SHORT HOP - My Career In Baseball by David Driscoll

[pedrotn]

Well I am finally caught up. I wanted to wait to post until I had gone back and read the entire thing and all I can say is wow. I played baseball up through college in 2003 and have found it very hard to adjust to life after ball. Your story really helps keep me from going nuts. My arm still gets sore each year about this time. I did wonder though what your baseball experience was. you obviously have an indepth knowledge of the inner parts of the game that not many people do. The true magic of baseball is the times shared amongst the guys both on and off the field and you really capture that. Thank you for doing this.

[Tib]

Originally Posted by pedrotn

Well I am finally caught up. I wanted to wait to post until I had gone back and read the entire thing and all I can say is wow. I played baseball up through college in 2003 and have found it very hard to adjust to life after ball. Your story really helps keep me from going nuts. My arm still gets sore each year about this time. I did wonder though what your baseball experience was. you obviously have an indepth knowledge of the inner parts of the game that not many people do. The true magic of baseball is the times shared amongst the guys both on and off the field and you really capture that. Thank you for doing this.

Thanks so much for the comments, pedrotn. I'm glad it's helping you through your "transition", if that's what you call it. I had to go through one, too, and it wasn't fun knowing that part of my life was over.

As for my experience, I played for years as the small, speedy leadoff hitter/second baseman/shortstop in youth leagues and high school.

When I got to college I was more of a soccer guy, having been told not to bother trying out for the baseball team. The assistant coach told us, "if we didn't give you a scholarship, we're not interested", to which I said, "but one of us could be really good", to which he said, "you may be, but we only play the scholarships". What a pisser.

So we walk-ons organized ourselves and had pickup practices. We challenged the "scholarships" to a game, but were turned down by the coaches. The "scholars" wanted to play, however, so we had a game. We won 4-2. I went 1-3, stole second, stole third, and scored. Our pitcher, a lefty, threw 6 innings of 6-hit ball and sure enough he was the only one of us who got a tryout. He didn't make the team, but it was a moral victory for those of us destined for intermurals.

After college I moved back to my home town and began to play with my dad's slo-pitch team in a Sunday beer league. Unlimited arc. 240 foot fences. Extremely frustrating. Couldn't hit a friggin' thing the first year. Then I figured it out. Some of the best times of my life were when I was the only 20-year old on a team filled with 45-50 year olds (the dads of my friends, in fact). Some day I'll tell you all about that team.

I wound up playing everything from men's C to men's A to tournament to travel ball. Vegas. Bakersfield. Lancaster. Fresno. Visalia. Palm Springs. Shortstop, of course. A little second. Leadoff or #2. Sometimes I'd hit #9 if I got a call from a guy who had never met me, but desperately need a glove. I was always ready to go. I was a right-center field gap hitter. Low line drives and hard grounders. 12' arc was for sissies.

16 years later I "retired" with a .634 career average, and a .741 career OBP. I once hit .770 in a 24-game season. I still get calls, believe it or not.

Now my knees are beat up and I need 30 minutes to warm up my arm. I've gained 25 lbs. and lost three steps. But my swing is still there. My hands are as good as ever. If I can get there, it ain't gettin' by me. The problem is gettin' there.

I've played a lot of baseball in 38 years. I've seen a lot of things. I've seen guys at their best and their worst. I've seen drunk guys hit grand slams then throw up on home plate. I've seen former minor leaguers brought to tears because they have been "reduced" to playing softball. I've been in my share of brawls, some alcohol-induced, some racially-induced. I've been the peacemaker, too (try convincing a angry drunk guy to hand you a loaded pistol sometime). I've been assaulted by drunken Latino gang members, I've been the pivot on 3 triple plays, I've been to teammates' weddings, funerals and everything in between.

I decided long ago baseball is Life, and that, like baseball, Life boils down to people. Some you like, some you don't, some help you, some hate you, but we're all on the same field together so we better make the best of it because come the ninth it's over for all of us. I guess that's what I'm trying to do with Short Hop. It's also about people. I figure (if I do it right) in the end you won't remember whether Dave won or lost but that he was a guy you knew, who was part of your life - for a short time, anyway.

[Jazzmosis]

That was just as good as a chapter, right there. And I couldn't agree with you more on half of the things you said (especially that baseball is life).

[jaykno14]

Yeah that was really well said Tib. I just got caught up (from chapter 28 or so) and am so bummed that you lost on a questionable call by the ump. Once Driscoll's career is over and you are done adding chapters, I strongly advise, along with every other board member and non board member, that you publish this story. Excellent read so far and keep it up!

[Tib]

Welcome to Interlude #4. This will take our league history through WWII. I'm still working on Chapter 35, but it should be done by next week. I'm still working on the photo album. Thanks as usual for all the positive comments.

[Tib]

SHORT HOP: INTERLUDE #4

A HISTORY OF THE CBA

From the American Baseball Federation to the Continental Baseball Association, 1881-2005

PART THREE: Depression and War

"A Sad Time For Us"
The Depression Years: 1927-1940

In 1929 America was flying high on the prosperity of almost a century of industrialization. Goods were cheaper, made better and offered in more variety than ever before. Comfort and discerning taste were no longer only within the reach of the upper class. The installment plan was the universal method of payment for everything from automobiles to insurance. Affordability was the key to profitability and the common man was the target of every merchandiser and manufacturer.

In 1929 the ABF posted record revenues. Its popularity was never so great. However, following the Fall Classic, as the American Baseball Championship had come to be called, disaster struck. On October 29th the stock market crash ruined the prospects of millions of common men. Even the ABF, rich and insulated as it was, did not escape its dire effects. Only a year earlier the owners of America’s major baseball franchises were asking themselves what could possibly derail the national game. Now they knew.

There was no plan in place to protect baseball. More than that, there was no plan in place to protect any facet of American industry, labor, or life. Baseball was hit hard, but the livelihoods of the American working man were hit harder. Banks closed, employment stopped, and entire families found themselves out on the streets. There was no time for baseball. There was no money for tickets. There was no surplus hope to spend on a ball team; men kept their hope for themselves now. The common game for the common man was suddenly too expensive. Most of the Boom Leagues closed down forever. The first three years of the Great Depression was, as Nicholas Freeders remarked later, “a sad time for us”.

Baseball continued, though. Attendance was but a fraction of previous years and teams were taking sizeable losses, but baseball continued nonetheless. The ABF’s owners learned that in spite of their hardship people still returned to the ballpark when they could. People seemed to need the game. This was a powerful realization. Faced with bankruptcies and crippling operating losses of their own, the ABF owners quietly determined to see this dark time through to its end.

On the whole, ballplayers lived good lives. They were paid well, certainly better than many men who worked much harder. And their notoriety allowed them to find employment during the off-season when they were not paid by the ABF. Many opened businesses of their own, like Detroit Monarchs first baseman George Graney, who in 1931 founded Graney’s Grocery in Mobile, Alabama. Some bought farms, like Philadelphia’s Max Twomey. Ballplayers stayed busy.

The 1932 season was a good example of the resilience of baseball and the determination of the owners to persevere. In 1932, two franchises were having particular difficulty. In 1926, Cincinnati built a wooden stadium that seated over 16,000. In the winter of 1931, vagabonds would walk the short distance from the frigid rail yards to warm themselves by burning some of the wood always found there. The stadium caught fire and burned to the ground. The Barons were a newer franchise and had no money to build a new stadium. Banks would not (or could not) loan them the almost $100,000 it would take. They were facing bankruptcy. In February, Cincinnati owner Seagrove Baron sent a letter to the league office stating that unless they received some assistance a new stadium could not be built. “Acceptable alternative facilities have not yet been found,” wrote Baron. “We are less than one month from beginning training and only six weeks from the start of the season and we have no place to play.”

Like Cincinnati, the Cleveland Hammers came into the league in 1920. Like the Barons, the Hammers were a successful franchise in their own right before joining the ABF. But owner McKent Smith was heavily invested in the stock market. Having made a personal fortune in the shipping industry, Smith was confident in his abilities. In spite of advice to the contrary from Nicholas Freeders, among others, Smith leveraged much of his team’s wealth in securities. Among the funds tied up on Wall Street were the Hammers’ lease payments for their own new 22,000 seat stadium, the team office leases and the Hammers’ payroll, which included the players’ salaries. In fact, the only thing the team owned outright was its equipment. When the crash hit on October 29th, Smith lost almost everything. On October 30th, he retained a mere 22% of his wealth of the day before. In early 1932 Smith’s personal wealth was gone, having been used to keep his dying team afloat. Smith himself was forced to sell his family estate to Chicago financier (and holder of the lien) D. Vincent Bassone. Smith and his family moved into apartments built above his own stadium. He, too, sent a letter to the league office asking for help.

Thankfully, the other ABF owners were not so devastated. Facing the loss of two franchises, the league moved and moved fast. Several meetings were held in New York in the months following the crash. Plans were considered. Strategies were discussed. Of the remaining ten teams, only four were considered “well-off”: Boston, Chicago, St. Louis, and Philadelphia. The rest were in various states of insolvency and general financial decline. The owners knew something had to be done, and quickly.

It should not be surprising that in a room filled with businessmen and financiers an inventive economic solution would come. The General Fund was born in late February 1932. It included provisions for the continued solvency of the league as a whole, safeguards against another economic collapse, and a mandatory contribution schedule based on the proportion of total league revenues of each of the twelve teams. It outlined the terms and circumstances under which teams may borrow money from the Fund. It set guidelines for the use of the money, penalties for misuse of the money, and a very understanding repayment procedure. Payments into the Fund were made immediately, even at the expense of the owners’ personal fortunes. The “well-off” teams paid the lion’s share of the initial balance in return for pro-rated contributions in the future. Contributions from Cincinnati and Cleveland were suspended indefinitely. Two loans were arranged for the foundering franchises. Baseball, at least for 1932, was saved. The creation of the General Fund in 1932 marked another stage of maturity and sophistication for the ABF. It saved two franchises, not to mention the livelihoods of two prominent men. Over the years it served the interests of the ABF, players and fans by allowing owners to upgrade and modernize at a fraction of the cost of conventional financing. It helped the owners survive the player’s strike of 1950. It also created a 300 million dollar temptation that in 1965 became the downfall of the league.

It should be noted that while the ABF owners were motivated to protect the league at great cost, they felt no such mandate to protect their players. Players were left on their own. With no central authority (like a union, first shouted down by the owners in 1920 and again in 1927) and no General Fund to help them, ballplayers were exposed like everyone else to the economic hardships of the time. And the times could be cruel. Atlanta pitcher Lee McCrumb took his own life in late 1935 after losing the last of his savings in a poker game. Texas Marshals center fielder Hal “Horseshoe” Larrabee quit the game altogether to go back to being a cowboy. Jack Glenroe went to Hollywood to star in westerns, went bust, and opened a saloon near the studios that bore his name. Glenroe’s Steak House is now a Los Angeles landmark, but “Six-gun Jack” Glenroe never played professional baseball again.

Like owners such as Nicholas Freeders, there were some players who weren’t touched by the Depression years. Stars like Del Owens, Cecil Griffith, Morgan Cromartie, Sanborn Brown, Dio Moretti and Karl Ulrich all made plenty of money during the 30’s. They were the big draws, the attractions, the “Money Boys”, as they called each other. They knew the owners needed them and they continued to demand pay increases even as their teammates suffered. The gap between the stars and the journeymen was widening. It was a gap that, thirty years hence, would prove impossible to close.

Like most men, the players worked hard, saved their money and survived. Slowly, more men returned to work. Slowly, jobs became more plentiful. Slowly, attendance at ball games rose. By the end of the decade the ABF was back to earning almost 70% of the revenues earned in 1929. The league was not completely healthy, but it was still around.

[Tib]

Interlude continued...

“Every Able Body, And I Am One”

The War Years, 1941-1945

On December 7, 1941 New York Admirals star pitcher Bill Andjrewski was in his Brooklyn living room doing a jigsaw puzzle with his children. The radio was tuned to the Starlight Hour, a music show. When the show was interrupted by CBS news reporter Hollis Thompson, he knew something was wrong.
“I could tell from his voice something terrible had happened,” recounted Andjrewski later. “But I never imagined anything like Pearl Harbor.” Andjrewski enlisted the next day.

America had not been to war in 25 years. It had enjoyed a quarter century of peace and growth. Having weathered the Great Depression, it now enjoyed the fruits of its perseverance. Among those fruits was baseball. The ABF survived the Depression as well as could be expected. In the late 30’s it experienced resurgence. Baseball once again became, as Herman Goldman wrote, the clock that measures the seasons.

Pearl Harbor changed all that. Thousands of young men signed up for the armed forces in the weeks following the attack and the players of the ABF were no exception. The league suffered a 26% loss of player personnel, or over 6 players per team. But the league pressed on. As Audie Grant and Frank Vranek reported to recruiting stations, ready to exchange one uniform for another, new players were signed, minor leaguers were promoted, and the ABF gathered for its winter meetings with determination and optimism.

Without question the greatest loss for the ABF was the enlistment of the New York Admiral’s All-Star outfielder Quinn Burkholter. Burkholter, 25, had already performed far beyond the Admirals' hopes for him and was preparing for his fourth big league season. Nothing would have pleased the ABF more than to learn he would be 4-F, or physically unfit for military service. To that end, it is said, persons in the Admirals organization altered Burkholter’s fitness record. Documents obtained in the years after WWII show Burkholter was given a full bill of health during his first tryout in 1936. A series of physical examinations from 1937-1940 also show no injury. But the documents submitted by the team in 1941 describe the symptoms of a chronic knee injury Burkholter supposedly suffered before he was ever signed by the team. Childhood medical records do not indicate Burkholter ever endured any such injury.

The team petitioned for 4-F status for their young star. There was no question that having Burkholter on their roster, while so many other league stars were at war, would greatly increase the Admirals' chances of a championship. The media and the military were skeptical. The public appealed to Burkholter to come forward and explain, but the young star was silent and invisible. The New York City Superior Court was set to hear the arguments on January 11th, 1942. Quinn Burkholter broke his silence and called a news conference for January 10th.

All eyes and ears were on the young man who stepped to the podium in the Tomzano Stadium press room. Bulbs flashed and four dozen writers stood poised, pen and pad in hand. “I’m here to clear something up,” said the soft-spoken Virginian. “President Roosevelt has asked for every able body, and I am one. Tomorrow morning I intend to enlist in the armed forces. Whether I am fit for military service will be up to the Army. I think they should be the ones to decide. I’m no different than anyone else.”
“What about your knee injury, Burk?” asked a reporter. “Aren’t you hurt?”
The young man paused for a moment before answering. “I want to serve my country any way I can. If it means throwing out baserunners, that’s what I’ll do. If it means throwing grenades, I can do that, too.”
The hearing never took place. Quinn Burkholter enlisted on January 11th, 1942.

The war years took their toll on professional baseball and the ABF in particular. Not only did the league lose established stars to military service, young men who were destined to play big league baseball also enlisted. Many did not return. Hal Crumrie died at Anzio. Kevin O’Neal lost his life in a mortar attack in Italy. Martin Webb was killed when his squad was pinned down in a burning Belgian church. League talent thinned out. The overall level of skill dropped from 1941-1945. The quality of baseball suffered.

But most people didn’t notice, or if they noticed didn’t care. Baseball was baseball, after all, and where stars were missing new stars arrived to take their place. Would Orven Rhuell have played professional baseball at all, had it not been for WWII? Would John Nexham, discovered by a far-ranging scout hitting rocks over the factory roof with an axe handle? Probably not. Yet they filled the gap for the thousands of Americans who still came to the ballpark to see big leaguers play. When people wanted to ease the burden of worry and escape for a short while from the stressful civic duties of rationing and double shifts, they came to the ballpark. Baseball continued. Baseball was the nation’s timekeeper, stamping the days of war with box scores, marking the years with Championships.

As America endured, so did the ABF. When war concluded and young men started to return home, a grateful expectancy warmed the country. As worried thoughts of their distant young men turned to relief and thankful anticipation of their return, Americans’ thoughts returned also to baseball. Baseball was the time-stamp of normalcy. It needn’t be rationed and it couldn’t be stopped, even by Hitler. Now, finally, it was returning to the form they remembered. The players came back, and with them they brought the hope for a steady and pain-free recuperation.

The nation was thankful for its heroes, whether they wore a baseball uniform or one from the Army, Navy, or Marines. It understood the sacrifices made by its young men. It would not forget Hal Crumrie, Kevin O’Neal and Martin Webb. It would not forget Quinn Burkholter.

As Hubie Schwab wrote: “at the news of his death every typewriter in the nation was silenced, every machine halted, every task interrupted. For a moment the American war effort faltered and cried where it stood at the loss of its adopted son, its dutiful boy. Then it picked up its tools and went on, because that is what America is, that is what America does. It works and works and works, through pain and sadness, postponing the mourning of heroes until the job is done. Can we ask less of ourselves in light of such a loss? We cannot. Can we hold out hope of a better nation for the generations to come? Yes we can, for that is why Quinn Burkholter marched to Germany. That is why Quinn Burkholter will never again throw out another baserunner.”

The ABF regrouped and returned. Oh, there was sadness. People didn’t forget. There was no #15 in Washington anymore, no #6 in Chicago. There was no #33 on the mound in Philadelphia, no #11 behind the plate in Cleveland. Like the nation and its young soldiers, it bore the scars of the great conflict. Like the nation and its soldiers, it saw the hope of peace and it moved on.

But there was something else, too, pushing its way through the sadness of a mourning nation. There was joy. It returned to Keck Park, to Elysian Field, to Rush Memorial Stadium. The nation did not just watch its baseball; it celebrated it. It ran to embrace it like it just stepped off the train.

Nowhere was this wistful mingling of hope and sadness better seen than Tomzano Stadium, where Quinn Burkholter’s # 21 would never again be seen in left field. It would instead be seen high above his game day post, fluttering in the afternoon breezes, a pennant of crimson and black, marking the junction of the past and the future.

As the ABF looked forward, they knew challenges would arise. Some would be known, others impossible to anticipate. Among the known, the growing allure of the Pacific Coast. Among the unknown, the nearly-fatal battle for integration.


Next week: Chapter 35

[jaxmagicman]

Cool. In your book is the history going to be like a Foreword?

[Tib]

Originally Posted by jaxmagicman

Cool. In your book is the history going to be like a Foreword?

I'm not really thinking in terms of a book right now. I started the History to give myself some context to Dave's story. I wanted to make reference to other older players and events, but found I didn't have any perspective or any history at all from which to draw. Since the CBA began in 1966, and I was making reference to the ABF and the BBA which were around many years before, I discovered I needed to create some kind of continuous history to act as a foundation for Dave's story. So I created the ABF sometime around Chapter 5 or 6 and began simming it from 1881 as I was writing Short Hop. I am literally still creating the history of the ABF in OOTP5 (I'm at 1902 right now).

I also did it to fill readers in on the history of the league as a whole and give some context for the references to people like Rutherford Monroe and Horatio Munoz. It's coming together very well, in fact. The current/future events of Dave's career have been offset well by the Interludes. And because the Interludes are catching up so quickly, I expect the two will dovetail quite nicely and give a complete picture of the world of the CBA.

To answer your question, if I were to rewrite this for publication, I'd probably split the informational aspects of the Interludes into Appendices. But I like how I can make the story stop and "take a rest" by interjecting parts of the CBA's history, so I'd probably do some of that, too. Anyone remember the graphic novel The Watchmen? In that masterful work, Alan Moore did a great job of halting the story for a while and presenting newspaper articles and excerpts from books, etc. to give the characters and events sense of history and reality.

[Tib]

I just worked a double shift I didn't want and tomorrow I have to work another. This creates a good news/bad news situation.

The bad news is Chapter 35 will not be ready for tomorrow.
The good news is it will be ready before next Saturday.
The bad news is after that my schedule will prevent weekly postings.
The good news is I will still post chapters when they are ready.

Springtime means Little League and when you have two ballplayers in the house your schedule gets a might dodgy. I really hoped to continue the weekliness of the story, but it just ain't gonna happen.

But I know my faithful readers are expecting something more than an empty page and an apology, so here's something to tide you over:

Chapter 35 will be titled Getaway and no, Moose, Flash and Dave do not rob twelve casinos in one night.
Dave loses the most valuable thing in his life.
The Knights re-tool in the wake of the impossible demands of their skinflint owner (hold your breath on this one -- big changes a-comin')

Once again, sorry for the delay.

[gbmoore121]

Now that is a heck of a teaser....!

[Jazzmosis]

What's really plaguing my brain over the last few days as been.. whatever happened to Dave Guevara? Y'know, the crackhead? Once he hit AA he was lost to the skematics of the story...

[Tib]

Originally Posted by Jazzmosis

What's really plaguing my brain over the last few days as been.. whatever happened to Dave Guevara? Y'know, the crackhead? Once he hit AA he was lost to the skematics of the story...

Once he hit AA he was lost to ITP, too. Dave bounced from Raleigh to Hinesville and back for a couple of seasons, never hitting more than .250. He's still on Hinesville's roster as of today. I keep tabs on him for the sake of possible return to the story, but so far he hasn't performed that well.

Never fear, though. It turns out I have a soft spot for Dave Guevara. His was a compelling story. He will be returning, I'm just not sure how.

[Tib]

Ta-da! Chapter 35 is here! At least part one is. Like most of my off-season chapters, this one became very long. It is also a very important chapter, so you'll just have to endure it. The conclusion is worth it, trust me.

[Tib]

Chapter 35

Getaway

I needed a vacation. After the loss to Dallas I dropped into a depression from which no one could rescue me. To come that close to a shot at the championship only to lose on a walk felt like someone pulled the world out from under me. In the days after the loss I endured the press (“What happened at the end there, Hop? Describe for our viewers in your own words how it got away.” “Hey, Hop, you’re close to Von Jones. Tell us why you think he couldn’t perform under pressure”), the never ending series of condolence calls and the aimlessness that descends on you when you realize you no longer have anywhere to be.

What am I supposed to do now?, I asked myself. How do I get from today to spring training?

I’ll tell you what I did. I watched the playoffs. And I wasn’t the only one, either. All the Squires got together at my place, or at Bobby Frisina’s. We had beer. We had pretzels. We were not to be interrupted. We stared unblinking at a plasma screen until the playoffs were over.

I was angry. I wanted revenge. I wished Dallas would get their butts kicked. Not very healthy, but there you are. Sometimes when you’re 24 you just get pissed about something and you stay that way for awhile. Years later I understood: you have to let the season go. Eventually, you have to turn away from the disappointment and look to the future. But I was young. I had years and years of future ahead. I wanted to see Dallas get their butts kicked.

And they did, too. Most satisfying beat down I’ve ever witnessed. Oakland clobbered them, 4-2. Wes Schmidt didn’t even show up. Well, I thought, at least if we can’t win it, they can’t either. Very mature.

It was a great playoff year. Not only did the upstart Kansas City Knights take the vaunted Dallas Marshals to a deciding game, the Houston Cougars won their first ever playoff series. What’s more, the overmatched LA Legends rode their phenomenal pitching to a 4-2 Championship victory over the powerhouse Oakland Mammoths. The team I grew up loving had won another Championship. I knew I was a Knight, a professional, and I shouldn’t get emotional about another team, but I was happy for those guys. And I was happy for the 13-year old inside of me who was still a Legends fan.

But I needed to get away. I was told that life settles down after the season, but I wasn’t prepared for how much. There was nothing to do. Part of it was because Gwen was putting in a lot of hours at the station. She was scrambling for assignments and basically spending all of her time there building her reputation. Part of it was because I hadn’t realized how much the game filled me up. Now that it was gone I felt hollow, like some kind of baseball zombie. I had no hobbies, no pastimes. Baseball had been my everything since I was five. I tried to play golf but realized I liked to field ground balls, not hit them.

I was walking downtown one day in early December. I was headed to a bookstore to try to find something, anything, to get my mind off of that fateful final pitch and the numbing disappointment that followed. I saw a travel poster in a store window. Palm trees. Sand. Blue sky. Smiling people. Looked nice. I went in.

I looked around at the posters. Bermuda. The Virgin Islands. Jamaica. Barbados. Not a baseball in sight. That’s where I need to go, I thought. Somewhere where there is no baseball. I took several brochures home.

“I want to get away,” I told Gwen that night when she came over for dinner. “I need to get away.”
“Get away from what?”
“I can’t forget the end of the season. I can’t get the image of Bobby’s mitt closing over that pitch out of my mind. I can’t get rid of the image of Caranzo’s arm just hanging there. I want to go somewhere where they don’t have baseball.”
“First of all,” she said, “you’re not ever going to forget this season. Not as long as you live, David. This thing with Bill Pirtle and the whole end of it – it’s not the kind of thing you can forget, and I’m not so sure you should. Losses like that, they make you better.”

I thought of Pirtle and how fragile he seemed at times last year. “Or they ruin you,” I said. Gwen gave me a look.
“I know what you’re saying,” I conceded, “but I’m tired of having it in my head, Gwen. It hurts to think about it. I walk down the street and people recognize me. They ask me about it. What am I supposed to do? Carry this around forever?”
“It’s in your head because it’s the last big thing to happen to you. What’s happened since? Anything? No. When the next big thing comes, it’ll push it right on out of there.”
“Spring training,” I muttered.
“Spring training?”
“The next big thing – three months away.”
Gwen shook her head at me and smiled. “You get so caught up in things. You’re like a fish in a net or something. I didn’t know you were this intense when I met you.”
“I’m not intense. I just want to do well. I want something to show for my career.”
“And if you don’t win a Championship it’ll all be for nothing?”
I poked at the remains of my dinner. “Yes.”
I glanced up and saw the concern on her face. “Yes?” she said, a little worried.
“I mean no. I mean --. Of course there’s more to it than that. I met you. I met Cliff. I met Yoogie and Moose and all the guys. That means a lot. But I also want to win. What if this is the closest I come?”
Gwen looked at me with her I’m-going-to-figure-you-out-if-it’s-the-last-thing-I-do face. I’ve never liked that face.
“Oh my God, do you need to get laid,” she said finally, standing abruptly from the table.
“Don’t make jokes,” I said.
She began unbuttoning buttons. “You’re becoming a psycho,” she sang.
“Come on,” I pleaded.
She unzipped zippers. “You’re becoming a head case. You need to lighten up,” went the second verse.
“I’m being serious here,” I sang back, but it was getting hard to concentrate.
“So am I,” she said, moving to the bedroom door. “Knock off the woe-is-me act before I smack you one. Let’s go, Romeo. Therapy session. Right now.”
“Romeo? Who’s this Romeo person?” I said as I rose to follow her. I left the dishes for the morning.

“So where are we going?” said Gwen over breakfast.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “The Bahamas?”
“Sounds good to me,” she said, “but then again I’ve never been anywhere. We have to get away by December tenth because we promised to spend Christmas with my folks.”
“Right,” I affirmed. “A glorious, sun-filled week in the Caribbean, then a frigid, snow-choked eternity on the frozen tundra of Michigan.”
“Tundra’s only in Alaska, Mr. Ecology. And Michigan in December is not frozen. It’s just very cold.”
“Then we can visit my folks and go to the Rose Parade.”
“I’ve only got two weeks’ vacation as it is. I’ve got to go back to work December twenty-eighth. But you go visit your parents and have a good time.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“I’ll miss my therapy sessions.”
“Yes you will.”

If you ever want to forget what the rest of the world is worrying about, go to the Bahamas. Nowhere have I experienced such a complete disregard for all reasonable time frames than in the Bahamas. The morning paper comes out at three in the afternoon. Checkout time is Whenever. Coffee takes an hour, and use exact coinage when you pay because you’re not getting any change for another hour. Need to cash a traveler’s check? Eat something first.

But if you want to forget a certain outside fastball and the numbing disappointment that followed, the Bahamas is Paradise. The whole atmosphere of the place seems designed to slow you down, like the sand on the beaches. Have you ever tried to run across sand? You look silly doing it. Walk, the Bahaman breezes seem to whisper in your ear. Relax. Why run?

When we got to Paradise Island we unpacked in blissful silence. I consider it the mark of a truly happy couple that they can do things together and not have to speak. She put away her things, I put away mine. She arranged her toiletries, I arranged mine. We kissed whenever we happened to pass one another. I was really enjoying myself and I had only been on the island for three hours. Of course, I was still nervous about something – what else was new? -- but it wasn’t a bad thing: a Pirtle thing. It was a good thing. It was a Gwen thing.

I played golf, she went shopping. My score was higher than the price of the round. She spent a paycheck on a rug, two sculptures, two paintings, some jewelry and an armful of clothes. We went dancing, we ate expensive dinners. We took long relaxing walks on the beach. We drank wine in the moonlight on our balcony with the cool sea breezes washing over us. I did not once wear the dress shoes I packed. It was Paradise.

I thought long and hard about the ring I had purchased. I told myself before the playoffs even began that if we didn’t get to the Championship I would wait to propose. For some reason, I wanted the moment to be overwhelming for her. I guess I imagined that the circumstances had to be as momentous as the proposal itself.

I thought of standing with her on Rusk Memorial Field in the middle of a ULCS victory celebration and pulling out the ring. I thought of proposing with a giant sky banner during the Championship Series. I thought of proposing on national television while being interviewed in the Championship winner’s locker room. I mean, how could she say no?

But when Tony Caranzo’s arm stayed where it was, so did the engagement ring. I didn’t have the heart to touch it after the season was over. It remained at the bottom of my gear bag for almost two months. I intended to return it to my safe deposit box until we made the playoffs again or until I saved a school bus full of kids or invented a liquor that actually prevented hangovers, but I never touched it. So when the Bahamas trip came about, I thought long and hard about whether to take it. To be completely honest, I packed it just in case. In case what, you ask? I don’t think I even knew. That’s me, Mr. Spontaneous.

I hid the ring in my pair of dress shoes. Why did I bring dress shoes to the Bahamas? That’s a good question. I guess I figured on wearing them if we went to a nightclub. Little did I know the Bahamas is footwear optional. Anyway, we had a wonderful six out of seven days. The first six were filled with sightseeing, swimming, barbeques, scooter rentals, jet skiing, glass-bottom boat tours, and shopping. I bought her one of those dolls with the five other smaller dolls inside. It was shaped like a snowman and painted to look like a dark-skinned Bahaman girl. It was cute. She bought me a genuine replica pirate hat (made in China and complete with authentic pirate bandanna) and a very nice antique book. It was a leather bound folio three fingers thick full of old explorer’s maps, pirate maps and accounts of the rich and sometimes lawless history of the Bahamas. I loved it. It beat my dolls-within-a-doll by a mile. Two miles, in fact. Perhaps I should give her something to make up for it, I remember thinking.

It was so easy, the decision to propose. Sometimes it felt like I’d never be able to turn that corner and commit to a life with one person. There were so many questions to be answered. So many unforeseen things could rise up, so many chances to fail, and so few assurances. And there were no guarantees. It was fear, perhaps, that made me hesitate.

Could I do this thing? Can I really achieve this goal? Can I commit to one woman, one marriage, one life together? How can I be sure we’ll have happiness together when it eluded so many others? But when the moment came – like that weird little moment between the pitcher’s first move and an all-out sprint for second -- I didn’t hesitate. In the end, in spite of my worries and fears, I knew in my heart that it was the right time, the right person, the right moment. And hey, you know what I’ve learned? You don’t know if it’ll work out, not really. If people made decisions of the heart based on guarantees nobody would ever get married anyway.

Marriage is a gamble. A chance. A successful marriage is like three stolen bases in a row. It not easy, but it is possible. When you get married, your friends and family give you a free pass to first base. Everybody gets to first base. That’s the easy part. Then it’s a sprint for second. If you get a good jump you can make it without a throw. Lots of people make it to second. Then you go for third. You have to have some talent to reach third; there are greater risks. There’s always a throw to third. Then, God-willing, you try for home. It’s only a short distance away, but it’s also the most dangerous challenge. Reaching home is the greatest reward. Make it home and your long circular journey is over, right back where it began. Make it home and no one can throw you out any more.

Of course, I wasn’t thinking about all of this right there in the hotel room. In fact, if I remember correctly, I wasn’t thinking much at all. While Gwen was in the shower I dug the ring out of my dress shoes. I took it out of its case and stood like an idiot in the middle of the suite looking around for the Perfect Place to hide it. It was clasped between thumb and forefinger while I did this! If she had come out of the shower for any reason – if she had forgotten to take her shampoo in with her – my proposal plan would have been shattered instantly, becoming instead a collection of explanatory shards.

Then the hiss of the water stopped. Oh my God, she’s coming! I thought suddenly. That was the world’s fastest shower! I spun frantically, looking for someplace to put the ring. Why didn’t I just put it back in the case, you say? That’s a very good question. I wish I had thought of it then. Instead, I panicked. I danced the dance of the almost-discovered. Where? Where? Then I saw them, Gwen’s little dolls-within-a-doll, lined up side by diminishing side on top of the television. I placed the ring in the smallest doll-within-a-doll, a little thing just big enough to contain it. I threw the doll in my suitcase and closed it. Now if she just won’t notice it’s missing, I thought.

She didn’t. We had a wonderful six days together. Then, just as I was beginning to forget all about Bill Pirtle and the Strike That Never Was, just as I was feeling good about pulling out that ring, day seven came.

It was truly one of the most bizarre days I have ever spent on this Earth.

It looked like it was going to be a wonderful day. We were awakened by the amber light of dawn – always a nice way to start. I’d had plenty of mandatory 6:00 AM workouts, so it felt great to be nudged awake by the warm yellow fingers of the sun instead of the blaring of a clock radio. We ordered room service. I got ready. This would be it. Right here, in the quiet of our room, just the two of us, with the warm Caribbean sun shining in on us like the finger of God, I would propose marriage.

That was the plan anyway.


Part two is in the editing room...

[Jazzmosis]

Marriage is a gamble. A chance. A successful marriage is like three stolen bases in a row. It not easy, but it is possible. When you get married, your friends and family give you a free pass to first base. Everybody gets to first base. That’s the easy part. Then it’s a sprint for second. If you get a good jump you can make it without a throw. Lots of people make it to second. Then you go for third. You have to have some talent to reach third; there are greater risks. There’s always a throw to third. Then, God-willing, you try for home. It’s only a short distance away, but it’s also the most dangerous challenge. Reaching home is the greatest reward. Make it home and you’re long circular journey is over, right back where it began. Make it home and no one can throw you out any more.

Greatest Analogy ever.

[Big Six]

Originally Posted by Tib

Marriage is a gamble. A chance. A successful marriage is like three stolen bases in a row. It not easy, but it is possible. When you get married, your friends and family give you a free pass to first base. Everybody gets to first base. That’s the easy part. Then it’s a sprint for second. If you get a good jump you can make it without a throw. Lots of people make it to second. Then you go for third. You have to have some talent to reach third; there are greater risks. There’s always a throw to third. Then, God-willing, you try for home. It’s only a short distance away, but it’s also the most dangerous challenge. Reaching home is the greatest reward. Make it home and you’re long circular journey is over, right back where it began. Make it home and no one can throw you out any more.

I've been fortunate enough to be married to a wonderful woman for almost 14 years now. She understands what it's like to be as passionate as I am about things relating to sports, because she has similar passions for different things. I also stole some bases back in the day. That's why I have to agree with Jazz and let you know that your description of marriage is right on the button, Tib.

If writing were hitting, you would flat-out rake. Thanks for a great dynasty!