Chapter 3

I found a shady spot to sit and watch the inter-squad game a week or so later, my back arched and my legs stuck out before me, hat nearly down to my nose. I was sore in some old familiar places, but I felt pretty good in general and my knees were doing fine. My belt was no longer so tight either. I had not developed any finger blisters which surprised me.

Many baseball players, young and old, good and bad, had come and gone by then. We still had about sixty hopefuls, and Jepperson's minions had been out creating a farm system of sorts so that they would all have places to go when the season began in about a month. I was probably the oldest after Makeeta got hurt, and Junkins and I were certainly the most experienced ball players still there. I wish I could say that experience counted for something, but I don't think that it did. Not that spring, not with that team.

I spent some time thinking about my finances. I had gotten an advance after a bit of begging, but I was deeply in debt, mainly from loans to make the child support payments that came due every month. I had been eating on a couple of bucks a day, mostly hard-boiled eggs and macaroni and cheese. Once the season started and the twice-a-month checks began arriving, I would be in pretty good shape, but until then I would have to ask my ex-wife for patience. With good reason she seldom had any for me. She would get half of what I earned plus the fixed sum for my son's care and feeding. Thinking about money, brought Greeley Jepperson to my mind; money was what he was all about.

All of the young owner's statements to the press emphasized how much he was spending to bring Washington a winner. "A team to be proud of," seemed to be his motto, "a first-class team." Unfortunately, he had not hired many knowledgeable baseball men who had any say over personnel matters. He listened to advice, so the papers said, paid well for it, and then often ignored it. Famous names evidently awed him, and he loved to have his picture taken with what he called "stars." He appeared to be trying to build a club on Earl Weaver's big-inning plan; long-ball hitters were his top priority, the longer the better, and none of them came cheap.

I was always surprised so many folks came to see meaningless games, but I guess a lot of people in Florida don't have much to do. Anyhow, they were charging admission, just like it was a real ballgame, and the PA system was up and running, playing jangling tunes I never had heard before or understood a word of. Young umpires from one of the nearby schools were at work, exercising their lungs and making broad hand signals in the manner of their flamboyant mentor. You can usually tell which school an umpire went to by the way he calls a third strike. These earnest fellows appeared to be stretching a spring between their fists on strike three and shooting out the runners at first with the forefinger of their right hand.

I might have been snoozing, resting with my eyes open or thinking about my pile of unpaid bills, when I heard my name.

"Warm up," Enos Straight, the bullpen coach, yelled, "get on your horse, old man. That stupid Philips pulled a hamstring."

I stretched some, threw him a few easy tosses, some overhand, some side arm and a few submarine.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Always ready," I said, shaking the kinks out of my right arm and rotating my hips. I did a couple of knee bends out of habit and wished I had not.

He whistled shrilly, waved his big glove toward the dugout and then said. "You got the next three innings."

When the time came, I stepped carefully across the foul line, which some smart guys were now calling the fair line, pulled my bright hat down tight and made my way to the mound, getting everything else shut away from my head. When I thought about it, I was always surprised that I could stop hearing the buzz of the crowd. Gene Zabdev, the young catcher I had met the first day, came in at the same time I did along with a whole new outfield, and we went over signs quickly.

"Give me corner targets if you call number one," I said. "There ain't much there."

He smiled, nodded and adjusted his colorfully-painted mask.

It went pretty well, three up and three down, two pop-ups and one grounder to second on a sidearm curve that nearly hung, but then I was not facing the Yankees either.

I sat on the bench, hoping to get a chance to hit, but my team also went out quickly, on about six pitches I think.

The first batter up in the next inning, hit one sharply to my left, and I galloped over toward first base as Papa Junkins corralled the ball and tossed it to me underhanded. I beat the runner by a step and a half but he put his hand on my shoulder, pushed hard and then stepped on the back on my right leg as I fell and rolled over. He went down too, and I clambered to my feet and charged at him, head down, full of anger, tossing my glove aside, ready for combat.

Junkins, Zabdev and the first base coach grabbed me and steered me back toward the mound, snorting, while the kid sat there in the dirt crying, "What did I do, wha'd I do?" My heart raced and my lungs heaved.

The trainer came out, yanked down my sock, made a sucking noise with his teeth and sprayed some cold stuff on my leg. It wasn't bleeding, but it wasn't pretty either. I pulled my long stocking back up, ignored the surging pain and looked in for the sign. Everything was fuzzy. I closed my right eye, and I could see clearly. I had evidently lost a contact lens when I tumbled.

The next batter bounced a two-hopper back to me, I whirled, squinted and threw hard toward second. Nobody covered as the infielders stood and looked at each other. The ball sailed into center field. The right fielder ran in, scooped it up and threw it about ten feet over the third baseman's head and into the crowd as I hustled toward the foul line. Two runs scored, but they made the hitter go back to third. I thought Buzzy Harder was going to have a heart attack as he charged out at me, looking like a furious goose flapping its wings.