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Tib · 09-04-2004, 11:42 AM

CHAPTER 14:

Welcome to Little Rock

I was anxious about Little Rock. It wasn’t like Hinesville. It was much bigger and I had no place to stay, not even a contact like I had when I got to Georgia. It was easy enough to get there; it’s about 100 miles west of Memphis on I-40.

The University of Arkansas at Little Rock was the local college. It was in the west of town, but its influence was all over the place. Lots of pizza places and coffee houses. It was also full of local government; Little Rock was the state capital, after all. If I expected a kind of rural city I was mistaken. Little Rock was busy.

I got to my hotel at 12:45 in the afternoon. There were two phone messages at the front desk. Someone from the team wanted me to call them immediately. Hal Fitzwalter wanted me to call him immediately. And so it begins, I thought tiredly. I called Hal.

Hal was very happy I got out of the Atlanta organization, something I considered odd since he worked for the Atlanta organization. He told me if he ever decided to start representing players I’d be his first choice.
“That’s crap, Hal,” I kidded. “You’d go for Ross Watts and you know it.”
“Okay, true,” replied Hal. “But you’d be in the top ten.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s why I wanted you to call me, Davey. You need to look for representation.”
“An agent? What for?”
“Because up to now I looked out for you, but you’ve been a pro for more than a year now and you’re a first rounder.”
“Who just got traded away.”
“Right. But it’ll still bring you some attention. A standard minor league contract is pretty basic stuff. You and your dad could probably handle it by yourselves, but there are people out there who are looking to take advantage of a kid with no experience. Especially a first rounder.”
“I’m still bound by my contract, right?”
“Right, but you’ll be approached for local appearances. Things like that. Right now the team makes all the endorsement decisions, but your personal appearances are your own. It’s just a good idea now that you’ve tasted a little of what pro sports are about. Protect your interests.”
The truth was I had been approached by several people, but I never met formally with any of them. “Any recommendations?”
“I’ll email you some names.”
“Thanks, Hal. When am I going to see you?”
“Don’t know, kid. Probably won’t. I’m out west these days.”
“You’ve got to come to my first CBA game, at least.”
“You give me the when and where and I’ll be there.”

It was good to talk to Hal. He had a way of telling you something; you just knew you could trust him. He gave me some insight into the Kansas City organization and it helped me immensely, as you will read. I was to be tested severely in the next year. Hal and I kept in touch for many years until his death from heart failure in ‘18.
“Play the game, Davey,” he said then (and often when we spoke of my career). “Just play the game and it’ll be all right.”
“Watch for me, Hal.”
“Page 54,” he said.
“What?”
“Page 54. Of Baseball Insider. That’s the KC farm stats page. That’s where I’ll watch for you. I can’t really give you any career advice now that you’re with KC, but listen to Romeo Mercado. He’s one of their advance scouts. Good guy. Hook up with him if you can. He knew Munoz.”
“Romeo Mercado,” I repeated. “I remember him from when he played for Seattle. Thanks, Hal.”

Thirty minutes later Larry Nicholls, the Hounds’ Player Relations Coordinator, arrived in the lobby. He looked more like the skinny kid who took all the yearbook photos in high school than a team representative. He greeted me with a firm handshake and way too much energy. “Welcome to Little Rock! We’re very happy to have you as a member of the Hounds, Davey.”
Here we go again with Davey, I thought.
“It’s Dave,” I said wearily.
“Sorry. Dave, then,” he replied quickly, making a note in a little book. “Have you eaten yet, Dave?”
“I haven’t even been to sleep yet.”
“Ah. That’s right. You must have just driven in. Okay, then. Why don’t we get a bite and go through all the orientation materials? Then you can catch some sleep this afternoon before the game. We’ve got a busy day if we’re going to make you an official part of the organization. You have to be processed with the league before you can play.”
“Why don’t I go to sleep and you can come get me at about six o’clock?”
“Sure, well, I could do that,” began Larry, “but you have to be approved by the Heartland League before you can play and that means I have to fax the league office by two in order to receive a reply by the end of business today. You can’t play tonight otherwise and everyone’s coming to see you.”
“Who is everyone?”
I had stumped him. “Everyone is everyone. The whole team office, the owner Mrs. Beatty, college students. Everyone. You’re our first decent shortstop in three years.”

Over lunch Larry had me fill out form after form, all the while telling me how much I’m going to like playing for the Hounds. I half-listened as I checked off the questions.
“And there’s this great place called Eddie’s where a lot of the guys go to eat after games. They’ve never invited me, but I know about it....”
Have you ever experienced shortness of breath, chest pains, heart palpitations or cold sweats? No, I wrote.
“The team just installed a first class whirlpool and sauna in the back of the clubhouse. Twelve hundred gallons. Top of the line. As soon as I figure out why the water only gets to seventy-seven degrees it’ll be fantastic…”
Have you ever been diagnosed with heart disease, diabetes, cancer, high blood pressure, lymphoma or a congenital condition of any kind? No, I wrote.
“You’ll love the night life here. Pubs, clubs and restaurants everywhere. Also, plenty of young available ladies, if I may say so…”
Have you ever had an injury to any bone or joint? If so, did it require surgery? Uh-oh...
“The field has a state-of-the-art scoreboard with real animations. The dugouts feature non-skid rubberized carpet. The PA system is one of the most expensive…”
…injury to any joint?....
“We have a car giveaway every month, a sack race around the bases, seat lotteries, free haircut nights and Bring Your Hound Night, student and faculty nights as well as….”
…injury to any joint… No, I wrote.

The Hounds’ home field, Hangar Hill Stadium, was in east Little Rock, on the corner of Hangar and College Street, about a mile from the Little Rock Airport and just north of Hangar Hill Park. I was given a map of the east Little Rock area. “Don’t get lost in there after a game,” said Larry with a little chuckle.

The Hounds’ manager was Lyle Palmer. Larry said he had been with the team for eight years. “You’ll like him,” he said. “Real nice guy. Everybody likes Coach Palmer.”
Well that’ll be a switch, I thought.

According to Larry, the Hounds had struggled for about two years but were still very popular.
“They love us here,” he said. “Even more than the Trojans.”
“Trojans?”
“The UALR Trojans. The local college team.”
“We have a college team called the Trojans where I come from, too.”
“Well, then it’ll be just like home,” he said.

The Heartland League was much like the Eastern Developmental League. It was made up of several CBA franchisees and a couple of independents; only in the Heartland League the independents were pretty good. The Little Rock Hounds were at 40-61, last place, 2 games behind the Burlington Gamblers.

The rest of my day was spent asleep. At five-thirty I woke up and made a couple of phone calls. I went to see a house at West 11th and South Tyler, just north of the university. The landlord, Wilton Williams, wasn’t much older than I. Nice enough guy, but I got the distinct impression that if he didn’t work for his parents he may not have had a job at all. The house was nice, with a landscaped back yard. “A rarity in a college town”, he said. There was even a little pond and a fire pit in back. We walked out front and I was ready to tell him it was too expensive and what was I going to do with a pond and a fire pit, anyway? That’s when I saw four cute girls sunning themselves in the front yard of a little house across the street.

I crossed the street. I left Wilton standing on the side walk looking at his expensive shoes. One of the girls, a pretty brunette in a purple bikini, raised herself to her elbows and looked at me through a pair of Oakleys.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking to rent that house over there and I was wondering if you could tell me if all the girls in this neighborhood are as cute as you.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Actually, no.”
She seemed to look around for help, but her friends were either asleep or pretending to be.
“It’s a college town,” she said. “There are girls everywhere. Go find one and leave me alone.”
“Okay, good,” I replied. “Any other reason I should take it? Other than it’s near your shining presence?”
“Yeah, it’s a piece of crap and it costs way too much, but it’ll be close enough for your cheap hung-over dates to walk back to their sorority.”
“My God, you’ve read my mind. Are you always this intuitive or is it experience?”
One of her friends laughed in her sleep.
She cracked a smile. I took my chance. “Dave Driscoll,” I said, extending my hand. “I play for Little Rock.”
She was unimpressed. Strong hands, though.
“You don’t play for the Trojans,” she said.
“No, the Hounds. Class A ball. I’m a professional baseball player.”
She gave me the look Marisa gave me when I told her I was 5’9”.
“No, really,” I pleaded. “I’m playing tonight, if you want to come to the game.”
“Baseball players are dicks.”
“Not all of us are dicks. Some of us are *******s.”
“Why would I want to come to your baseball game?”
“Because you’re dying for someone to invite you somewhere but don’t want to appear desperate?”
“Kiss off.”
“Okay, how about because you can’t stand the thought of listening to another one of your roommates’ Friday night men-are-*******s bitch sessions?”
“You’re a jerk. You know that, right?”
“Okay, how about because I’m kind of cute and you’ve been here a year and no one’s taken you to a ballgame?”
“I don’t need a man to take me to a ballgame.”
“Good, because I’m playing so I won’t actually be with you.”
“Wow, you’re a fun date.”
“I promise to wave to you every inning.”
“Aren’t you going to feed me?”
“We’ll grab something after.”
“That’s ten-thirty! What if I get hungry before then?”
“Here’s five bucks. Get yourself a hot dog.”
“Screw you.”
“Man, talking to you is about as comfortable as a sandpaper jockstrap.”
“You are sooo funny.”
I started back across the street. “I’ll leave a ticket for you at will call.”
“I’m not coming! And besides, I didn’t tell you my name,” she called.
“You’ll know it’s for you,” I called back.
When I got to the sidewalk, Wilton was shaking his head.
“That was rough, man.”
“I’ll take the house,” I said.

I got to the stadium at six-thirty, forty-five minutes before game time. I parked in the players’ lot, grabbed my gear bag, and walked down the tunnel to meet my new team. I was greeted at the door by whom else? Larry Nicholls. I began to think Larry was the entire front office rolled into one. Guys came up to shake hands and say hello. It was nice. No screaming, glaring coaches. No signs of racial segregation. Very low key, very relaxed.

Larry took me to my locker. Hanging inside was a snow white home uniform, complete with the Hounds’ blue and rust striping and Homer the Hound on the left sleeve. I saw the Coolmax label in the collar and silently thanked whoever decided to buy an expensive micro fiber blend for summer baseball in the South. The best part was the name written on masking tape across the top of the locker: Dave Driscoll, 11. Dave. Finally.

Larry apologized that he wasn’t going to get my actual name plaque until the next day.
“Could you leave a ticket at the gate for someone for me?” I asked.
“Sure. What’s the name?”
I told him.
Turns out Larry wasn’t just the Player Relations Coordinator, he was also the Head Locker Room Attendant, Chief Ticket-leaver and Vice-president of Plaque Manufacturing.

Just then there was a huge bang and a roar as a two-foot wave of water tumbled into the locker room, flooding everything and sweeping away anything that wasn’t nailed down. It cascaded over my legs and rode up my jeans, soaking my wallet. Larry stomped his way against the current. “Not again!” he yelled. Guys cursed and jumped on the benches. My gear bag surfed away into the shower room without even saying goodbye. My shoes and glove are in there, I thought numbly.
“Sorry, Dave,” said Larry. “The new sauna slipped off the cinder blocks again.”

Welcome to Little Rock, Dave.

Next week: Chapter 15, Buddha, Brunettes and Biorhythms

09-04-2004, 11:42 AM	#133 (permalink)
Tib All Star Reserve Join Date: Aug 2002 Location: Paso Robles, CA Posts: 887 Thanks: 0 Thanked 14x in 8 posts	CHAPTER 14: Welcome to Little Rock I was anxious about Little Rock. It wasn’t like Hinesville. It was much bigger and I had no place to stay, not even a contact like I had when I got to Georgia. It was easy enough to get there; it’s about 100 miles west of Memphis on I-40. The University of Arkansas at Little Rock was the local college. It was in the west of town, but its influence was all over the place. Lots of pizza places and coffee houses. It was also full of local government; Little Rock was the state capital, after all. If I expected a kind of rural city I was mistaken. Little Rock was busy. I got to my hotel at 12:45 in the afternoon. There were two phone messages at the front desk. Someone from the team wanted me to call them immediately. Hal Fitzwalter wanted me to call him immediately. And so it begins, I thought tiredly. I called Hal. Hal was very happy I got out of the Atlanta organization, something I considered odd since he worked for the Atlanta organization. He told me if he ever decided to start representing players I’d be his first choice. “That’s crap, Hal,” I kidded. “You’d go for Ross Watts and you know it.” “Okay, true,” replied Hal. “But you’d be in the top ten.” “Thanks.” “That’s why I wanted you to call me, Davey. You need to look for representation.” “An agent? What for?” “Because up to now I looked out for you, but you’ve been a pro for more than a year now and you’re a first rounder.” “Who just got traded away.” “Right. But it’ll still bring you some attention. A standard minor league contract is pretty basic stuff. You and your dad could probably handle it by yourselves, but there are people out there who are looking to take advantage of a kid with no experience. Especially a first rounder.” “I’m still bound by my contract, right?” “Right, but you’ll be approached for local appearances. Things like that. Right now the team makes all the endorsement decisions, but your personal appearances are your own. It’s just a good idea now that you’ve tasted a little of what pro sports are about. Protect your interests.” The truth was I had been approached by several people, but I never met formally with any of them. “Any recommendations?” “I’ll email you some names.” “Thanks, Hal. When am I going to see you?” “Don’t know, kid. Probably won’t. I’m out west these days.” “You’ve got to come to my first CBA game, at least.” “You give me the when and where and I’ll be there.” It was good to talk to Hal. He had a way of telling you something; you just knew you could trust him. He gave me some insight into the Kansas City organization and it helped me immensely, as you will read. I was to be tested severely in the next year. Hal and I kept in touch for many years until his death from heart failure in ‘18. “Play the game, Davey,” he said then (and often when we spoke of my career). “Just play the game and it’ll be all right.” “Watch for me, Hal.” “Page 54,” he said. “What?” “Page 54. Of Baseball Insider. That’s the KC farm stats page. That’s where I’ll watch for you. I can’t really give you any career advice now that you’re with KC, but listen to Romeo Mercado. He’s one of their advance scouts. Good guy. Hook up with him if you can. He knew Munoz.” “Romeo Mercado,” I repeated. “I remember him from when he played for Seattle. Thanks, Hal.” Thirty minutes later Larry Nicholls, the Hounds’ Player Relations Coordinator, arrived in the lobby. He looked more like the skinny kid who took all the yearbook photos in high school than a team representative. He greeted me with a firm handshake and way too much energy. “Welcome to Little Rock! We’re very happy to have you as a member of the Hounds, Davey.” Here we go again with Davey, I thought. “It’s Dave,” I said wearily. “Sorry. Dave, then,” he replied quickly, making a note in a little book. “Have you eaten yet, Dave?” “I haven’t even been to sleep yet.” “Ah. That’s right. You must have just driven in. Okay, then. Why don’t we get a bite and go through all the orientation materials? Then you can catch some sleep this afternoon before the game. We’ve got a busy day if we’re going to make you an official part of the organization. You have to be processed with the league before you can play.” “Why don’t I go to sleep and you can come get me at about six o’clock?” “Sure, well, I could do that,” began Larry, “but you have to be approved by the Heartland League before you can play and that means I have to fax the league office by two in order to receive a reply by the end of business today. You can’t play tonight otherwise and everyone’s coming to see you.” “Who is everyone?” I had stumped him. “Everyone is everyone. The whole team office, the owner Mrs. Beatty, college students. Everyone. You’re our first decent shortstop in three years.” Over lunch Larry had me fill out form after form, all the while telling me how much I’m going to like playing for the Hounds. I half-listened as I checked off the questions. “And there’s this great place called Eddie’s where a lot of the guys go to eat after games. They’ve never invited me, but I know about it....” Have you ever experienced shortness of breath, chest pains, heart palpitations or cold sweats? No, I wrote. “The team just installed a first class whirlpool and sauna in the back of the clubhouse. Twelve hundred gallons. Top of the line. As soon as I figure out why the water only gets to seventy-seven degrees it’ll be fantastic…” Have you ever been diagnosed with heart disease, diabetes, cancer, high blood pressure, lymphoma or a congenital condition of any kind? No, I wrote. “You’ll love the night life here. Pubs, clubs and restaurants everywhere. Also, plenty of young available ladies, if I may say so…” Have you ever had an injury to any bone or joint? If so, did it require surgery? Uh-oh... “The field has a state-of-the-art scoreboard with real animations. The dugouts feature non-skid rubberized carpet. The PA system is one of the most expensive…” …injury to any joint?.... “We have a car giveaway every month, a sack race around the bases, seat lotteries, free haircut nights and Bring Your Hound Night, student and faculty nights as well as….” …injury to any joint… No, I wrote. The Hounds’ home field, Hangar Hill Stadium, was in east Little Rock, on the corner of Hangar and College Street, about a mile from the Little Rock Airport and just north of Hangar Hill Park. I was given a map of the east Little Rock area. “Don’t get lost in there after a game,” said Larry with a little chuckle. The Hounds’ manager was Lyle Palmer. Larry said he had been with the team for eight years. “You’ll like him,” he said. “Real nice guy. Everybody likes Coach Palmer.” Well that’ll be a switch, I thought. According to Larry, the Hounds had struggled for about two years but were still very popular. “They love us here,” he said. “Even more than the Trojans.” “Trojans?” “The UALR Trojans. The local college team.” “We have a college team called the Trojans where I come from, too.” “Well, then it’ll be just like home,” he said. The Heartland League was much like the Eastern Developmental League. It was made up of several CBA franchisees and a couple of independents; only in the Heartland League the independents were pretty good. The Little Rock Hounds were at 40-61, last place, 2 games behind the Burlington Gamblers. The rest of my day was spent asleep. At five-thirty I woke up and made a couple of phone calls. I went to see a house at West 11th and South Tyler, just north of the university. The landlord, Wilton Williams, wasn’t much older than I. Nice enough guy, but I got the distinct impression that if he didn’t work for his parents he may not have had a job at all. The house was nice, with a landscaped back yard. “A rarity in a college town”, he said. There was even a little pond and a fire pit in back. We walked out front and I was ready to tell him it was too expensive and what was I going to do with a pond and a fire pit, anyway? That’s when I saw four cute girls sunning themselves in the front yard of a little house across the street. I crossed the street. I left Wilton standing on the side walk looking at his expensive shoes. One of the girls, a pretty brunette in a purple bikini, raised herself to her elbows and looked at me through a pair of Oakleys. “Yes?” “I’m looking to rent that house over there and I was wondering if you could tell me if all the girls in this neighborhood are as cute as you.” “You’re kidding, right?” “Actually, no.” She seemed to look around for help, but her friends were either asleep or pretending to be. “It’s a college town,” she said. “There are girls everywhere. Go find one and leave me alone.” “Okay, good,” I replied. “Any other reason I should take it? Other than it’s near your shining presence?” “Yeah, it’s a piece of crap and it costs way too much, but it’ll be close enough for your cheap hung-over dates to walk back to their sorority.” “My God, you’ve read my mind. Are you always this intuitive or is it experience?” One of her friends laughed in her sleep. She cracked a smile. I took my chance. “Dave Driscoll,” I said, extending my hand. “I play for Little Rock.” She was unimpressed. Strong hands, though. “You don’t play for the Trojans,” she said. “No, the Hounds. Class A ball. I’m a professional baseball player.” She gave me the look Marisa gave me when I told her I was 5’9”. “No, really,” I pleaded. “I’m playing tonight, if you want to come to the game.” “Baseball players are dicks.” “Not all of us are dicks. Some of us are ******s.” “Why would I want to come to your* baseball game?” “Because you’re dying for someone to invite you somewhere but don’t want to appear desperate?” “Kiss off.” “Okay, how about because you can’t stand the thought of listening to another one of your roommates’ Friday night men-are-******s bitch sessions?” “You’re a jerk. You know that, right?” “Okay, how about because I’m kind of cute and you’ve been here a year and no one’s taken you to a ballgame?” “I don’t need a man to take me to a ballgame.” “Good, because I’m playing so I won’t actually be with* you.” “Wow, you’re a fun date.” “I promise to wave to you every inning.” “Aren’t you going to feed me?” “We’ll grab something after.” “That’s ten-thirty! What if I get hungry before then?” “Here’s five bucks. Get yourself a hot dog.” “Screw you.” “Man, talking to you is about as comfortable as a sandpaper jockstrap.” “You are sooo funny.” I started back across the street. “I’ll leave a ticket for you at will call.” “I’m not coming! And besides, I didn’t tell you my name,” she called. “You’ll know it’s for you,” I called back. When I got to the sidewalk, Wilton was shaking his head. “That was rough, man.” “I’ll take the house,” I said. I got to the stadium at six-thirty, forty-five minutes before game time. I parked in the players’ lot, grabbed my gear bag, and walked down the tunnel to meet my new team. I was greeted at the door by whom else? Larry Nicholls. I began to think Larry was the entire front office rolled into one. Guys came up to shake hands and say hello. It was nice. No screaming, glaring coaches. No signs of racial segregation. Very low key, very relaxed. Larry took me to my locker. Hanging inside was a snow white home uniform, complete with the Hounds’ blue and rust striping and Homer the Hound on the left sleeve. I saw the Coolmax label in the collar and silently thanked whoever decided to buy an expensive micro fiber blend for summer baseball in the South. The best part was the name written on masking tape across the top of the locker: Dave Driscoll, 11. Dave. Finally. Larry apologized that he wasn’t going to get my actual name plaque until the next day. “Could you leave a ticket at the gate for someone for me?” I asked. “Sure. What’s the name?” I told him. Turns out Larry wasn’t just the Player Relations Coordinator, he was also the Head Locker Room Attendant, Chief Ticket-leaver and Vice-president of Plaque Manufacturing. Just then there was a huge bang and a roar as a two-foot wave of water tumbled into the locker room, flooding everything and sweeping away anything that wasn’t nailed down. It cascaded over my legs and rode up my jeans, soaking my wallet. Larry stomped his way against the current. “Not again!” he yelled. Guys cursed and jumped on the benches. My gear bag surfed away into the shower room without even saying goodbye. My shoes and glove are in there, I thought numbly. “Sorry, Dave,” said Larry. “The new sauna slipped off the cinder blocks again.” Welcome to Little Rock, Dave. Next week: Chapter 15, Buddha, Brunettes and Biorhythms Last edited by Tib; 04-29-2010 at 02:13 AM.