[Tib]

The Unthinkable Happens - Part Two

The first half of June came and went. The Gents were at 32-33 – not exactly first place. Lino was still hitting above .300, McCammon was at .323 with 14 HR (tops in the league), and Guevara had stolen 21 of 22 bases. Dex was pitching in almost every game. He was our workhorse, and he could handle the load. Yoogie was still out. There was talk he might leave the team to rehab his arm. I hoped not. He was the only other guy injured as badly as me.

Yoogie and I would sit on the end of the bench and talk about all kinds of stuff. Anything to make the games go a little faster. In San Diego he was called the best left-handed pitching prospect since Brian Graveer. “That was a curse,” he told me once. “Everyone expected me to strike everybody out like he did. I wasn’t that kind of pitcher. So I just did my own thing. I knew I couldn’t succeed by doing what worked for everyone else. I knew I had to do what was effective and right for me.”

Ugarte could do an unbelievable Theo Garner. One game in June we were down 10-4 in the sixth. It’s hotter than Hell. Theo had been tossed and Gable had the team. Ugarte puts four towels in his jersey, gravels up his voice and starts in with these little comments like, “You call that a swing, Linares? ****, my crippled grandmother has better footwork than that. Jeeeeesus Christ, Guevara, get in front of the ball! This is a baseball game, not a bullfight! McCammon! You got a date? Well, stop swinging at the first goddamn pitch! Hart! You’re playing too shallow. What are you, a goddamn track star or something?”

I start laughing and I can’t stop. Gable’s giving me dirty looks and it just makes me crack up even more. Then Gable says to me, “We’re down by six runs, Driscoll. Maybe you can tell us what’s so ****ing funny?” And I’m dying. All the miserable things I’ve been thinking, and all the pain in my arm and all the tedious rehab exercises were momentarily forgotten. Everybody’s looking at me cracking up and they start laughing. Pretty soon Rennie’s laughing, Hassell’s laughing, Martinez is laughing, Nitta’s spitting up tobacco, and Gable and Costello have no idea what the hell is going on.

The fans around the dugout start laughing at us laughing. Even Imosuke Soseke, one of our relief pitchers, starts laughing and he doesn’t even know what we’re saying because he’s from Japan! By now I’m on the dugout floor having an aneurysm, the umpire has called time because he thinks I’m having a seizure, shy little Jose Landeros is on the bench next to us with his mitt over his face, and Ugarte’s still going: “Keep ****ing laughing, Driscoll. Keep it up. I’ll break your other goddamned arm. Get up, you’re embarrassing yourself. What’s worse, you’re embarrassing me. You call yourself a baseball player? Jeeeesus Christ. You couldn’t wipe the ass of a real baseball player. Why, when I was managing back during the Roman Empire…”

Miss Draper came over right away when she heard. Grilled me for half an hour. Then she left a chicken casserole.
“This ain’t going to heal that arm any faster, but you won’t have to make as many meals.”
“I appreciate it, Miss Draper.”
“You better. I don’t cook for just anybody. Remember, son, this is God’s will. There’s a reason this challenge is before you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t mean to pry into your private affairs, David, but why don’t you come out to church with me and my daughter this Sunday? That is, if you’re a churchgoer. Be a real nice service.”
“Uh, well, I guess that would be fine, Miss Draper.”
“Good,” she nodded solemnly. “Pick you up here at seven-thirty sharp. And David?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“If you own a tie, please wear it.”

Cliff would come by often to see how I was doing. He wouldn’t come right out and say it, of course. It was just a coincidence that my paper got in his yard, or that he happened to have some time to look at the leak in the upstairs bathroom. He invited me to see his workshop. Inside were about a hundred unfinished bats he had made.
“So this is why you took such an interest in my bat,” I said.
“I was really more interested in you,” he confessed. “I’ve been making bats since I was your age. No offense, but your bat ain’t nothing special.”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a new one.”
“Don’t do that now,” he said. “Get back to swinging, then see where you are. But if you do want another bat, I can give you a few of these that might work. They’re not finished, but you can still hit with them. They’re better than that fencepost you’re using.”
“That would be great,” I said. “A Clifford Tyler Special. Where did you learn to make bats?”
“From my dad,” he replied. “Carpenter. Had a lathe for turning chair legs and the like. I used to use leftover dowels to make bats. Why, I used to make bats for all the teams I played on.”
“What do you mean, ‘played on’?”
“I played a little baseball in my day, too.”
“Really? Were you any good?”
“I was pretty good. I was a catcher.”
“Who’d you play for? Local team or something?”
“You could say that. The Birmingham Black Generals.”
“The Birming---. In the BBA?”
“Yes, sir. From ‘48 to ‘51. And I played for the Kansas City Comets and the Cleveland Black Barons, too.”
I was stunned. Baseball history was standing right in front of me. “Wow, Cliff. How come you never mentioned it before?”
“Oh, I don’t talk about it much these days. I’m a retired feed and grain store manager. Nobody has the time to listen to all those old stories anymore.”
I do. “Well, I’d like to hear them.”
Cliff smiled. “I’ll have to put on a pot of chili,” he said.

Yoogie and Dex and J.R. and McCammon were all great. While I was cooped up at the house, it became the place to hang out. Guys from the team would come and go as they pleased. We had many late night video game competitions. I was thankful for all the distractions because even a month into rehab my arm was still killing me.

Late one night I was awakened by a loud knock at the front door. Throwing on a pair of sweats, I went downstairs to see who it was. When I opened the door, there were Rowland and McCammon, drunk as skunks, being propped up by the biggest police officer I had ever seen.
“These boys belong to you?” he said. I could see by his insignia he was from the Savannah Police.
“They live here, if that’s what you mean,” I replied.
“Hi, Davey!” slurred Rowland. “Hey, Steve. It’s Davey.”
“Davey?” said McCammon. “What are you doing in Savannah?”
“If my partner wasn’t such a Gents fan, these two would’ve spent the night in jail,” said the cop. “Do me a favor and keep them away from the Savannah city limits for a day or two.”
“Uh, sure thing. What did they do?”
“This one,” he said, raising Rowland with one hand, “was directing traffic. And this one,” he raised McCammon with the other, “was singing some kind of fight song from the top of a tree.”
“Go Badgers!” said McCammon.
“I’m very sorry, officer. It won’t happen again.”
“Just keep them out of Savannah.”

No, those seven weeks weren’t all terrible. I have Yoogie to thank for that. Between his positive attitude, encouraging emails from my dad, and Cliff’s stories of the BBA I got through it somehow. When Yoogie finally did return he held the lead in the seventh against Wilkes-Barre by striking out the side – all three on curveballs.

By the time I got back the team was at 36-42. Lopez was hitting .289 and averaging a run scored per game. McCammon was at .326 with 20 homers. Keith Hart, the new savior of the franchise, was gone. So much for not feeling challenged by A ball. His replacement was a skinny Puerto Rican kid. You might have heard of him: Cristobal Ayala.


June 28, 2003

Doc says I’m cleared to play. What a relief. I don’t know if I’ll start. Lopez is playing well. I hate to say this, but he probably deserves to keep on playing.

The arm feels good. Threw at full speed this week without complication. I feel a little weaker in BP; not making the contact I used to. Doc says it’s from having to ease back on the muscles during rehab.

Nervous about tomorrow. Will I see my name in the lineup? Moose and J.R. think I’ll be in again. Yoogie and I went out for BBQ to celebrate. He told me I’m going to be scared to death of re-injuring the arm. He said the biggest thing is going to be the first time I have to throw, really throw. He said when he came back he was petrified. He just had to believe his arm was OK. He knew it was all over for him if he couldn’t get it out of his head.

But I remember the pain so well. I remember the cold fear that washed over me when I knew there was something wrong with my arm. It’s been seven weeks, but it feels like it happened yesterday. What if I can’t throw like I used to? What if I totally blow it out this time? What if I no longer have something I’ve relied on my whole life?

I do know one thing: I’m not going to make the bigs if the Atlanta Generals are worried about my arm. I’m going to have to show them it’s all right. Like Dad says, there is no substitute for perseverance. There are thousands of geniuses out there who won’t pound sand into a rat hole.

Time to go pound some sand.

Next time: Pounding Sand