CHAPTER TWO:
50 Gs, Amsterdam, and the Manager
About two weeks following the draft a black, M-class Mercedes-Benz rolled into my drive way. A flashy, well-groomed man emerged from the dark vehicle in the driveway. He wore a white, pressed, French cuffed, Brooks Brothers button down tucked into his khaki pants, flowing down to his white gators. His hair, slicked back, was a perfect gray, without a hint of his former hair color. The starkness of his white façade contrasted the shadows of the sedan he parked in my driveway. I heard a knock at the door.
My mother grabbed a giant pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and offered our guest a cool, refreshing drink.
“No thanks, lemonade is not my cup of tea,” he replied.
“O, you want some tea?” My mother asked.
“It’s an expression.” The man opened his briefcase. “Some water would be nice actually.” Mom left the room. “So Bingo, my name is Robert Long. I’m the manager for the Double-A Broken Arrow Angels. You’ll be pitching for us next season.”
I wanted to say a million different things to this man, but all that could come out was, “O.K.”
Mr. Long sorted through his briefcase and finally retrieved a packet of legal documents. I can’t tell you what half of them were, but I do know that one of them entitled me to a $50,000 signing bonus. “Don’t spend it all in one place. Oh, and by the way, we are aware of your past. Any sh*t and your @ss is gone.” With that, he left. I was to report to his office in Broken Arrow in six weeks.
Fifty thousand dollars. Fifty f*cking thousand dollars. That’s more money than I could ever dream of. What did I do with the money? I would like to tell you I invested it: hired an accountant and financial manager and bought some mutual funds. Instead, since I had so little time left with my buddies, I paid for a vacation where I and three of my closest friends went to “Germany.” We flew into Berlin, spent the night, and then in the morning hopped a train to Amsterdam. We masked our visit to Amsterdam since I didn’t think the Wichita organization or any of our parents would support our visiting considering my legal history.
The trip was everything I could have ever asked for. I wish I could explain in detail each and every night spent in the country of legalized marijuana, but truth be told I cannot remember much. I smoked, I drank, I partied, and I solicited a few morally-deprived females. The last night we rented the Tower Suite at the NH Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky, the largest 5 star resort in the Netherlands. We hired a stripper or two, and hit a four-way hookah on what became the wildest night of my eighteen years on this planet. The best part of the trip was everything cost Euro and I didn’t know the conversation rate, so I had no f*cking clue how much money I was actually spending.
Our return flight got us back into Pennsylvania about a week and a half before I had to leave for Broken Arrow. It left just enough time to say my goodbyes and sober up for my journey to professionalism. Everyone who was everyone stopped by, except one man, my father. I haven’t seen the estranged bum for years, after he abandoned my mother and me twelve years prior.