Mark Jazzington - a managerial career

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 51: Game 2, October 6th, 2008

The tough loss we had faced the day before had a lot of the players wary - the thrill of their first playoff appearance had hit an abrupt stall when the fact that they could go home in only two more games sunk in. The excitement was replaced by fear, fear that the whole experience would be far too short. For many, this would be the biggest game of the series.

I was conflicted in my starting choice - Lamar or Morales? Lamar had gone 16-8 with a 3.53 ERA, and Morales 16-10 with a 3.62. Lamar had given up less hits, but pitched less innings, and struck out less and walked more. That didn’t translate into a confident feeling, but Morales was a rookie, and the rookies had been rocked the previous night, and in the end, I’d rather have Morales pitch in the third game if we were down 2-0. But still, this was an important game, so I didn’t know what to do. It came down to the toss of a coin - and just like that, Benjamin Lamar was my game 2 starter. He was matched up against Rex Carter, who was 10-10 with a 3.27 ERA. He was another young, monster arm - he’d struck out 231 on the season. We weren’t going to get a break in the series. This was truly a battle of young arms, as both pitchers were only 25.


The crowd again roared in appreciation as we were called, ready to forget the game one catastrophe, each fan undoubtedly thinking that there was just no way we could lose this game - we were too good. Personally, I was scared as hell about facing Carson and that power lineup. I didn’t know what to say or do, I just stood there as the anthem played, as Lamar walked to the mound, as the fielders tossed the ball around, as the leadoff batter dug into the box and “play ball” was called from the plate umpire. The game had begun, and I was left behind.

I began doubting myself immediately - the team got here, but I didn’t have a clue how to manage the playoffs - should I play it the way I’ve done all season, or should I go for the big hit? Should I call for a hit and run, or a steal? Bunting? Defensive positions? Everything blurred through my head, and suddenly baseball felt like a game I had never seen before. I looked around for something - anything to take my mind off the fear. I drank water out of the cooler, I chewed about four sticks of gum at once, I paced around the dugout - until finally, Popham and Hickman came over to me. “Relax, Skip. Just sit down with us.”

Hickman wasn’t taken off the active roster for the game, in the event we desperately needed a pinch runner - he had an eyepatch on to protect his scratched eye, but everyone was hoping he could get back on the field in this series.

I couldn’t calm down, instead shaking their grips off my shoulders and continuing to pace - until I saw Lamar start his windup for the first pitch - the game was on. Where was I?


A ground out. The crucial first out. My nerves calmed slightly. Only 26 more outs to go, I told myself.

Carillo grounded out to Harshaw for the second out.

And then, Barry Bennett came up to the plate, and my nerves jumped about twice as high as they were before. He waggled the bat confidently, watching Lamar’s movements as if he was about to go into surgery. On the second pitch, Lamar plated one - and Bennett turned on it. The ball flew high into the air, deeper and deeper to dead centre, while Dechant hustled after it. The crowd held their breath, while I watched in peril, thinking to myself that Bennett had buried us again. But on the track, Dechant reached up and caught the ball, right before smashing into the wall. He bounced back and stumbled, but held on to the ball - and the crowd erupted into a frenzy. So did everyone on the bench but me - I just sighed in relief. Three outs.

We went quickly in the bottom half of the inning, not putting any threat up against Carson. And when the top of the second started, the other Bennett popped into foul grounds, which Beauvais made a nice running grab before risking falling into the seats - and we had the next out. After a walk, Lamar got two quick outs and we were back in the batter’s box. My nerves were still high, but I was trying to relax, and had finally started to speak and clap my hands.

Once again, we went three up, three down - except all were strikeouts. Carson was cruising early. The top of the third started with a nub single, but once again, the flashy defence came out to play. Carson was at the plate, and while expecting a bunt, he swung cleanly, driving a hard grounder towards the hole between third and short. Harshaw took a step and laid out, snagging the ball. Within a flash, he was on his knees, and delivered a strike to second, getting the force. The crowd celebrated.

Hanover then rapped a ball into the gap in right-centre. Gober hustled to the ball, but Hanover was trying to stretch it into a triple. Butler took the relay and rocketed the ball to Harshaw, who applied the tag - nailing Hanover. The crowd cheered, but a run had scored. 1-0 Florida.

Carson continued his dominance in the bottom of the third, striking two batters out and preserving his perfect game. In three innings, he’d struck out six.

Bennett lead off the next inning, but Lamar gave him something to think about - and as he swung through the third strike, I erupted into a loud cheer unexpectedly. If nothing else, I wanted to see him fail. But where one Bennett fails, the other succeeded, knocking a single into right. And two batters later, there were runners at the corners. Florida was putting all the pressure on us, and we knew it. The catcher, Casey Waterhouse, swung at Lamar’s first offering, and one-hopped it to first for an easy out. Threat over, and the team hustled back into the pen.

“Sticks!” I yelled, slowly feeling my baseball spirit come back.

And finally, finally, Harshaw broke the Carson curse. After White struck out, Harshaw drew a walk, and at long last, we had our first base runner. Nothing came from it, but we had at least proved he wasn’t perfect.

Things fell apart for Lamar in the 5th, though. After a single and a walk, a run plated, and within a few batters the bases were juiced for the other Bennett. I went out there quickly to pull the string, and send in Dave Walton to hopefully stop the bleeding. It was a scary repeat scenario from the night before. I called the infield in and waited, and hoped, and prayed.

Walton gave us hope by striking out the other Bennett on three pitches. Two outs. And then, we received dejavu. Oswaldo Morino came up, and on a full count, blasted a grand slam to dead centre. The crowd sank, and I just felt my jaw drop.

I searched for the words, but all that came out was a scream. “How can that happen twice in a row??? How!?!?!” I picked up the water cooler and tossed it across the dugout in anguish. 6-0 Florida.

Carson’s no hitter ended, finally, in the bottom of the sixth, in grand fashion. Beauvais led off, taking a strike and a ball, and then turned on a pitch, launching it 427 feet away in the seats. The crowd went crazy, rattling everything as Melvin rounded the bases. 6-1.

But that optimism was crushed - literally - in the next half inning, when Bennett parked a shot and continued to bury our team, this time taking Dominguez for the ride. 7-1.

The game was turning very depressive, and with the bottom half of the lineup routinely failing, after Butler’s single, I started pinch hitting. Cuddy, pinching for Gober, drifted a fly ball that was an easy catch.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked myself. Dechant was at the plate, and he was terrible against lefties.

“Taylor! How would you feel about playing the outfield?” I called over to the backup second baseman.

“Sure.” He responded.

“Then get in there, you’re pinching for Dechant.”

I was doubting this choice immediately, as putting a second baseman into the outfield for the first time in a playoff game seemed suicidal - but I needed a miracle, and I needed it fast.

And it came. On a 0-1 pitch, Taylor lifted a ball into the air in right centre.

We all ran to the top step, watching Oquendo chase it. The crowd was getting louder and louder - the ball just kept going.

“Go! Go! Go!” The bench urged. Oquendo reached the track, and leapt - but the ball just avoided his reach.

“TWO RUN BOMB!” Popham screamed as the crowd erupted in a frenzy. Everyone was jumping all over the place in the dugout, and I found myself joining in. 7-3.

The game went silent again until the top of the ninth. Dolman came in to try and give us a quick inning, and after two quick outs, which included a nice grab by Beauvais, the infamous Barry Bennett stepped up to the plate. After two balls, he once again unloaded on us, driving a ball deep into right field - where I watched in horror as Aaron Taylor chased after it. He ran back, making a comical attempt at tracking the ball. “Oh god. . .” I moaned. This one, if it wasn’t a bomb, would be a triple given how Taylor was fielding. He ran, and after taking a route that a drunk sailor would take to a ball, at the warning track, he threw out his arm and made an off-balance, backhanded grab before crashing into the dirt. But all that mattered to everyone was that the ball stayed in his glove, and he’d ended the inning.

The crowd gave him a standing ovation for his efforts, and he was jeered and cheered when he got back to the clubhouse. Once again, we had three outs to overcome a deficit.

We went without so much as a whimper, and suddenly, we found ourselves at sudden death. It was win now, or go home.

And we were heading to Florida for game 3 - the place I started my career in, would hopefully not be where I ended this season.

[The Funk]

Wow.

[RchW]

More, we want more. There is some serious suspense here.

[Jazzmosis]

Three days sure can fly by, eh? Just letting you all know that the next chapter is finished, I'm just proofing it right now. I was thinking about posting this and leaving it for another day to raise suspense, but that'd just be cruel. Especially considering how much drama there was in this game. Take the first two games drama, combine it, double it, and then multiply that by your anxiousness, and that's half of what I felt playing the game. It's also by far the longest chapter I've written, which made me consider making it a two part, but screw that. That'd also be cruel. The chapter itself is approximately ten pages long, if it was a paperback. So give me some time, it'll be up shortly!

Coming soon: Chapter 52: Game 3, October 8th, 2008: Do or Die of Mark Jazzington!

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 52: Game 3, October 8, 2008 - Do or Die


We spent October 7th heading to Florida. When the team piled off the plane, the only thing that was on everyone’s mind was the next day - and everyone wanted to get on the field. I called an open practice for anyone willing to attend - and everyone showed up save Lamar, who knew he wouldn’t be doing anything in the game.

Facing elimination is a scary thought, especially in the playoffs. Skeptics will say there’s scarier things in life, but at this point in my life, losing in three was the single most terrifying thing I could experience. Everything was working against us this game - we were down 2-0, we were facing a veteran team, we were a bunch of playoff rookies, and Morales was slated against Isoruko. Our pitching had failed us only on the big innings, and our offense wasn’t clicking until it was too late. Clutch hits were wasted by clutch mistakes, we weren’t at home, and I hated Florida because of Canon.

The press was on the team as soon as we got off the plane. Most of the players handed it with a calm demeanor, but as usual, when they got to me, my general displeasure came out for the media.

“Do you think you’ve got it in you to continue this series?”

“Yes.” I answered.

“What do you have to do differently to win this game?”

“Not give up runs.”

“What’s the biggest concern in this game?”

“Winning.”

“Who worries you the most on the Marlins?”

“The two Bennetts, obviously.”

“What do you have to do to keep them off the bases?”

“Not let them get on the bases, what else?”

“Are you worried?”

“Only that you’ll be asking me idiotic questions for the rest of the night.”

The fast-paced questions stalled for a moment. “I. . . well, who’s on the mound for you tonight?”

“Get out of my face.” I snapped, increasing my walking pace.

“We just want to -”

“I said move!” I screamed, plowing through the sea of reporters with my shoulders. “Jesus, you people have no ****ing decency! Leave me the **** alone! Isn’t there some other mindless story to report on that nobody gives a **** about?”

I broke into a run and dove into a cab, just yelling ‘go’ in order to escape the tyrants of the media. Of course, I wouldn’t be hearing the end of that, as my outbreak was plastered all over the sports news, and the commissioner’s office would eventually call me in to reprimand me for ‘unsportsman-like conduct.’


The game came, as it always did, after the national anthem was played. As Harshaw put on his helmet and walked out to the on-deck circle, I turned to the rest of my team. “Just keep the Bennetts off the bases, and we’ll win this game. Isoruko has good stuff, but he’s beatable. Morales. . . you had a better season then that guy out there.” My speech stopped there because I was too afraid to go on. “Let’s play.” I had mixed up the lineup and was hoping for a miracle, putting my best two hitters thus far at the top. Harshaw and Butler would set this game up for me, and with some luck, the rest of the guys would drive them in.

The crowd roared with intensity, all undoubtedly hoping that they’d see their team take a quick sweep and continue their postseason quest. As many thoughts raced through my head, one that made me crack a smile passed through. At least I’ll have something to do with Florida going on in the playoffs.

Isoruko had put a tidy season of 18-8 with 216 IP and 208K’s - but had given up 234 hits, and 100 Earned runs. His ERA was 4.17, but he certainly didn’t walk many - 34 on the season. It was going to be a struggle. Morales, meanwhile, had gone 16-10 with a 3.62 ERA, giving up 201 hits in 214 innings and striking out 132 to 58 walks. His last two games had been 7 inning shutouts.


I watched Harshaw dig into the fresh dirt in the batter’s box, waggle the bat over the plate gently, and take his stance. 60 feet away, I watched Isoruko adjust his pants slightly, take the sign, and start his windup. Both seemed so confident the other wouldn’t be able to get the upper hand. But in this scenario, Isoruko got the victory, with Harshaw grounding out to short - and the game was on.

We went quietly in the first, and to lead off the bottom of the inning, Hanover blooped a shot into right field. However, my late decision to put Guasch in right paid off, as he made a knee-high, running grab to rob a single. The gloves were to be out today.

Carrillo bested Morales with a single, and my new nemesis Barry Bennett walked up to the plate under a sea of ovations and cheers. As Florida had been doing so well, he was coming up with a runner on - the pressure was on us. Morales got a count of 1-2, and we crossed our fingers as he wound up. With an icy, 71 mph changeup, Bennett swung right through the ball and we had the second out. We cheered on the bench, but we all knew that the other Bennett was coming up to the plate. He received the same ovation from the crowd, but Morales looked calm and controlled in this early inning as he coaxed a pop out to Beauvais at first. As the ball soared up in the air, I watched with private pleasure as Chris tossed his bat into the ground, frustrated. We had survived the first row of the Bennetts.

White led off the second, working a 3-1 count. Isoruko tossed a fastball, and White launched it high and deep into left, which caused the dugout to start willing the ball to keep going - but Bennett captured it and we sank back into our dugout. However, Cancio gave us our first hit of the game four pitches later, depositing a ball into left field for a single. But only three pitches after that, St. Thomas grounded into an inning-ending double play, and we were back on the field.

The gloves didn’t disappoint again. Molina, the owner of one of the grand slams, took a hot shot back up the middle, only to be denied by a diving White. He scrambled to his feet and threw a bullet to Beauvais, getting the hustling runner by a foot. “That’s what I’m talking about!” I yelled to White before clapping my hands and turning to talk to Popham.

Morales continued his early cruise control, striking out another home run owner, Delbert Oquendo. But right after that, an error by our own pitcher and a following single put runners on the corners. The pressure was on us again, and the fans cheered loudly. But luck was on our side - Isoruko stepped up to the plate. Morales made quick work of him, getting him to bite on an outside pitch and the fire had been put out before it could get big.

We went quietly in the third, with two strikeouts and a fly out. We both had the top of the order coming up for our next at bats.

Hanover provided instant drama, turning on the second pitch of his at bat, and sending a ball high and deep into centre. Dechant chased the ball back, closer and closer to the wall, before snagging the ball on the warning track. The fans moaned, and we in the dugout breathed a sigh of relief after holding our breaths. After the second out, Bennett came back to the plate with the crowd behind him. He beat Morales this time, singling past White - and now one Bennett was on, and the other was at the plate. The tension in the dugout rose.

The other Bennett singled past a reaching Beauvais, and before Guasch could relay the ball, there was Bennetts on the corners and Molina was at the plate. I crossed my fingers - again.

Morales got up 1-2. Emotionless, Molina looked on, ready to turn on his next pitch. My rookie pitcher wound up and delivered a slider that cut the plate in half, and froze Molina in his spot. We all erupted in cheers as the umpire pumped his fist for the strike three call - and we had escaped another tense situation, and survived the second row of Bennetts.

“Let’s ride that, baby!” I shouted as the team came into the dugout. I turned to Harshaw. “I need a hit. Start it off for us.”

“Okay.” He responded calmly as he put on his helmet. I watched his strides to the plate, his smooth, relaxed stance, and the swing he took, lining the ball back up the box and past the glove of Hanover. Harshaw had given us a leadoff single. Butler then struck out on three pitches. Guasch, one hit in nine at-bats thus far, took an 2-0 pitch and blooped a single in front of Molina in right. I watched as Harshaw sprinted around second - and Molina threw the ball to the other Bennett. Harshaw did a wide slide into third, avoiding the tag from the other Bennett, and we suddenly had runners on the corners.

The dugout broke into cheers. “Yeah baby, yeah!” I heard from someone, while others hollered to Harshaw. We had put the pressure on Florida.

White came up to the plate, and I relayed a set of signals to third base coach Wesley Bankston. He gave the signals to White, who nodded in acknowledgement, and dug into the box. Isoruko started his windup, and Guasch broke for second. “Going!” Carillo yelled, hustling towards the bag. White turned on the pitch, and sent it right to where Carillo would have been - a textbook hit and run. Harshaw trotted home, and Guasch took third with ease. We all cheered and pounded the dugout as Harshaw came back - we’d scored, and the pressure was still on. 1-0 Chicago.

Cancio came up to the plate - and I called for the same play again. White broke for second, but Lorenzo missed the offering. Waterhouse, the catcher, hurled the ball to Carillo, who applied the tag - but too late. White, who had been caught 18 times in regular season, good for a 31% success ratio, had put himself in scoring position with one out.

That was all we could get though, as Cancio flied out to shallow right and St. Thomas grounded out. But we had scored the first run of the game.

Morales was certainly in cruise control in his half of the inning, getting three straight popups to different members of the infield, all on the second pitch of their at bats. The momentum was still in our favour.

After going quietly in the inning, the focus shifted back to Florida and Morales. After striking out Isoruko on three pitches, Hanover dropped a single in centre. I called for a pitch out - and was right. Carrillo swung through an obvious ball and Cancio threw it to Butler - but Hanover had squeaked under the tag. I’d called the right play, but Hanover had just one-upped me. And like clockwork, after a tough battle, Carrillo, who was hitting .350 against us, rapped a single up the middle, one that tied the game, and took second. Tie game, and Bennett was coming up with one out. Just like that, the pressure had shifted.

Morales was starting to feel the heat - he walked both Bennetts, and the bases were loaded for the third game in a row, with Molina coming up to the plate. I did not want to experience triple deja vu.

The dugout was quiet, but the fans were loud as hell - and one screw up could literally cost us the season now. Morales got a strike; a foul off. He wound up again, and got a swing and a miss. 0-2. The fans were cheering, Morales was winding up, and the bases were loaded. My fists were clenched so tight they were white. The wind up came, and Jose challenged Molina with a fastball. Molina was looking curve, and could only watch the low-inside strike go into Cancio’s glove. Strike three. The bench exploded into a frenzy of cheers. Fists were pumped, hands slapped, smiles abound. Two outs. Oquendo came up, and on a 1-0 count, flew out to St. Thomas in left. Morales had escaped the jam - the game was tied, but for the first time in the entire series, Florida had loaded the bases and not taken the lead. 1-1. Harshaw would be leading off the top of the 6th.

And he did so with a single to right field. His calm demeanor was envious - I didn’t even have to ask him to start things off again, he just knew it was a job and went and did. And just like that, he was hitting .400 in the divisional series. Chants started coming from our dugout to him, as we shouted “M-V-P.”

Butler was turning into a hex, as he grounded into a double play, and with a deep fly by Guasch that was snagged in an impressive display by Oquendo, we were back defending. Morales started off the inning with a ground out to first, but soft-hitting first baseman Valera singled. Isoruko squared to bunt, which I had expected, but he’d done his job - runner on second, and the top of the order at the plate. Morales didn’t seem to care though, getting an inning-ending groundout to put us back in the batter’s box.

After two quick outs, I pinch hit Gober for St. Thomas, who had been hitless. He gave us a glimmer of hope with a walk, but Dechant grounded out to end the inning.

We all knew what it meant - round four with the Bennetts. Morales got Carrillo to strike out, and then the two killers were front and centre. The crowd had just got louder and louder each time they came to the plate. But this time, Morales silenced the first with a ground out to Beauvais, and when the other Bennett stepped up, Morales took him out on a three-pitch strikeout for his 8th of the game. He was cruising - no doubt about it.

Our bats had been going stale, and we went three-up, three-down. I was going to pinch hit Morales, but I couldn’t do it - I needed him to continue his magic on the mound.

Molina led off the inning with an innocent ground ball to first, and Oquendo came up to the plate. We had got through the toughest part of the lineup, but Oquendo was still a threat. And on a 1-1 count, he hit a ball towards White - who took it off his chest. Delbert was still quick at 35 years old, and it was a bang-bang play that was called for an out. The defence was still on its game.

Waterhouse singled, and on a close call, Valera walked on a full count - which brought up pitcher Isoruko with two outs. We finally managed to get him out of the game as a pinch hitter was called, Jerry Ragin, who hadn’t played in the post season so far. There was pressure on both sides of the equation. Morales had thrown 110 pitches - 72 of which were strikes. I hoped and I crossed my fingers that he had enough for one more batter.

But he didn’t. Ragin singled up the middle and Waterhouse scored. 2-1 Florida, in the bottom of the 8th. The Florida crowd erupted in cheers, and we were three outs from ending our season. I called in Dolman, who struck out Hanover. One batter too late, I thought to myself.

Michael Lambert replaced Isoruko for the top of the ninth. Why Florida wasn’t putting in their closer was beyond me, but I pinch hit Butler for our game two stud, Agustin Taylor.

It was do or die. He flied out, and Florida called in their closer, Paul Howie, to face Guasch and White. Guasch flied out. The crowd was cheering wildly. . . our entire season now rested in Jacques White’s bat.

“Not here. Now now.” I whispered to myself as the dugout looked on in silence.

Ball one.

Ball two.

White turned on the next pitch, sneaking a ball past Carrillo. The season now rested in Cancio’s hands.

Strike one.

Ball one.

Foul - strike two.

The crowd was deafening. . . everyone knew what was coming - one strike left to put us to rest. Howie threw, and Cancio swung - the bat connected with the ball, and it soared into the air. We all jumped from our spots and started cheering for the ball to keep going. Molina chased after it, as it got closer and closer to the foul poll - eventually curving away from it and hitting the seats in foul grounds.

Ball two.

Ball three.

Now there was more pressure. Full count, down by one, runner on first. Howie wound up, White took off for second, and Cancio swung. The bat connected again, and the ball found a hole between third and short - and we had our second hit of the inning. White was on second, Cancio on first. The season was in Gober’s hands.

Ball one.

Stike one.

Strike two. The crowd was cheering like crazy.

Ball two.

Ball three.

Howie wound up again, and Cancio and White started running. Gober swung for the pitch - and missed. There was no pause from Waterhouse or Howie. They ran to each other, soon to be joined by the rest of the Marlins. The crowd went crazy, screaming and cheering like banshees. Some of the Cubs went into the clubhouse silently, but I could just stare at the field.

Between the celebrating players, I saw Jacques White, standing on the field, between third and second. Between second and first, Lorenzo Cancio stood with his arms down, watching the Marlins celebrate near the mound. But most striking to me was that still by the plate, Robert Gober stood, at the end of his swing, seemingly frozen in position. His body still in stride, the bat still in his right hand behind him, gently resting against the dirt below him.

Almost picture perfect, the three had just been frozen in despair and disappointment. I just stood for a moment, staring at the three before I finally walked out to Gober at the plate, soon to be joined by Cancio and White.

I was fighting the tears in my eyes as I addressed the three of them at once. “Let’s go, guys. It’s over for us.”

[PBL Commish]

great read

keep it up

[The Funk]

Tough luck man. Still, your guys did well. When you get sacked they could well have a shot at the championship!

A little error I think.

Originally Posted by Jazzmosis

White was on second, Cancio on second. The season was in Gober’s hands.

[Sdpm100]

I'm sorry for jinxing the team, man, by saying it would be better if they lost this year. Can't you just say that was all a dream, and just re-sim it all?
Oh well, I suppose I'd better go get some supplies to last me about a year, as I'm now going to be known as the new Bartman...

[Jazzmosis]

There was no "scandal" to losing the last game, just an unlucky hit. The only Bartman here is Jazzington. Heh. Good thing he won't get sacked (I hope), the owner's expectations were well below what happened. Although he'll probably say something like "win it all now!"

Anyway, I figure this is as good time as ever to announce my future plans with the story. I was thinking of posting a re-edited, kind of "extended version" of the chapters on a blog, and link it back to this. Of course it wouldn't effect the story's progress here, but some of those old chapters are really disappointing/short and there could be a lot more to them. Would anyone be interested in that? It'd be the same story, just... more to it. Let me know.

[GoCubsAndJays]

Great read as always Jazzy.

Don't worry though, 2009 is the year of the Cubs

One small correction though:

Originally Posted by Jazzmosis

My fists were clenched so fist they were white.

I'm assuming it should be "clenched so tight" there?

[majormet]

Wow I finally caught up with this whole story, it is brilliant, I have never been so engrossed with a fictional season and how many unique characters come and go. Was wondering if Chris Look was going to do anything for Cincy in that series, how did he perform in 2008 for Cincy?

Jazzington reminds me of John Cusack in Say Anything, especially with his fumbling with words when approaching women to date.

As a manager Jazz is like Buck Showalter builds the team up and gets the plug pulled only to have the teams excel in the next year or so. Case in point with Florida and Arizona in the playoffs.

Vasser is a great character, wonder how he will fare in the playoffs, seems like he would have some antics circa John Rocker 1999 with the fist pumping.

All in all, great stuff

[Jazzmosis]

Thanks for the compliments

As for Look, he had a pretty good season for Cincinnati, despite being bumped from the closer role. And next to the closer, he had the lowest ERA in the Reds' pen (4.17), he had the lowest WHIP (1.24). His final record was 2-1 with 3 saves. It's a shame, cause he lost a lot of his ratings but still was arguably the best reliever on that team. He was released going into the 2009 season, but I'm not sure if anyone picked him up to follow. He's 39 now, going on 40. 2008 was probably his last year.
I was kind of surprised that he didn't show up in the 4 game showdown with Cincinnati, but I think he just made a few minor outages, if any at all.

I was actually really surprised that Arizona was as dominant as they were - I expected them to be good, but Colorado has always seemed to be there, as has San Diego - but I leave, and seriously, almost every guy puts up a career year. Florida was more of a predictable thing. . . they'd been getting better each year.

And Vasser.. oh, I'm not done with him yet. His playoffs performance will be in the next chapter, but I'm not going to get into my secrets just yet . Regardless, his year was sick, at 14-8 with a 2.93 ERA and 164 K's in 177 innings.

There'll be more to come. I've actually been wanting to catch up on all the players that have gone through Jazz's life.

[Jazzmosis]

Hey all. I've been away for awhile, as you all know. Wow, more than a month. Anyway, this is due in large part to my life getting (predictably) more busy around this time of year. I'm in the hail-end of my second year of University, and of course all the slacking I did previously is catching up. My last exam is April 25th, but my last classes are April 11th. So hopefully in that timeframe I'll have something out - I have began working on the intermission chapter, but it's a LOT of players that I'm writing on.. I've left out a whole lot, trying to keep the guys in that Jazz (or myself) was excited about or have a big impact in the story previous (or will, later on.. as storylines are developing and I have a massive bombshell that I've been working on). So please be patient, I haven't forgotten this league (in fact, I've been playing the games on and off, and am near the all-star break).

Stay tuned!

[cibl commish]

Looking forward to it as always.

[Jazzmosis]

Hey everyone! Chapter 53 is done just now! I know you've all waited long for this, and of course I've got a baseball game to go to - but when I get back, I'll post it! This one covers a lot of the offseason, as well as some backstory with one player - let your imagination start wondering until I get back!

Should be before 11PM when it's up.

Stay tuned!

[Jazzmosis]

Chapter 53: Texas Road Trip

I sulked for the rest of the week as I saw my arch nemesis go on to face St. Louis, who had played a gritty series against Arizona, finally defeating them in 5 games. But it was to my delight on October 14th, as in my apartment I watched Florida get knocked out in game 6 with Harshaw and Popham. It was bittersweet, though, as the Yankees would eventually win the World Series in a decisive game seven showdown.

And just like that, the offseason was in full-swing. The Chicago weather was getting colder and colder, but I had a very warm feeling inside knowing that Oberg was thrilled with just getting to playoffs against the two powerhouse teams - there was no chance of me losing my job.

But with every success, comes an equal and opposite force to balance it out. This came on November 13th, when Oberg called me in the day.

“What’s happening, Mark?”

“Nothing much, just spending time with Irene.”

“I’ve got some bad news - well - news.”

My heart skipped a beat, as just for a moment, I feared I was getting sacked. “What is it?”

“We’ve had a good year, for sure, and we’ve made considerable profit - but I can’t raise your contract.”

“You were going to?”

“Well we considered giving you a bonus for all your hard work - but instead we want to put that money in the bank and save it for the offseasons.”

“I don’t get what you’re trying to tell me here.”

“We’ve made a big profit this year, but we’re going to try and keep close to the same payroll we have now - or lower it.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“I’m just saying that everyone here is very impressed with the job you’ve done with the team, but we’re also thinking a little bit of luck played into our division win. We don’t want to spend money needlessly - especially not when the market is so thin. But what I’m really trying to say is, this team will not get more expensive, and the front office feels like you’ll have a bigger task ahead of you proving these kids can get into a groove - the league is going to be used to a lot of these players now.”

“So what are you expecting out of me, then?”

“Well, I don’t want to be too harsh here - basically the front office didn’t want to loosen the strings on the purse last year - not that we had the money to do so - but this year we do, but they still are going to try and stay cheap - what this meant was you and I had to stopgap throughout the season - and a lot of players had good seasons under you.”

“Uh. . . thanks. . . I guess.”

I heard a slight chuckle from Oberg on the other end. “You’re welcome. However. . . I feel that it is my duty to tell you that because these players had good seasons, they’ve raised their value - and in a hope to both get better and cheaper, I will be shopping a lot of them - you’ll probably see some new faces this season - again.”

“Who are you shopping, specifically?” I asked, wondering if I would lose more friends, a sensation that I seemed to experience yearly. The faces of my friends blurred through my mind as fast as I could blink, but I snapped back to reality when I heard Oberg clear his throat.

“Well. . . likely Butler, Lawrence, Beauvy. . . . and maybe others. But those three for sure.”

“I see. . . well, promise to keep me in the loop.”

“Will do.”


The call ended, and I started thinking about how this team would shape up for next season - new second baseman, shortstop, right fielder, first base. The bullpen seemed like the strong point, with young arms like Popham, Dolman, Aitken, and Dominguez to anchor it, with Guillen and Kass to act as swingmen. Of course, offense would still be an issue, but I began dreaming of the “what if” world. Perhaps I could catch fire in the bottle again - and maybe the team would play well again.

I spent many hours getting to know the other young players, spending time with Robert Gober and James Hickman. Hickman had taken up residence in Chicago after breaking with the major league club in 2005. He was the prototypical leadoff hitter, posting OBP of near .400, and never hitting below .300 in any season in the bigs. In fact, the worst he’d ever hit was in Low-A ball, at .260 for the season. I discovered that the outfielder originally wanted to play football, but at only 5'11 and 150 lbs when he was 19, all the talent in the world wasn’t going to get him there. Now 26, he’d managed to gain 20 lbs of muscle, and focussed his attention on his other passion - which naturally lead him to being drafted by the very Cubs in 2003, at 21 years old. He was scouted as a great contact hitter that wouldn’t hit the longball but would create havoc when on base - when he doesn’t strike out. What they didn’t expect out of the mulatto player from a small town in north Texas was his ability to walk a decent amount of times - which he proved was possible while in the minors - he would usually foul off ball after ball until the pitcher would either plate one or throw it way off the plate - and about half the time, in his younger years, he’d take it.

What I didn’t expect from him was the amount of racism he’d experienced as a child in Texas. His father was black, and his mother an illegal immigrant from Mexico - and after meeting near the border, and having him, they moved north. His highschool life was awful, as many times he’d get picked on and others would start fights with him, simply because he wasn’t the same race. Sports became his only outlet, and to prove he was no pushover, he got into football - which put him in ultimate shape. Of course, his physical fitness didn’t stop the racism, as he eventually got into a terrible fight with two other football players, who broke his wrist by stepping on it after getting him to the ground. During his recovery, he did anything he could to try and play sports, but he found the only thing he could really do was run - which he did. After he exceeded in sprints, where he won a state championship for the 200 metre dash at 17, the urge to play baseball grew. He joined the highschool team in his senior year, and played well, but tried as a pitcher - and ended up as a catcher - which came about after the coach saw him catching rocks that players were throwing at him after a practice.

His frustration finally mounted to a series of failures in classes, which got him kicked off the team and held him back a year. I remember him telling me that even the teachers were telling him to drop out, because he should just accept his place in society or leave. I was appalled by this, as it seemed so unreal for the new millennium - but after he showed a news article from his town’s newspaper that showed a court case between another dark family and the school board, I realized he wasn’t lying - which shocked and disgusted me more that people like that still existed.

That year off turned out to be the best thing that could happen to him - he joined the team again the next year, and played catcher - but the coach eventually moved him to the outfield when it became clear that his future wasn’t as a catcher or a pitcher - besides, he could hit the ball well and still had a good arm. That took him off, and after a season that saw him hit .489 in 135 at-bats got him noticed by a scout from Chicago, who eventually lead him to be signed in the 13th round of the 2003 amateur draft. From there, his life got a lot better, as he got out of the terrible town he grew up in - and after getting a solid contract in his arbitration year (2008), he bought his parents a nice house to thank them for their support through what he called “the dark years”. His parents had no easy task, working bad jobs for low wage due to the same racism James experienced - and he figured it was his duty to give back something to let them live peacefully the way he was just getting into.

And as he told me this, I made a personal note to call Oberg and make sure his name didn’t come up in trade talks - the gears in my head were turning, and I planned on making him my leadoff hitter for the next season - much like in the past season - although he’d earned that role away from White. Him and Harshaw were my big guys that I simply did not want to see traded under any circumstance.


The year rolled over with little news - although Jacques White signed with Florida for an astronomic 76 million dollars over four years. And Oberg had worked a trade with San Diego, moving St. Thomas to their organization for young shortstop Paul Dekker - which made it seem like White had become old news.

Personally, I had grown tired of the cold and the wind, and was yearning for warmer weather. Plus, with Irene and I getting very close, being together nearly a year and a half, the thought of marriage was popping into my head every once and a while - we’d even had a few casual discussions about it - but nothing definitive. I, with the help of Hensley and McDonald back in Arizona, planned a trip to a Mexico resort near the Arizona-Mexican border. The catch was that we were going to drive the whole way, spend a few weeks on the resort, and if that went well, I was going to ask her to marry me before the 2009 season started. At least, that was my intention.

I was terrible at keeping secrets, plus the drive would make her suspicious, so I told her about the ‘vacation’ - which she was thrilled about, and took the time off her job to go. We packed everything in my Mazda (the same from my rookie season) the night before, including bathing suits and a lot of our own water, and on January 11th, set out for the 30 hour drive. Things were great for the first day of driving - we toggled the duties, and as usual, laughed and kissed and kept each other from going insane.

We made it to near Denver before stopping in a hotel for the night - and exhausted, we fell asleep upon hitting the bed. We got up and headed out around 10AM the next morning - and continued on our happy ways, even though the trip had worn us down from the first day.

But near Noon, as we neared the Colorado/New Mexico border, we were getting hungry.

“We’ll get some food at the next rest stop, okay?” I said to Irene with a smile.

She just smiled and went back to reading, and I turned my attention back to the road. We passed the sign for the next rest stop, which was 45 miles away. Just under an hour, I thought to myself.

I looked to my left as a black car passed me - but instead saw across the divider, a blue pickup truck serve - it flashed across the grass between the highways, and before I knew it, the black car that had just passed me was screeching on his brakes to avoid a collision - but failed. The two had a hard t-bone, with the black car crunching into the pickup as it flew across our side of the interstate. I jammed on the brakes, as the two crashed not even 20 feet in front of me, but I just remember the front grill of the pickup coming right at me - and the back of the black car starting to go up in the air.

I started to turn away from the crash, but it was far too late. My Mazda plowed into the pickup, jarring me forward and knocking Irene’s book out of her hands. The front of my car started to crumple under the grill of the pickup - I remember feeling the back start to raise - the black car was in mid-roll going towards the divider - I saw the underbelly of the pickup - then the grill - then the hood - then the cars behind me - but they were upside down. I realized in a flash that the car was airborne, in the middle of a front-to-back flip. I remember glancing at Irene, whose eyes were closed and her mouth was in the middle of a scream that I couldn’t hear. The back smashed into the road below first, and the car trunk started to crunch after it. The roof hit the pavement next, I felt liquid splash across the side of my face, metal grind all over the place, our packed belongings fly in front of my face - something hit my right arm - and I closed my eyes and blacked out.

[RchW]

You know I called you some filthy names for leaving this one hanging like that. Good stuff. You better have another chapter up soon.