CHAPTER 11:
The Crack of the Bat
One of the things you do when you’re fighting for something is focus on it. When you’re fighting for a base hit, you focus on the pitcher’s release. When you’re fighting for a strikeout you focus on the catcher’s glove. When you’re in the field you react to the crack of the bat. During May and June of 2004 I was fighting to become a better ballplayer. To do that I was focusing on what I needed to do to succeed. I wasn’t looking at anything else but what was going to get me to Durham. Kearse told me to fight for myself and that’s just what I was going to do.
Focus is a funny thing. When you do it, if you do it well, you can shut out everything else. You can accomplish great things this way. No distractions, nobody else’s problems to deal with. It wasn’t by mistake that I could make all the plays I did out there at short. When I was out there, I could tell by his stance where a batter would hit a certain pitch in a certain location. I could tell where his power was; in his hands, wrists, arms, or torso. I could tell if he was a slapper, a driver, a popper, a top-hander, or a free swinger. People always said I had great range. I didn’t. I just always knew where to position myself. Anticipation can make a huge difference, but you can lose sight of the bigger picture focusing on yourself. You can miss obvious things.
Dave Guevara and I had a conversation with Russ Weinman in early May. We were sitting in the dugout during practice. It was a hot, muggy day and we were soaked through with sweat after running sprints. I remember kidding Dave that I had more juice left then he did, in spite of his base stealing prowess. Russ is telling us about what Costello has him doing and why, and I’m listening hard because Costello knew what he was talking about. Many times during my days with the Gents I would use a kind of reverse logic on the things Costello told Yoogie and Dex. Whatever Costello was teaching them, I reversed it to apply to hitters. If up-and-in/low-and-away worked against power hitters (to shorten their arms, then get them to reach), I watched for those situations in my at bats and tried to anticipate the next pitch. I always benefited by it.
Anyway, we’re talking and Weinman looks past me and says, “Hey, dude, are you alright?”
I turn and Guevara is looking pale as a ghost. He’s got this blank stare on his face. I’ve seen guys drunk and I’ve seen guys sick, but he looked drunk and sick. In fact, he looked worse.
“Another late night last night, Guevara?” I said.
Dave starts to say something, but all that comes out is a mumble, and he vomits on the dugout floor.
I call for Tuck and he comes running over and takes a look at Dave.
“Yep,” says Tuck. “Dehydrated. Come on, son. Let’s get you some water and a good lay down. You’re done for today.” And he takes Dave into the locker room as everyone looks on.
Gable pulls Russ and me aside.
“What happened?” he said. He seemed more angry than concerned.
We told him.
He starts past us like he’s marching on Rome, plows his way through the team and down the tunnel. We heard the slamming of the locker room door and the latch being thrown.
<i>Hope he’s all right</i>, I thought.
I intended to ask Dave what happened the next time I saw him, but Dex beat me to it. “Doc says it’s dehydration,” he told me. I was relieved because if it was a virus and we all got on a bus, by the time we got ten miles the whole team would be infected. I did not need Dave Guevara making me sick. I had a plan and I didn’t want it interrupted.
Doc Roberts cleared Dave to play, but he went 0 for 4 against Bullhead City that night. He didn’t look any better, either, but it wasn’t my problem. I had things to do. Durham was my goal this season, and I was determined to get there.
I bought a new pair of Pegasus cleats at Perry’s the next morning. They were a big step (no pun intended) from the beat up Brock Airs I still had from high school. The team had a deal with Mazano, probably because their North American distribution was in Atlanta, and we could get any Mazano shoe they made for free, but I never liked them. Of course, that night I get a horrific blister and go 0 for 4 myself, snapping my 10-game hitting streak. Go figure.
Two days later, we’re poised to sweep the Bullfrogs and move into first place. We’re all at the top of the dugout getting ready for Mae Billingsley, the owner’s moderately talented cousin, to sing the National Anthem. Just as she’s announced and I go to take my cap off, I hear Gable and Theo behind me:
“Where is he, Bobby?”
“I don’t know. I called his house. No answer.”
“You said you were going to watch him.”
“I went by his place earlier today. He was there, like we agreed. It’ll be all right. He’s probably still sick.”
“If he was sick he’d be home. Go find him.”
It was then I realized I had not seen Guevara all day.
I didn’t have time to think about him, though, because I had problems of my own. In the eighth inning I took a cut in short left field and fired a strike to Moose to nail the tying run at home. Normally I would have been happy, but I felt a twinge in my elbow. It scared the hell out of me. What now? A million possible scenarios raced through my head the rest of the game. Dave Guevara and his mysterious disappearance were forgotten for a while. I was too focused on my problem.
After the game we were in first place. It’s a good feeling in a first place locker room. Everybody loves everybody, the media loves everybody, jokes are flying, and guys get generous. Conflicts are on hiatus. Suttles decided that we were all going out to celebrate; black guys, Latin guys, white guys, everybody. I didn’t go. I told them I was going to wait and have Doc take a look at my elbow before I go home.
“****, Davey,” said Moose, “he already told you it was just inflamed. You can still play. Take a pill and come with us.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“You worry too much, Driscoll,” said Yoogie.
I’m sure now it was a combination of that desire to fight for myself and fear at being re-injured, but I lost it. “Hey, you know what? Screw you, Ugarte. It’s my arm, okay? If I want to get it looked at I’ll get it looked at.”
“Fine, but don’t be a dick to everyone. You act like your arm almost fell off.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry, Steve, I forgot. Tell me again how afraid you are that your arm’s not going to hold up. Maybe if you had gotten it looked at sooner, it would be just fine. Maybe you’d be in Durham right now. I don’t know. Maybe you’re happy here, but I’ll tell you one thing: <i>my</i> career isn’t going to end here in Hicksville!”
Time froze. J.R., Moose and Yoogie stood there at the locker room door for about a thousand seconds as the last of our teammates shuffled out. They just looked at me.
“C’mon, guys,” said Yoogie. “Let’s go. Davey here has better things to do.”
I immediately felt like a world class jerk, but there was nothing I could do. The door opened behind me and as I turned I saw Doc. Theo’s office had a dim fluorescent glow. Dave Guevara was sitting in Theo’s office with his elbows on his knees. He had been crying. He looked so small, sitting there in the near dark. <i>He looks like a kid</i>, I thought. And of course, he was. Theo and Gable were standing behind Theo’s desk. I was blocked from view by Doc, who was facing them. Doc was speaking.
“—unacceptable levels in his bloodstream. I could end this right now, for both of you, but you know I don’t want that. Nobody in this room wants that. I understand the club has an investment, but that’s not my job. My job is to insure the health of these players. I haven’t done that. Instead, for the past three months I’ve listened to you two. Well, not any more. No more half-assed ‘treatments’ at three in the morning. No more promises. If I see this boy in this condition again, I swear I will admit him.”
<i>I should not be hearing this</i>, I thought.
“What are we supposed to do?” asked Gable.
“You <i>know</i> what to do. Do it.”
Doc turned to leave and saw me.
“Davey. I didn’t know you were there. What can I do for you?”
“My elbow, Doc. Could you take another look at it? It’s hurting.”
“Uh, well it’s late, Davey. I’ve already looked at it once. I’ve got to go. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll look at it then. Take the painkillers I gave you.”
He walked past me with a soft pat on my shoulder and was gone. Theo, Gable and Dave were looking at me.
“Would you come in here, Davey?” asked Theo.
Next week: <i>The Crack of the Bat</i>, Part Two