by example, that you mostly like to do your own thing – keep to yourself.” “Pretty much,” I say. “Pretty much no mas, comprende? You’re a first rounder, Davey. That means you’re what the organization wants. Guys will look to you as a role model. You can’t do your own thing, anymore. I don’t expect you to get a personality transplant, but from now on people are going to want things from you, starting with me.” “I understand.” Dave. My name is Dave.* “No, I don’t think you do.” He leaned close to me. He lowered his voice. “This is where it starts, Davey. This is baseball. Real baseball. Put away your press clippings because starting right now nobody gives a rat’s ass that you hit .420 your senior year. I will promise you only two things: I will never lie to you and I will never lie for you. I know you think you’re the next coming of Horatio Munoz, but you got a long way to go. I managed Munoz in Kansas City and I will tell you this: you’re better now than he was at your age. But all that makes you is another “phee-nom” who’s two short months away from swinging a hammer for the rest of his life.” He paused and I saw this was no “rattle-the-player” speech. He meant it. “Wow,” I said. “Yeah. Wow. You’re going to have a lot of ‘wows’ from now on. Do me a favor and keep them to yourself. Any questions?” Yeah, I had a question. I had a couple hundred questions. But the one I asked defined our relationship. “You say you’re going to want things from me. How am I going to know when I’ve done what you wanted?” “When I say ‘Thanks, Dave.’” Son of a bitch. “On your way out tell Kearse he’s next.” Theo Garner knew talent. He knew ballplayers. He knew the psyche of a ballplayer better than anyone I ever met. He knew what you were thinking before you thought it. He just had trouble managing it. He was like a miner who could spot a chunk of gold in a mound of worthless rock but had no idea how to make jewelry out of it. He did make a distinct impression on a person. In my case it was the distinct impression of his boot on my ass. Next week: April In A-Ball Last edited by Tib : 01-03-2007 at 01:36 AM.