Chapter 10

The dog days of early August came and went, and after lo these many weeks (only five weeks, actually, but it sure seemed longer) we were scheduled to head for Gwinnett for the final three-game series of the season with that club. There were only sixteen games left in our International League season. We were tied for the Division lead with Gwinnett, but I was secretly kind of hoping we wouldn’t make the playoffs. All making the post-season would do would be to delay my return to Lawrenceville and the Gabriel family.

Disloyal? Yeah, I guess so. But let me ask you: Who won the fucking International League playoffs last year? Okay, you don’t know. Who played? What two teams were in the finals? Can’t name ‘em? Me neither. Fuck you very much, my point exactly.

But I was playing every game with Norfolk, my average for the whole season was up to .346, and although I’d heard nothing at all from the Orioles, and nothing about the progress of their negotiations with Josh Brennan, World’s Greatest DH, I was looking forward, very much, to revisiting the Great State of Georgia. I’d already sent comp tickets to Peggy and her family, with extras for distribution to Tad’s friend and the other kid’s father. I hoped all five of them would show up for our games at Coolray Field.

So guess what happens? Okay, so I’ll just tell you.

The fucking Orioles lose their reserve outfielder to injury. They’re in the pennant race, with at least an outside chance for the AL East title or, failing that, a wild card. Do they call up one of Norfolk’s good-field, no hit fly-shaggers?

Nope. They pick me. A couple weeks ahead of the September major league roster expansion. Ahead of Norfolk’s International League playoff appearance (if any).

And ahead of my much-anticipated revisit to Lawrenceville and the Gabriels!

Talk about mixed emotions! Did I want to be called up? Damned straight I did, although I had expected to wait for a little over two more weeks until MLB’s restrictions on roster size were lifted for the September stretch drive.

Getting called up even earlier was – or would have been – super-good news if the Norfolk Tides had been heading for Rochester, or Reading, or wherever. Anywhere except Gwinnett County, Georgia.

Next morning, I drove from Norfolk to Baltimore, with all my worldly goods back in the CR-V. They had a nice set of home uniforms ready for me when I arrived – my name already neatly sewed onto the back above the number “52”.

I wondered what famous players had ever worn number 52. None, probably.

The Orioles’ manager, Paul Warren, met me at my new locker and shook my hand. “When you’re dressed, come by my office,” he said.

I had heard good things about Warren. He had been an infielder with the club during his career, some years back, and then had managed in the Orioles’ farm system, including at nearby Double-A Bowie, Maryland, before taking over the Orioles’ big club. He’d been in Baltimore for years now, I wasn’t sure how many, and had brought the Orioles back from mediocrity to being year-in-year-out contenders.

Warren had one World Series title with the club, and had lost another one. They’d won their Division four of the past six years.

It was a club with aging but better-than-average starting pitchers, a strong offense and possibly the best defense in the American League.

And now, they had me. I was, for the moment, their second-string DH. Surely the Orioles’ brain trust had been told that I would be no help to them at all on the field. They must surely know that I literally never take my glove out of my duffle.

They didn’t call me Stonefingers for nothing.

I wasn’t even all that much of a pinch runner. It was designated hitter, a pinch hitter, or designated bench jockey. Those were the choices.

I thought it was strange that Baltimore would bring up somebody early who was dismal on defense. Sure, I was happy, but I kind-of wished they’d have gone ahead and waited for the September roster expansion. At least that way, I could have stayed with Norfolk long enough to have seen Peggy. And Tad. And Sarah.

Damn it, I missed all of them! It wasn’t just that I could hardly wait to get naked with that long-legged, crew-cut-pussied, big-boobed blonde Bartender to the Gods. No, it really wasn’t just that. I missed all three of them terribly.

Okay. I missed Peggy the most.

Christ!

“You’re not starting tonight,” Warren told me when I came into his office as requested. “You could pinch hit for an infielder if we need that. Gotta keep all three starting outfielders because Brennan’s starting as DH, and we don’t want you playing outfield.”

“Or infield,” I said. “I know my reputation as a fielder, Mr. Warren.”

“Paul,” he said. “I’m a manager, not an accountant.”

“Yessir,” I said.

“Paul,” he said again.

He told me to sit down. He sat down too, behind his little desk in that tiny office. “I hear real good things about your bat,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure I can hit up here,” I told him. “I got no illusions about ... the other. But I can hit, Mr. – ahh – Paul.”

“You’ll like this park. It’s toyland, compared to Norfolk. But don’t swing for the fences. Just try to stay relaxed, get used to the pitchers in this league.”

I smiled. “Yeah, I hear they’re pretty good.”

“There’s a real difference, Marty. There’s a lotta awfully good arms up here. And they’re smarter, too. More experienced, stronger, and wicked smart. They can make even the best hitter look like a monkey sometimes.”

“I’ll stay awake, Paul. I’ll keep within myself. Wait for my pitch.”

“I know you will, Marty. I’ve read all the reports. You’ve been hitting over .330 for the entire season. Good power. You can help us. I’m sure of it.”

“I’ll sure try, sir.”

“It’s Paul. You know any of the guys?”

“I met Jacobson when he was still with Norfolk. And Jerry Larrimore – played with him last year in Jackson for a while. And I know a lot of the guys by reputation. That’s about it.”

“Talk to Josh Brennan,” he said. “and introduce yourself to Zeke Taylor. They’ll tell you all you need to know.”

The Orioles were winding up a home series with the Los Angeles Angels of Pismo Beach that night, and I watched from the bench as my new club enjoyed a laugher at the expense of the Angels’ road-weary pitching staff. The West Coast club was out of contention and “rebuilding” as they say. The Angels seemed nothing like the power clubs from Anaheim of the recent past.

In the eighth inning, with Baltimore leading 4-zip with one out and nobody on, Warren sent me up to pinch hit for the starting catcher, who’d suffered a minor injury the previous inning.

This was it! My first at-bat in the Big Leagues! And it was still only August! Fucking August! I wasn’t merely an end-of-season roster-expansion guy, I was here because Paul Warren, or somebody higher up the food chain, had said, “Him.”

Goddamn!

The Angel pitcher, their second reliever in the game, was tired-looking and unconcerned. His club had already lost this game and he knew it. It’s kind of great how, in baseball, you’re not tied to a clock: you can always come back – even from way back – if you’ve got the horses.

But it looked an awful lot like the Angels were fresh out of horsepower.

The reliever was a short, overweight guy who looked like an assistant bank manager.

“Junkballer,” Zeke Taylor murmured to me as I was grabbing a bat. “All soft stuff: sliders, little curves, change. Fastball is just his waste-pitch, and he never throws it in the zone.”

Standing at the plate, the fences at Camden Yards looked reachable. I was pretty sure I could wrong-field a fly ball and get it out of this place!

On a one-ball, one-strike count, the bank manager tempted me with a dinky slider that looked like a hanger, but I hit it on the ground, straight at their shortstop. He threw me out by maybe fifteen feet. The ultimate routine play. If there’d been anyone on first, the Angels could’ve taken two.

Nobody was going to be saving that baseball for me as a souvenir. Welcome to the Big Leagues!

After the game, it was too late (or too early) to call Peggy, but I figured Sarah might still be up, so I called the house.

“Hi, Marty,” Sarah said. “I heard what happened.”

“You did?”

“You were on the local news here when you got called up.”