Chapter 2

The Gwinnett Braves were in the first series of an early-May homestand against the Durham Bulls, the triple-A affiliate of the Tampa Bay Rays of the American League East.

Tampa Bay was known for its solid pitching, and their AAA club was loaded with exceptionally good young pitchers eager to move up to the majors. They threw hard, showed a lot of confidence, and the starter I’d seen the day before, from my position on the bench, seemed to have a mean streak to go with his wild, inconsistent delivery. He hit two of our guys in the six innings he pitched, and those two hit batsmen were half of our offense, because we only got one hit and a base on balls from their starter the whole time.

Their relievers weren’t all that impressive, but my new club only managed to score two runs off them in the later innings, and Durham beat us 7-2. I watched the whole thing from the dugout and wasn’t exactly overawed by my new club’s offense. Our designated hitter was 0 for 4 and struck out twice, and I thought he looked pretty helpless doing it.

Newhouse told me after the game that I’d start the next day at DH. “No use asking around about the pitcher,” he said. “It’s some new guy. Some Cuban nobody’s seen before. He was a big deal back home, but around the League, nobody knows shit about him yet.”

Well, I would be hitting seventh for Gwinnett, so there would be a little bit of time to watch the Cuban guy in action. What the hell? He didn’t know what I could do, either. I figured this kid must be pretty good if they were starting him off in Triple A ball, right off the boat.

I was still staying in a moldy little motel a couple of blocks from the ballpark while I looked around for a longer-term rental. A motherly looking woman in the front office kept a listing of apartment rentals and prospective roommates -- mostly unmarried players from the club. Working from her listings on my second day in Lawrenceville, I quickly found and leased an uninspired but clean-looking one-bedroom on the second floor of a low-rise, only a half-mile from the ballpark.

It wasn’t much but I preferred having my own digs, roommate-free. They don’t pay us much in minor league ball, but my signing bonus had been large money where I come from, and although that had been three years ago, I hadn’t spent much of it. At the time, I’d bought a two-year-old Honda CR-V, a nice used pickup truck, and some decent-looking clothes, and salted away most of the rest. Since then, I’d managed to live on my salary and the meal allowances. I augmented my income in the off seasons working in construction back home in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Following the advice of the club’s front-office lady, I’d offered a healthy extra rent deposit in exchange for a month-to-month lease on the tiny apartment. You never know where you’ll be next month when you’re playing in the minors, so the last thing you need is a busted lease.

Then I hit the local Wal-Mart and bought a cheap one-speed bike for the short commute to the ballpark. That evening, heading for the ballyard for just my second time, I felt like a bona fide resident of Lawrenceville. All I needed was to register to vote.

Being a young, unattached ballplayer knocking around the minors is, in some ways, a hard way to make a living. But I knew things could be a whole lot worse. I’d been lucky. My signing bonus was way more money than my non-jock college buddies had seen when they signed up for their first jobs after graduation. Sure, most of them were by now making more money, and building more stable careers, than I was since we’d all gone our separate ways. But I doubted that they were enjoying life more than I was. I’d been lucky. The Braves had started me off in high-A ball and kept me there for my first year as a pro. Then I’d moved up to Jackson, Mississippi in Double-A and had one successful season there – just last year.

Now, after a spending April with my old Jackson club, I’d been promoted to the International League club just outside of Atlanta. Triple-A ball. I was barely 24 years old and on the cusp of real success in my chosen field of endeavor. If I could play defense even a little bit, I’d have a real future with this organization.

But I couldn’t play defense worth a damn! I was a designated hitter, period. Everybody knew it. The management of this Gwinnett ballclub knew it. I knew that the Atlanta Braves’ top brass knew it. They’d been getting regular reports on my progress (or lack of it) for two full seasons. They’d be getting more of the same from the Gwinnett Braves. Unless I got traded to an American League club, my chances of making it to the major leagues were slim and none. There weren’t many clubs in the National League who could carry a player who was good for offense-only. Maybe if you were an old offensive star who had slowed down defensively but could still hit, the club might keep you around for a while as a reliable pinch hitter.

Maybe. But they weren’t going to promote any 24-year-olds for that job. Not a guy without a glove.

All I could do was continue to hit – early, hard and often – and try to make myself attractive trade bait.

Meanwhile, I would relax, get to know my teammates and the manager and coaches, do my best to be a good citizen, and try to enjoy life as best I could. After all, I didn’t have much to complain about.

We lost to Durham again but my debut with the Gwinnett Braves was a success. I went two-for-three and walked once. Drove in a run in the fifth inning, and scored the tying run for us in the eighth, although we couldn’t hold on and lost in ten innings.

My first game in the International League was the tail-end of a homestand so I had only the two nights in my new apartment before we were on the road. We had three games in Norfolk, Virginia against the Tides, Baltimore’s AAA affiliate. Then we hit Columbus, Ohio for three more, and then Louisville.

Back home in Lawrenceville after that nine-game road trip, I enjoyed my first open date since joining the club. I slept most of the day.

But I was hitting. I was up over .340 and had two homers and three doubles in my ten games.

I’d made friends with a few of the guys on the team, especially the second-string catcher, Rollie Perkins. Rollie was too tall for a catcher and he struck out an awful lot, but he was one of those guys who looked the part: looked like a ballplayer ought to look. He was tall and slender and had a wonderful head of dark hair. If Rollie ever made it big as a ballplayer, he was certain to get some great opportunities to do TV commercials. Probably for hairspray.