Dreams and Baseball
Reagan Rothe
Copyright Reagan Rothe 2012
Published by Black Rose Writing, Publishing at Smashwords
Black Rose Writing
* * * * *
© 2012 by Reagan Rothe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
First digital version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-0-9821012-1-6
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
Print edition produced in the United States of America
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Dreams and Baseball
Is dedicated to...
My grandfather, Leslie “Tex” Aulds
—Boston Red Sox (Ted Williams’ roommate)
—Scranton Red Sox (Top 100 minor league teams of all-time)
—Louisville Colonels (Severely spiked in hand, 27 stitches)
—Plymouth Oilers (Won the NBC Texas Championship)
My father, Walt Rothe
—Jamestown Expos (Signed by Montreal Expos after college)
—University of Texas Longhorns (1-Time SWC Player of the Year)
And my brother, Ryan Rothe
—Alexandria Aces (2-Time TLL Champions, 3-Time All-Star)
—Shreveport Sports (Deemed one of the best defensive CF’s)
—University of Texas Longhorns (Traveled to CWS in Omaha)
(Three generations of great baseball!)
* * * * *
In loving memory,
Leslie “Tex” Aulds & Bonnard Rothe
* * * * *
WELCOMING THE DREAMS
—
I
“High fly ball hit by Allen to centerfield. Lewis takes a few steps back, and makes the catch. That ends the fifth, Demons one, Knights nothing. Due up for Los Angeles in the sixth, Parks, Hicks, and Gunn,” Darrell Marinville announces to the Demon faithful.
Jogging in from second, I wonder how in the hell I can hear Marinville doing the radio broadcast. After all, Marinville is in the booth, I am standing on the field. The announcer is glassed in and speaking over the radio, I am entering the dugout via the infield. Kyle Queen’s voice is the one spilling through the loudspeakers throughout Diego Field, not Marinville’s. Queen’s the one I should be hearing, along with the fans.
So let me say it again, because it’s worth repeating. I can hear Darrell “The Duke” Marinville’s broadcast, along with Kyle Queen’s announcing over the loudspeakers, and finally, the buzzing of the crowd altogether.
I sit in the left side corner of the always-rectangular bench. I can smell sweat in the air, tasting the cool, refreshing breeze turned sour. The smell reminds me of going to Dodgers games in the early 90s. Me and pops, having the time of our lives while rooting for one of the greatest coaches of my youth, Mr. Lasorda. But who other than Tommy Lasorda? And his extremely vocal, and sometimes outrageous, rants—
I remember I always ordered the same things around the same innings. Right before the fourth or fifth, dad would make a run to the concession stand and grab a couple of hot dogs and a Dr. Pepper, along with a beer for himself. We would heckle the opposing team’s rightfielder from our second row outfield seats and hope to God that Pedro Guerrero would hit one out in our section. Man I wanted a homerun ball bad… I never got one. But this jerkoff next to us caught several homers throughout the season. But that’s beside the point.
Actually, the point isn’t very clear. I lean back into the wall, befuddled by the fact that I couldn’t stop hearing the Duke. I mean come on, is this possible? I am literally sitting here in the dugout listening to the man who is supposed to be the Demon’s radio guy call the game in my ears—in my head. Not possible, is it?
The brash, yet smooth-flowing announcer’s voice rattles on, “Here’s a recap for the fans who may have missed one of the earlier games in this dazzling series. The Demons took game one in San Diego five-to-three, but San Diego’s offense came alive in game two to get the split. The final was San Diego nine, L.A. two. They headed to Los Angeles for games three and four, where the Knights got a great performance from Erwin Hammel, who threw eight shutout innings and helped San Diego blank L.A. three-to-nothing.
Once again, though, like the Demons have done all year long, they battled back. This L.A. team left the yard three times, with homers from Jason Hicks, Bobby Parks, and Nathan Willis (hearing the name stings my side; it aches my heart for reasons unknown), leading the home team to a six-four victory and a trip back to San Diego. Jacques Martin injured his knee in that game on a bang-bang play at first, and it sure looks as though San Diego is missing his bat in the lineup right now.”
The sounds are getting unbearable. The crowd’s constant static (chit-chatter and cheering—continuous level of noise throughout the game) enter into my mind through one ear, while the Duke’s broadcast in the other ear, and the dugout conversation enters my auditory system from God knows where. I can’t take anymore, the noise, the freaking noise. I try to focus my attention elsewhere, gazing into the sky. The moon is full (the man is smiling at me as if to say ‘nothing you can do Hartes, don’t fight the noise’) and the stars shine bright. The noise, the noise, blaring from every direction.
I turn my attention southward into the stands. People visiting, yelling, kids eating popcorn, hot dogs, drinking sodas. But as I roam the San Diego crowd, one girl (she appears to be glowing) catches my eye as she makes her way down the stairs. Still, the noise, coming from everywhere.
Coming from inside my mind… coming from outside my skull…
The noise, the noise—
“Jeff... Jeff, wake up!” Shae’s voice filled the room, the sound seeming to be coming from a mile away. “Jeff! Stop saying that!”
“What? Saying what?” he asked her, waking up and trying to lift his heavy eyelids off of his drowsy eyes.
“Quit saying, ‘I wish the noise from everywhere would just stop.’” Jeff looked at Shae with a confused face. “You said it like ten times, hun’.”
“Sorry… damn. Bad dream I guess.” A slight pause, then the look on her face transformed from frustration to one of concern. Her eyebrows rose, and then lowered. “Not a bad dream, a weird dream.”
“About what?” Shae asked, now calm, eager to listen. That was one of her most brilliant traits. No matter how her own day went, or no matter how much she had on her mind, Shae always seemed prepared to listen—and listen intently. She made the person speaking to her feel as though they were the only person in the world worth receiving her undivided attention. To Jeff, it was mere magic. Simply because he typically didn’t give a damn about hearing what most people had to say.
“I can’t remember,” Jeff replied, changing the subject whether he tried to or not. “I really can’t remember.” He said this last answer with some doubt, but could he remember? It felt like a word that is on the tip of your tongue and once the situation is over… you remember it. But he couldn’t remember anything at this moment.
Maybe it will come back to me—
Jeff closed his eyes and tried to focus on whatever Shae might have been talking about. Nothing came to his mind that may have helped, only an image of Shae and him making love as they did almost every night. Except on the occasional hot streaks or drastic slumps, where Jeff needed a change. He began to caress Shae’s back while kissing her neck. His hands reached downward towards—
Shae pushed him, realizing his thoughts had diverted from the bad dream to something that had drawn a harmless, yet deviant smile on his face.
“What was that for?” he asked, feeling his excitement disappear as quickly as it had come, showing as much signs of sexual simplicity as a light switch turning a room from bright to dark.
“Never mind, baby, let’s go get some breakfast.” Shae hopped up, grabbed Jeff’s hands, and pulled him out of the bed. Jeff realized he wasn’t going to get what he wanted this morning, so he went along without resisting.
II
That’s when the dreams first started, early April. They halted as quickly as they came, within a year of my life’s time on this earth. It was the most memorable and forever lasting thing that ever occurred to me, and I’m positive nothing will surpass it now. I never had another season similar to the one in 1999 with the Demons. I’ve also never had a year similar to that one. I’ve never experienced anything like it... period. It was the greatest season, the scariest season, and the only season of its kind balled into one very small frame of time.
My loneliness continues to grow like the swelling of a sponge when it comes in contact with water. All I have now are my memories and my recollection—not always accurate I may add—of the way things were. I lost my best friend a long, long time ago during the season with the Demons. My little brother died of the Big ‘C’ in 2030. Another short-lived, yet accomplished life that cancer destroyed. I tried to run away and hide from my feelings, but Shae wouldn’t let me then, as she wouldn’t have let me when my son, Jeffrey Jr., died in a car accident at the age of 35 (with one divorce and no kids to show for it). But I had Shae to cry on and keep everything together. She was always the stronger one between us, never showing defeat or remorse, but continuing on, as she believed God had meant her to do. But now when something goes wrong, I just want to travel to that great “Field of Dreams” in the sky. Maybe meet up with “Shoeless” Joe Jackson and get his side of the White Sox 1919 scandal. Or try and hit a couple of Bob Gibson’s sliders out to deep rightfield. Or possibly look though Teddy Ballgame’s eyes, picking up the seam’s rotation on a hanging “Charlie.” Or even just sit back in the dugout, watching the greatest team, the ’27 Yankees, play on their way to another unprecedented World Series title. Who knows? Just who goddamn knows?
Now, I just wish it would end soon, living my life without my son and without Shae is unbearable. If it wasn’t for Leslie, I’d have done myself in by now. I’d have pulled the trigger and ended this arthritic misery—a banged up ex-major leaguer with bad knees, stiff wrists and a limp pecker. What did Leslie say the difference between a young golfer and an old golfer was? Something like an old golfer has stiff wrists and a limp pecker, and a young one has limp wrist and a stiff... forget it.
Shae passed away exactly one year ago today, April 1st, 2051. The “Best” April fool’s joke I’ve ever been hit with, I just couldn’t believe it. The doctors did everything they could, but her body just couldn’t press on any longer. Pressing on was all her body ever did; it always seemed to be telling her ‘next challenge please.’ She never looked back the way I did—I, always wishing to repeat 1999 over and over again no matter the circumstance—she, always looking forward to the next year and what it brought. She always did her best to enhance her life as well as everyone’s around her.
With her unbelievable patience… with her untiring dedication to those she loved. Sometimes, it made me sick (in a good way if that’s possible). It made me feel less of a man as she continued to put this same demeanor, same attitude, across her beautiful face day after day. If it were me doing the same, everyone would have seen through my charade. But Shae’s concerning manner was no fallacy.
I spent exactly 2 months and 12 days in the “Big’s” (Major League Baseball) with the Minnesota Twins. I won’t lie and say that it wasn’t a boyhood dream of mine, but it wasn’t a defining moment. Meeting Shae, the love of my life, the greatest thing that ever happened to me, wasn’t a defining moment either. Nothing was, nothing is, and nothing ever will be, compared to the dreams. Nothing but the dreams… they defined my life and changed it forever. The dreams are the one thing (the dreams and them alone) I can remember, in spite of everything that has happened to me, just fine.
“I remember those days, nineteen ninety-nine especially, when I was six feet tall with light brown hair gelled perfectly in place. I remember the handsome face I once had that only needed a fresh shave once a week. I remember the young man who would flex shirtless in the mirror, admiring his build. A body that wasn’t utterly muscle-bounded, but cut enough to cause the ladies to go wild. It didn’t matter what food I ate, or how late I ate out, or whether or not I even touched the weights, I had a naturally toned body that made other’s jealous because of my ease in maintaining it.
And I remember my beautiful wife, Shae. Not my wife during the dreams, during the ninety-nine season, but my wife to be. The long, straight brown hair that lightly fell down her back. Her always intriguing and thoughtful blue eyes, never leaving me when I had something to say to her and always aware of everything around her. Her breasts, her legs, her body, her smile, all perfect in ‘Jeff Hartes’ book of women,’ nothing more satisfying than caressing a woman’s body that maintained its softness and smoothness each and every time.
Finally, Shae’s face... blue eyes, subtle and definitive features, and a short, pointed nose comparative to the girl on the old television series “Buffy The Vampire Slayer.” The girl’s name, Sarah Michelle Gellar, never entered my thoughts, as I immediately pushed my mind back to 1999.
I remember... leaving Shae after breakfast. She had to go to work at around noon. I remember traveling back home, taking a nap, and then heading out to pick up my order at L.A. Sports. Shae always seemed to know I was going to make the Demon’s team, despite my own confidence, I wasn’t saying it was a guarantee. I arrived at the local Los Angeles sporting goods store and—”
Chapter One
Demon Baseball
—
I
Jeff gathered his order; it consisted of a couple of bats, several batting gloves, and some Hawken’s, the traditional baseball tobacco. Just in case one might need a ‘rally dip.’ The teenage girl at the counter smiled and asked if that was all he needed. He returned the smile, trying not to flirt too openly in the process. He said yes and carried everything to his truck, stopping to hold the door open for a middle-aged woman and her son. Tomorrow was his first tryout for a professional team.
Jeff played baseball at the University of California, but dropped out due to grades... or lack there of. He recalled the day when he was supposed to be a star second baseman on full scholarship at Cal, driving in runs and playing stellar ‘D’ for the Golden Bears, but it didn’t happen that way. The change from growing up in a small town outside of Los Angeles to the big city was too much. He enjoyed the night crowd and partying too often and hardly ever hit the books.
Now he’s settled in as a banker’s assistant who makes just enough to get by on. Damn shitty job if you’d ask him. He wanted to get back into baseball and get a second crack at things, but if it hadn’t been for Shae’s persistence, he wouldn’t have had this opportunity. Shae’s voice was always ringing in his head, saying ‘Jeff Anthony Hartes, are you going to wake up and make something of yourself today or be content with your life at the age of twenty-one?’
He arrived home around 8:30 in the evening and flipped through some cable channels before landing on Cheers. Usually, the television settled on Sportscenter, but tonight, with baseball on his mind, comedy appeared to be the answer. Jeff slid on a pair of orange Coca-Cola boxers and collapsed into the blue air mattress camped out in his living room. One of his old college buddies (one of those friends that aren’t really your ‘best’ or ‘true’ friends, but are fun to see every so often) crashed at his apartment a few nights ago and Jeff hadn’t gotten around to putting the aired-up bed back in the closet.
As he tried to drift off to sleep, all he could think about was if he was good enough to make the Demons’ team. Hell… Shae thought he was, but only in a pleasing, supportive manner. Yet, right now, at this restless juncture in time, he wasn’t quite sure if he was good enough. After all, they were a Triple-A club in the highest level of independent leagues. A league transformed under ex-big leaguers, who were both too old and wearing down or had suffered an injurious setback, or all-star caliber youngsters, who were trying to impress major league scouts and make a name for themselves one day. This league was the last stepping stone before walking into a major league clubhouse with the likes of Tony La Russa or Joe Torre. That’s where Jeff Hartes was hoping to fit in.
Jeff stared into the ceiling, listening to Norm make a joke about how he would rather spend an evening with Cliff in the park than go home to Myra. He heard the voices and laughing in the Boston bar on TV, but his eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and his thoughts were on baseball. He rolled over and let his eyes close themselves; once again hearing laughter after Sam asked Rebecca, ‘when was the last time she had gotten laid?’
The next morning, Jeff woke up to his alarm going off at 7:30. His drive to the stadium was only 15-20 minutes (if traffic was flowing), and the team he was trying out for was the Los Angeles Demons; a team he had grown up watching as a kid, and then throughout his years of high school and failed attempt at college. Living in the same city now and so nearby to the Demons was really convenient for tryouts, and he hoped to make it a permanent fit.
The camp started at nine, so Jeff stopped at the local Mickey D’s and grabbed a couple of sausage biscuits. He made sure to tell the girl at the counter to add cheese to his breakfast. Jeff loved cheese on just about any meal, from breakfast tacos to hamburgers to grated cheese on a chef salad. Melted cheese smothering broccoli didn’t hurt either. He slammed down the biscuits despite not being in a hurry.
He checked in with the Demons’ front office around 8:40. Since he had some time to kill, he went to the Demon Stadium Hall of Sports, where they displayed the Western League’s entire history. Jeff saw that this was going to be the league’s fifteenth year of existence. The league was designed for superstars (young and old) to have a chance to participate in a shortened season—less wear and tear on their bodies—while still playing the second highest level of baseball; second only to the MLB. The league was less than two decades old, but was already receiving tons of notoriety and prestige. When the product was good, it sold. Besides, many of the players could be optioned to play in other independent leagues throughout the season.
As Jeff scanned the wall of plaques and team rosters, he paused to read the league’s most recent champions: 1995 Western League Champs: Canada Internationals, 1996 Western League Champs: Canada Internationals, 1997 Western League Champs: Canada Internationals, 1998 Western League Champs: Carson City Gamblers.
The Canada Internationals were disbanded in ‘97, and the owner took over the Montana Tigers. The Canadian team was mostly composed of major league veterans and Canadian all-stars (not many...). They didn’t have the same salary cap and roster regulations, so it hurt the league considerably.
No wonder they dominated the league for three straight years. It would have been nice to play on that roster and be able to get paid over the salary limitations, Jeff thought.
Jeff checked the 1999 team list to see who was in the league for this year. Changes were constantly being made to the league structure, depending on individual team’s fan support and income. As a whole, the product was very stable and solid. But every now and then, no matter how good something was, there are always a couple of things (teams) that aren’t quite producing as well as the rest.
The North Division contained the Washington Thunder, Carson City Gamblers, Montana Tigers, and the Cal Gold Miners. The South Division had the San Diego Knights, Tucson Sun Devils, Arizona Scorpions, and (hopefully) his own Los Angeles Demons.
A tall, lanky man with slick combed hair called Jeff into the clubhouse with all of the infielders and told the group to go out on the field and hit. He looked like one of the greasers off of The Outsiders. Jeff later found out that the man was one of the Anaheim Angel’s top scouts, sitting in the stands and checking out the new season’s crop.
Jeff was going to be competing for the two available spots, based on his possible positions, starting second baseman and utility infielder. The Demons were also looking for another catcher and some pitchers, but there were no guarantees on any of the positions. Fresh talent and potential “phenoms” outshine any teams’ needs (plus keeping the salary cap down also helped).
Jeff met some of the stadium workers and corporate sponsors standing around behind homeplate sipping on soft drinks and enjoying the tryouts. Through good marketing techniques, the Demons’ front office zealously (perhaps overzealously... if that’s even a word) kept their business associates and moneymakers happy. And one step for the key to happiness included making them feel involved and part of the team—maybe even part of the decision making in a controlled form.
The tryouts were started with the players running timed ‘sixties.’ Most coaches and scouts, depending on a player’s position, of course, typically demanded the time to be under seven seconds in the sixty-yard dash. Hartes waited his turn, watching the other infielders go, none of them exceptionally fast.
“Jeff Hartes,” a man in his thirties called out, appearing to be the Demons’ trainer or another form of assistant. Jeff said, ‘Right here,’ and entered the marked off, timing area.
He bent down into a runner’s starting position, nodding his head to say he was ready. He waited for the whistle, and then exploded into full sprint. He dashed straight through the finish, slowly braking to a halt. Huffing and puffing, Jeff did a quick maintenance check: Ankles… good. Knees…still there. Hammy’s… never better. uH
“Six… five… nine,” a man with a stopwatch called back to the Demons’ trainer/assistant, who was marking down the times on a yellow notebook.
“Fastest time so far,” the recorder said after checking all the times he’d penciled.
Still got a little speed left…
Hartes’ time was only beaten once, by an outfielder who wasn’t very impressive in the other drills, especially the cage.
Next stop—fielding and throwing. Hartes did exceptionally well in this drill also. He didn’t make any errors during a session of hard hit ground balls or during double play work. His throwing was also fine. So far, he had three of the five stars. Even though throwing for a second baseman didn’t require the strongest, cannon-like arm.
Taking a break from the physical aspects of the game, the players trying out were now required to show them they could master the mental aspects. Like the NFL combine, they were given a series of timed tests, along with a brief session of learning a few baseball signs and then relaying them back.
Jeff was pleased with his all around performance in the mental department as well. But he didn’t truly know how he fared against the others or how much emphasis the Demons’ coaches were placing on that department.
The last drill involved the Demons’ assistant head coach, also the pitching coach, who began firing pitches into the batting cage. One by one, players followed orders and stepped into the box to take their cuts, being rated and looked over closely. After about seven other guys hit live, none of them turning heads, Jeff found himself next in line. The curly-haired blond with a dimple in his chin so deep that Jeff could see it from homeplate motioned him into the batting cage. The pitching coach on the mound hollered for Jeff to get in there and take a few hacks.
Jeff Hartes hit the first two out into the leftfield seats, drawing a response from diehard Demon fans scattered in the seats before opening day. He smacked the next few pitches up the middle and finished with some opposite field line drives. Did I ever quit playing baseball? he thought. Just like screwing, once you know how, you never forget. Or was that supposed to be riding a bike? Either way
“Good piece of hitting there, kid,” said the assistant coach as Jeff stepped out of the box. That same coach, Larry George, would later compare Hartes’ approach at the plate to that of Derek Jeter’s. He was willing to fight off pitches and drive the ball to the other field if necessary. He had a rare hitting trait, which was getting his hands through the zone in an inside-out manner, doing whatever possible to take the ball the other way. He used his baseball knowledge to his advantage, never trying to be bigger than the team. His individual stats came second to winning—came second to making a productive out.
“Thanks,” Hartes replied, walking toward the dugout to get a drink of H-two-O. The coach began firing pitches to the next hitter, repeating the same pattern of pitches.
After everybody was through getting their licks, Jeff got to meet some of the other players and B.S. awhile. The first time he met Will, he knew that he really liked him. Will had something about him that was unique, grasping in a way, that Jeff knew he could get accustomed to being around if he could only make the club.
Will stood about five-foot-eleven and weighed approximately 190 pounds. His stocky build and muscular toning showed off even better on his dark skin. Will had short black hair (Michael Irvin’s style, Super Bowl days, without the lines) and a freshly trimmed goatee. The type of goatee with straight edges all the way down from his mouth to his chin, looking as fresh as though it was professionally groomed. Will was the starting shortstop for the Demons, playing in his fourth season with the team.
Will chatted with Jeff about the team’s previous success and failures and the lack of defense the Demons had at second base. Will said that L.A. went through three second baseman’s last year, all of them ending up out of the league, and none of them able to field a ball to save their own tail. One of them even had a case of the Chuck Knoblauch, throwing routine grounders over the first baseman's head and into the stands.
Will started to walk away and then turned back. Jeff was going to say goodbye when Will interrupted, “I’m looking forward to working next to ya’ rook.”
“What do you mean?” Jeff asked, wondering if what Will was saying could be true, wondering if Will was the kind of guy to mess with somebody or not. Jeff didn’t think so. The butterflies that weren’t there while he was in the batting cage had now begun to flutter in his stomach.
“You made the team Hartes,” Will said back to Jeff with a grin on his face. Will Coleman waived a quick goodbye and jogged towards the clubhouse. Jeff almost started running around in circles, wanting to tell everyone, ‘Fuck you, I made the team.’ He also wanted to run over to Will and give him a hug.
“But don’t go around preachin’ it, just letting you know so you won’t have to sweat it out,” Will shouted before exiting the field, as if he could read Jeff’s mind. As if Will knew how excited Jeff was and that Jeff might announce the good news to everyone.
“Thanks, Will,” Jeff said even though Will had already disappeared behind closed doors and into the clubhouse. He trotted off the field, and then stopped, dropping to the ground. Jeff smelled the fresh-cut grass and breathed in America’s national pastime full throttle. “Looking forward to working with you, too.”
II
The next day, after hearing the news of making the Los Angeles Demons squad from Head Coach Skip Bailey himself, Jeff arrived at his first team meeting and practice. In baseball, there weren’t very many days off and things got busy immediately. It was Shae’s day off (Thursday), though, so they had a nice dinner planned after baseball wrapped up. He saw Will again and met two of the bullpen pitchers, Fred Sanders and Salmon Seavers.
They were both considered veterans, already having been to the show and back. Fred was in his early 40’s, and had a chiseled veteran look. He had been to war against some of the best hitters in the American League; McGwire, Mattingly, Boggs, etc... Fred’s dark brown hair was receding and had a few streaks of gray above his ears. What was left of his body was flab and softness brought on by age. The only thing he had left were his wits and a magical limb attached to his right shoulder. “I’ve got to outthink these young punks, including you.” Sanders had told Jeff in their earlier conversation.
Salmon was in his late 20’s. He was a handsome black man with glowing yellow eyes. You could almost believe that his eyes lit up at night like a cat’s. Salmon’s work ethic was ritual, and his body showed it. He had a rocket for an arm and his launching pad was his durable and stocky legs. He had a razor bald head that only added to the intimidation others felt around him. And complementing his vigorous look was a jet black patch of hair on his chin. His only pitching problem was that he tended to get a little erratic and wild at times; therefore, he was sent back down by the Giants a few years ago to work on his control.
After standing around and visiting for awhile, it was time for the team meeting to begin. When Jeff entered the meeting room, he was speechless. Wow! He thought. It was bright, he felt like he was in Heaven, and it had an abundance of plaques and trophies. Most of the hardware belonged to the Demons and anything surrounding the organization, but some of the awards were also Greg Viselli’s. He was the Demons’ Owner/General Manager, and had played a few years in the major leagues as well. Viselli not only knew the business side of running an organization, but also the sporting side. Jeff sat amongst the many players in the room. The sofa was so damn comfortable, he almost dozed off. The meeting got under way.
“Welcome to pro ball rooks. I’m Skip Bailey, your head coach, and this here is Larry George, your pitching and assistant coach. Now we’ve already met the new acquisitions from free agency and the sort at our first meeting, before we picked up you, hopefully the last pieces of the puzzle.” Skip was aiming his conversation to the four rookies signed from spring training.
“The first thing I tell all my new players are my own personal, three rules: First, show up to practice on time, nothing pisses me off more than players late for practice. Second, play the games a hundred and ten percent. No cadillacing or fucking around out there. And finally, no banging women, especially game regulars, during your hot streaks unless it’s your wife. Follow those, and we can look forward to a championship season. We are one of the favorites ya’ know?”
“Hell Yeah, Skip. We’ll be ready to kick some ass,” replied one of the ballplayers in the back of the meeting room. The words flowed from his mouth with an experienced swagger. He was huge, not all muscle, but not all fat either, just a triple-x large, t-shirt wearing first baseman. At least first base was Jeff’s guess, but your guess was as good as his. The “first baseman’s” thick beard was a creamy chocolate color, which made him look slightly older than he probably really was. He had short, straggly hair, about the same length as his beard. His left cheek bulged, holding a fresh scoop of Hawken’s.
Skip continued, “Now it’s time to meet this year’s team for all you newcomers. It sometimes helps to get things off on a smoother note. We’ll begin with the starting pitchers, Jay O’Dell, age twenty-eight, right-handed. Umm... Thomas Perry, age thirty, another righty. Micheal Tims, one of our rookies we picked up, age nineteen, right-handed. Lake ‘Lefty’ Williams, age twenty-eight, southpaw. Now for the bullpen, Fred ‘Funk’ Sanders, age fifty-five.”
“Ha, ha, yeah, woo-hoo!” All the players started laughing and shouting when Skip said Fred Sanders was ‘55.’ The aged pitcher only grinned and stared at the coach. Jeff could tell that the two of them had known each other closely, or at least close enough to not take anything personal.
Skip continued once the noise quieted down. “Fred Sanders, age forty-one, right-handed. Salmon Seavers, age twenty-nine, southpaw. Darren Luthers, age twenty-five, righty. Javier Jimenez, another one of our pick-ups, from the Dominican Republic, age twenty-two, righty. This guy can throw some heat. The infielders are first baseman Steve ‘Big Daddy’ Gunn,—” Jeff’s guess was right— “age thirty, second baseman’s Simon Luthers, that’s Darren’s lil’ brother, age twenty-three, and are new recruit, Jeff Hartes, age twenty-one. Lives here full time in L.A.”
When Jeff heard his name it sent waves across his body. It was a good feeling, the first time he really felt like somebody. Jeff Hartes, professional athlete, what a thrill. It sure beat the hell out of anything he had previously accomplished, and this was something he truly did want for himself. His family would be proud as well.
Skip continued, “Shortstop Will Coleman, age twenty-six, third baseman Jason Hicks, age twenty-six, last year’s South Division MVP. Across the outfield we have leftfielder Erric Rutherford, age twenty-three, centerfielder Damon Lewis, age twenty-two, rightfielder Billy Goodwin, age twenty-seven, and in reserve is the ‘Vet’ himself, Brett Chambers, age thirty-five. Behind the plate we have Ron Fetters, age thirty-three, and Bobby ‘Leave Tha’ Parks, age twenty. He’s the final rookie on the team. That’s it fellas… no practice today, y’all get a good night’s sleep and be back here at eleven-thirty sharp.”
Jeff started to leave with the rest of the players and then Skip said, “Hartes, Tims, Jimenez, Parks. Y’all four need to stay so we can finish working out your contracts.”
“Alright,” the foursome said simultaneously.
“Hartes, you come in first!”
“Yes, sir.”
Jeff entered Bailey’s office behind him and sat in a gray, metal chair. It was one of those chairs you find at a convention or at a graduation, row after row. The office was nice, small, but cozy. The walls were painted a natural wood brown and the floor was covered with a dark shade of blue carpet. Skip had a few pictures of himself in his baseball days (including a picture of him and Rod Carew), but besides the pictures and a desk, don’t forget the chair, the office was pretty much empty.
When Coach Bailey plopped down in his black leather chair behind the desk, Jeff noticed the signs of a so-called ‘beer belly’ beginning to take form on Skip’s body. The coach, with a wad of chewing tobacco tucked up against the inside of his cheek, appeared to have aged rapidly since his playing days. His face was wrinkled and he carried a two-inch long scar on his neck.
His spectacles hung gently over his nose as he read the contract he was about to hand to Jeff. He skipped through the pages quickly and said, “In this league, most good rookie prospects get around fifteen-to-twenty-five thousand a year, to be honest, Jeff.” He continued flipping through pages, apparently reading some few finer points and then proceeded to the next page of the document. Skip stopped scanning the contract and raised his head. He looked at Jeff and said.
“You looked better than most rooks. I’ve got a feeling about you, and that’s not just some corn-fed bullshit. I’m expecting results, so I’ve decided to put a little preseason pressure on you and up the ante. The club has decided to offer you a little bit more than usual.
“Tell me, Hartes, how does this sound? A two-year contract… thirty-four thousand the first year, and if you have a good year, we’ll option you to forty thousand the second year. Uhh, also, you’ll get a three-thousand signing bonus. So what do you—”
“I’ll take it!” Jeff replied without even thinking. He really didn’t care, knowing it was more than he was making (or ever had made), and he could make this money doing something that he loved. The most beautifully crafted game in the world… the game of baseball.
“You sure you don’t want to look over this some more? Think about it a little?” Skip asked, raising the contract in his hand.
“Not really coach, I just wanna’ play.”
“I like the attitude. That’s good shit, Hartes. You gotta’ deal,” Skip said, extending out his hand.
After shaking hands, Jeff decided to scan through the printed contract. It only took him a few seconds, and then he signed at the bottom, and said, “See ya’ mañana, coach.”
“Hey Hartes, call me Skip,” the coach said, handing Jeff a copy of the contract.
The new second baseman nodded and left the office. When he arrived home, he called his parents to let them know the good news. They were really happy for him. You know how it is… their loser son finally lived up to some of the expectations and did something with his almost totally screwed up life.
Besides Jeff’s good news regarding the Demons, there was also some other family things they discussed. His dad told him that Eric had been really working on his hitting in the batting cages. “You should see ‘em, Jeff. He’s swinging the bat better than ever. You know he always had a great glove and good arm, but now that the offensive part of his game’s coming around, it’s going to be trouble for those opposing him.”
Jeff agreed with his dad about his brother’s hot stick. He knew, as his father did, that Eric’s defense was superb, but he was lacking offensively if he wanted to hang with the big boys. Knowing that his brother was putting in the hard work pumped Jeff up even more.
Next, Jeff called his admirer, Shae. She was so excited and wanted to go out and celebrate, but her boss had called and needed her to come in and work late.
“Didn’t you get my messages, Jeff?” Shae asked.
“Haven’t checked ‘em yet, but it’s okay, I understand,” he said. Shit… Jeff thought. He wanted to see her so badly, but he also felt exhausted and sleep sounded pretty damn good itself. “I think I am just going to cook some supper and get some much needed sleep, okay baby?”
“Okay, I’ll talk to tomorrow,” Shae said, also discouraged and missing her boyfriend. Her love infatuation responded with ‘okay’ and then they said their byes.
Jeff cooked supper, throwing a few eggs and bacon in the skillet and putting some toast in the toaster. And don’t forget the cheese. He added a couple of slices of cheese to the eggs and bacon, completing the meal. Jeff realized what a mess his apartment was while grease popped in the frying pan.
He hardly ever cleaned up, just when women came over, now just Shae, or when he needed to use something that was dirty, such as clothes, dishes, glasses, so on.... Jeff sat down and started eating supper. All he could think about (besides Shae) was his paycheck. Tomorrow, he was getting a check for three grand. Three large…I’m going to go buy whatever the hell I want.
The most money the ex-banker’s assistant had ever had in his hand at one time seemed to be around three or four hundred dollars, but a check for $3,000. It was almost too much. Not really. He sat there at the table for about an hour longer, thinking, and then he hit the sack.
III
Jeff Anthony Hartes woke up surprisingly fresh at 9:30, to the sound of a ringing phone. He answered the phone. It was Skip telling him practice had changed to four in the evening.
Jeff thought this was a good opportunity to grab lunch with Shae, but she was probably at work and too busy (or tired) to meet him somewhere in town. Shae worked only ten minutes from the stadium, but on the other side.
So Jeff decided to eat a late breakfast instead, and then afterwards, head downtown to get some new cleats. After all, he was getting a check for ‘three grand’ later that day. He ate at Maria’s Diner and read the morning news. The sports page featured an article on Mark McGwire and whether he could break his own homerun record of 70. No one’s ever going to break that record. Seventy bombs, not a freakin’ chance in hell.
And then a few years later Jeff would witness Barry Bonds hit 73 homeruns, shattering McGwire’s mark. Steroids or no steroids, Bonds could swing a freakin’ bat. A little juice couldn’t make a bad hitter a good hitter; it did nothing for the hand-eye and so on… but it could make a player’s “just-missed it” homerun swing travel just over the fence. But as of today, it didn’t matter. The record was an even seventy.
Jeff would soon learn, being inside the ropes, most of the players’ opinions of the steroids in baseball. Many of them the same and along these lines: after the strike, fans weren’t filling the seats. So Mr. Bud Selig pulled two of the biggest stars, McGwire and Sammy Sosa into his office, told them to stick a needle in their ass, and hit homeruns. The fans loved it, and the stadiums began to fill again, everyone forgetting the strike. So now baseball’s best hitter, Barry Bonds, thought to himself, ‘Look at this shit, these guys think they can hit, let’s see what the best can do with a little juice.’ To keep the story short, Bonds went on to hit 73, win multiple MVP’s, and become (performance-enhancing or not) one of the greatest hitters ever. And then the shit hit the fan, steroids became the number one agenda for the media, and Bud Selig had to do what most leaders do, throw everyone else under the bus to save his own ass.
Hartes finished eating. The check for the pancakes and sausage (plus orange juice) came out to $8.87, and Jeff paid it on the way out the door. He headed back downtown to the Westside Pavilion Mall and Shopping Outlet. He scanned over several pairs of shoes before deciding on a black pair of Nike’s in the third store he looked in. They were solid black except for a white Nike symbol and white laces. Plus, they fit just right. Jeff never was partial to flashy shoes. He preferred plain, but high grade.
As he purchased the shoes, Jeff peeked at some of the newer model baseball gloves behind the counter. ‘Maybe I should buy a new glove?’ he thought.
On the other hand, Jeff had had his own glove since his senior year in high school, and he realized he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Besides, his old glove had many diving catches and leaping grabs still left in it.
What else do I need?
“I guess nothing else,” Jeff answered aloud, looking around to make sure no one heard him as he exited the store.
On his way back to the apartment, Jeff stopped and picked up lunch (preparing for the future rather than any immediate hunger) at Super Ray’s Chicken—the best in L.A.—and then continued home. He relaxed for awhile, occasionally cleaning a few things in his apartment in a disorderly fashion. This stirred his appetite, and he paused to open his chicken box on the counter.
He ate his food, two chicken breasts and a wing combo, a coke to drink, and then took a short nap until three o’clock. When Jeff woke up, he put on all of his practice clothes, and headed for Demon Stadium. He arrived at the clubhouse around 3:45 p.m. and checked in with management.
The first person he bumped into was Viselli, right outside the clubhouse. Jeff was a little nervous, unsure to whether or not he should talk to Viselli or keep on walking. But the G.M. greeted him first with a warm smile and introduced himself for the second time. The first time Jeff had met him was a brief encounter before the initial team meeting, but this was the first official introduction. Viselli had that distinct look in his eyes (the ritzy clothes he wore with an impeccable ease didn’t hurt either) that he always… always… knew what he was doing. Whether it was talking business or baseball or politics, he was a man that knew his stuff. At least he came off that way with his upscale lingo and suave black hair that never moved out of place.
Viselli told Hartes he was glad to have him aboard, and that he used to want to meet all the players before they were acquired, but with Skip, he started making exceptions. “I would trust Skip’s judgment as my own,” he said.
Jeff enjoyed the chat and liked Greg Viselli. He was just one of those guys you would want to grow up and be. One of those guys you weren’t ashamed to go to war for.
Hartes continued into the dressing room and saw the person he and Viselli were just chatting about.
Skip asked him, “How ya’ feelin’ this morning, rook?”
“Pretty good, coach!”
“Remember, call me Skip. Might as well get out on the field and take some fungos.”
“Yes, sir,” Hartes replied.
Jeff jogged out onto the field and talked with Will awhile, just ordinary male bullshit. Will’s voice was smooth, not snappy or raspy. The words flowed out of his mouth with a swagger, but it was full of sincerity and truth. All the infielders took some grounders, turned two, and learned the practice routine. Practice lasted until just before sunset, mostly all the players tired as hell, but feeling confident about where they stood defensively.
The season was just a week away, today was the third of April, season opened on the tenth. Before everyone left the field, Skip told the players, “Pretty nice practice out their ladies. We’ve got five more practices until Arizona. I think we’ll be ready. Here are the schedules, grab one and be here one tomorrow for a shit-load of hitting and base-running situations. I’m not trying to get ‘Joe College’ on you, but I want to make sure we’re ready. Also, we’ll go over the signs. Have a nice evening. And don’t anybody do anything stupid before the season starts, alright?”
“Alright, Skip,” everyone replied with a look of guilt on their face. Jeff, almost sure of the answer himself, asked Will what exactly Skip meant about the ‘Joe College’ remark. Will told him that was what assistant coaches or bench coaches were sometimes nicknamed when they started breaking out the college drills on the pros.
“That’s what I figured,” Jeff said.
The middle infielder grabbed a schedule, said “laters” to Will and Simon Luthers, and headed home. Simon was a pretty boy only a couple of years older than Jeff. He had bleached blond hair and an innocent face. Most girls could immediately feel the sweet, nice guy vibe coming off of Luthers, whether it was what he wanted or not. To only make matters worse for Simon, his cheeks were rosy and dimpled intensely when he smiled. The perfect sweetheart for any teenage virgin, but beware of the experienced woman—a maneater.
On the way home, the traffic was horrible. There was a big wreck somewhere up ahead and traffic had slowed to a sudden halt. It was one of those stoppages that turned a fifteen-minute drive into an hour’s worth of bad radio.
Jeff could see smoke rising from an eighteen-wheeler about a hundred yards up ahead. The rig appeared to be turned sideways and smashed against the cement wall dividing incoming traffic from ongoing travelers. He stared at the accident—curious if anyone was injured or deceased—as the traffic momentarily began to move before abruptly coming to another halt. While he waited for more signs of flow from the other cars around him, Jeff glanced at the Demons’ schedule for the upcoming season. He searched for days off, long home stands, and the ever-exhausting road trips across state lines.
Los Angeles Demons ‘99 schedule
April 10,11,12 - ARIZONA
April 14,15 - @Carson City
April 16,17,18 - @San Diego
April 20,22,23 - TUCSON
April 24,25 - WASHINGTON
April 29,30 - @Cal
May 1,2 - @Montana
May 3,4 - @Washington
May 6,7,8 - SAN DIEGO
May 9,10 - CARSON CITY
May 12,13,14 - @Tucson
May 15,16 - CAL
May 20,21 - MONTANA
May 23,24,25 - @Arizona
IV
The traffic eased and Jeff arrived home around 8:40. He fixed supper and watched television, switching between channels. What some people may call channel surfing. He was feeling mildly aroused watching two lions hump the shit out of each other on the Discovery Channel, but jacking off after a hard practice was out of the question. He was tired enough. Continuing to watch the wild animal sex, Jeff picked up the phone and dialed Shae’s digits.
Mr. Baseball thought of her silky brown hair. And the urge to run his hands over her perky breasts and firm ass, was too tempting. Jeff had been with Shae a little over four months now, which was a long time for him. Hell... two months was long before this. They felt like they had been together for years. Their chemistry, their insight of what the other was thinking, their love was pure.
She answered the phone, happy to hear from him, and said she was still sorry about having to work the last Thursday. Ms. Kent was still extremely thrilled about Jeff making the team (she was a big fan, told Jeff when she met him that she went to a handful of games the last year before they met) and was ready to celebrate.
She asked if she could see Jeff tomorrow night, and he said, “Okay, I’ll pick you up at seven and we can go grab something to eat, then come back to place, sound good baby?”
“Yeah, sounds like a blast, see ya’ then, bye.”
She hung up the phone, and Jeff thought to himself. What a wild lay she had always been. It feels so… so… good to fantasize over the same girl I was sleeping with. Even though Jeff had just started sleeping with Shae these last few weeks, she was still the most incredible girl he’d ever been with. He couldn’t wait to get back in bed with her (it sounded as if he hadn’t seen her in years, when it had actually been less than a week). He went straight to cleaning the apartment (with a serious approach this time) and then to making his bed.
Jeff awoke the next morning exhausted; his head felt like he had a goddamn hangover or something. His clock, which was a baseball diamond encased in glass, with baseball bats as hands and phony-looking baseballs (that looked more like soccer balls) as the twelve times, read 11:37 a.m.
Jeff figured he would get ready and grab a little something to eat on the way to the field. He put on some long pants—Skip had said the team would be running bases, didn’t he?—and his white t-shirt which read 15 Reasons Why Golf is Better Than Sex. The usual clown shirt, with number fifteen saying something like, ‘it doesn’t matter what the size of your shaft is in golf,’ and number eight proposing something to the matter of, ‘foursomes are welcomed in golf.’ Same ol’ clown shit, same ol’ shit.
Jeff jumped into his Ford F-150, ‘97 model—black as the ocean in the middle of the night. It wasn’t the greatest vehicle, but it still looked fairly appealing, and it ran consistent. Sometimes, that’s all you can ask for. It was one of those vehicles that chicks didn’t sleep with you over, but they didn’t leave you over, either.
He engulfed a burger at The Burger Barn, a local shebang. The double-patty cheeseburger came with bacon, mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato. It was just the way Jeff liked it, and it was damn good. Next, he headed to the field.
Demon Stadium was only fifteen minutes away from where the Rose Bowl was held every year. And Jeff had watched some great games their, USC versus cinderella Northwestern, Michigan and Washington State, when Charles Woodson picked off a pass in the endzone to help seal his Heisman Trophy and also helped progress Michigan to a share of the national title with the ‘Huskers from Nebraska. Boy there sure have been some dandy’s in that stadium, lots of memories.
He also remembered meeting the most unique person he had ever been acquainted with. This fellow, Richie was his name, amazed Jeff with his ability to recite all the team’s rosters verbatim that had ever played in the Rose Bowl. This guy would just ramble on almost unconsciously during a football game when any play or player reminded him of something from the past. There was no end to Richie’s memory capabilities; this guy could have gone on and on and on.
Jeff, not Richie, arrived at the park at twenty ‘til and went in the clubhouse to see what was going down. The Demon clubhouse contained about twenty open lockers, a large table with chairs around it, a brown leather sofa (which was softer than a bagful of feathers), and a very nice RCA television hanging from the top of the wall.
Sportscenter was on ESPN, showing basketball highlights from the night before. J. Kidd made a very nice lob pass to Shawn Marion from half court, and the Suns won. Not paying attention to the television, were a handful of guys caught up in some other business. Billy Goodwin, Javier Jimenez, Michael Tims, and Ron Fetters were playing cards at the table. Fetters, with a disgruntled look on his face, appeared to be the only true card player. Goodwin and Tims were cracking jokes and laughing the majority of the time; while Jimenez was still learning the language and the game they were playing. But the starting catcher, turning 34 in a few months, wasn’t rattled. His face and actions were the same on every hand, and he hardly ever seemed to make a mistake.
The card players were playing a game called Pluck. It was similar to Spades, but you tried to get tricks that were plucks, two-on-two. Whoever dealt the hand could either bid or pass his bid to his partner, depending on whether or not he had a strong suit (lots of one kind). The team that deals has to take 8 of the 13 tricks; the team not dealing is only required to capture 5 tricks. The dealing team is also allowed to choose the suit, though, and must take over 8 tricks to pluck his opponent. If a team gets one pluck, on the next hand they are allowed to pass the lowest card of one of their suits for one of their opponent’s highest card of that suit. If two plucks, they get two cards, and so on.
The pitchers were playing Goodwin and Fetters. The catcher gave Billy another glare as he allegedly tossed down the wrong card.
“Another wrong play, but you’ll get it,” Fetters added.
“Wat’ deed I mece?” Javy asked, now knowing his opponents made a boner move, but he couldn’t figure out what was so wrong about it.
“Don’t worry, play your cards,” his partner chimed in. Jimenez said something in Spanish, and they all laughed. Some laughing because they partially understood him and others laughing only because of the way the words rolled off his tongue.
Jeff casually walked over to the sofa and sat down next to Will and Erric, who were having a unique discussion of their own.
“Fuck that shit, man, I ain’t taking no Ultimate Orange or any of that bullshit,” Will said to Erric Rutherford. Rutherford sat on the sofa shirtless, baring his dark, rough black skin and previous muscular toning. Anyone could tell he used to be accustomed to lifting weights and working out daily, but either through aging or drugs, ‘E’s body toning was diminishing. Don’t misunderstand; he still maintained a body that women would get wet over.