Chapter 7: Dave

We had Wilmington in Monday through Wednesday for night games, an off night on Thursday, and then the Friday night game with Lynchburg, followed by day games both weekend days. After that, we'd hit the road again, to Wilmington, Delaware for three in the Blue Rocks' park.

I kind of wished I'd had the presence of mind to suggest that Emily come up Thursday, but she had said she'd consulted the team's schedule, so she must have noticed on her own that we had the off day. Probably, it just hadn't suited her own work schedule to come up a day earlier. OK. In a way, her plan was better. She'd see two of our games -- probably not the thrill of a lifetime for her, but it would give her a chance to get to know Eddie. I knew he'd educate her about the club -- and especially about me -- with a running commentary throughout both games.

Gee. Maybe I'd better caution Little Brother not to run his mouth too much!

And her asking about staying over -- with us, in the apartment. Well, that had been totally unexpected. Not that I thought it meant anything. I was well-aware that we had just met. I was definitely not going to get lucky. Not this soon! I wasn't even going to try to get lucky. If this girl and I were ever going to be a couple, I was hoping it was going to be serious stuff -- not a one-night stand.

Still, Eddie had been thrilled when he heard the news. "She's gonna stay here, overnight? Wow! Bro, you are such a stud! Wow! I am so going to hate it, staying over with Ms. Washington! I'm gonna drill a hole in her wall, so I can peek!"

"Eddie, Eddie, it's not like that at all. Emily would probably be afraid to stay here at all, if she thought I was going to make any moves on her! It's way too soon for that. And you! ... You be careful -- real careful -- how you treat her when she's here. You treat her like a lady! You know how to act respectful around women! Your mama taught you, well enough. Nothing's changed."

"Dave! Dave! ... This girl. She likes you, Dude! She's coming all the way up here to see you, and she wants to see two games! Girls don't like baseball that much, Dave! Anyway, she could see the Nationals, right there in town, if she did! Even Camden Yards is closer to her than we are! Two games? The Frederick Keys? Get real! She wants to see you, Bro, and she wants to spend the night, right here!"

"Eddie. I want you to get off this kick, right now! I really like this girl. I mean, I think I could really like this girl. If there's any chance of us -- me and her -- getting anywhere, it's not going to involve any bedroom gymnastics this coming Friday night. Ab-so-lute-ly not! And you're not staying over with Ms. Washington, either. You can stay with her after the game, while we go out for a drink or something, but when we come back, I'll come and get you, and bring you back here, and you'll sleep with me -- in my bed. And Emily will sleep in your room."

"Man! OK, Dave. You're the boss ... But promise me you won't change the sheets, when she leaves!" He made a long, passionate sniffing sound, inhaling deeply, finally releasing his breath with a loud "AHHHHHHH!"

"What am I going to do with you, Eddie? What am I going to do?"

We beat Wilmington Monday night, 6-3, and I went one-for-four -- a third-inning scratch single. But we lost the Tuesday game 11-4, and I took a collar in four trips. My average was now down to .241 and almost three months into the season, I had terribly puny offensive numbers. Stu Little came by my locker after the game and asked me to report two hours early on Wednesday for extra batting practice. "Rick Dempsey is coming up here, Wednesday-Thursday," Stu said. "He wants to see you catch the Wednesday night game, wants to give you some hitting tips, before, and maybe during, batting practice. Wants you to meet with him on Thursday, too."

Rick Dempsey was one of the coaches on the Big Club, and had been the Orioles' first-string catcher for many years, back in the glory days when Baltimore had fielded some dominant clubs. I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting him, and talking baseball with him. But at the same time, I was a little alarmed. What did it mean, one of the Orioles' coaches coming down here, during the regular season? The Orioles had a game tonight, and Thursday night, too. I guess Dempsey could go back to Baltimore early enough on Thursday to make that night's game, but he'd be missing at least one -- Wednesday night -- to watch us play.

To watch me play.

Was that good news? Or bad? Was he coming to town to try to fix my weak bat, or had he heard good things about my defense, and wanted to see for himself, what I could do?

Who was I kidding? Frontline coaches from the Big Club didn't come down, in June, to scout catchers in "A" ball, just because they'd heard good things. There was plenty of time for them to hear good things -- over the next two, three years -- about my defense. No. Dempsey was coming here to see if he could make me into a better hitter. He wasn't the hitting coach, but he had been an unspectacular, but decent, offensive player as well as a fine catcher.

Obviously, the Oriole brass was getting worried about whether I was ever going to hit. This visit was not good news for me! It might even mean that, if I didn't bring up my average and drive in more runs, I'd be released.

It might mean that Frederick could be my last stop in organized ball.

Jesus! I didn't want to be released! Not now! ... Not at the end of the season, either. It seemed highly unlikely they'd release me now -- in June. I was catching practically every night. Who could they bring in to take my place?

But, what about in September? Instead of assigning me to Bowie next year, they could just -- let me go. And -- oh God! What if they made a trade? What if they picked up a catcher, somewhere, from another club's farm system? If they gave up on me, they could make a trade just so they could release me, and I could be gone tomorrow!

Please, God, No! Always, always, I'd wanted to be a ballplayer. I had accepted, long ago, that I wasn't going to be a great player. I knew what I could do, and what I couldn't do. But I still believed that I could make it -- and all the way to the Majors, too. Maybe I'd never make the big money, but, hey. Even the Major League Minimum was big money, to me.

Well, OK then. If Dempsey wanted to come and give me batting tips, I'd sure as hell listen! Maybe he could help. Maybe I could show him I was coachable. Show him I could improve.

Looks like at least some part of my Thursday off day was spoken for, now. Rick Dempsey was gonna watch me hit a few. OK. I'd cooperate. Eddie could stay home and clean the house, get us ready for Emily's visit. He was good, Eddie -- about helping with the cleaning. He was skilled at it, too. Mom had trained us both well. We weren't slobs, at home, even when company wasn't coming. No sitting around doing nothing. It wasn't the way Eddie and I had learned to live, growing up in our house.

Anyway, I didn't want Eddie there with me, at the ball park on Thursday, when maybe Rick Dempsey would be yelling at me, or something. My brother still thought I was the Johnny Bench of the 21^st Century. I wanted him to keep thinking that, for at least a little while longer. I was grateful, too, that Emily Anne wasn't coming up until Friday afternoon. Dempsey would be back coaching in Camden Yards, by that time.

By pre-arrangement, the Keys' manager, Stu Little, and the pitching coach, Evan McDonald, met with me at the ball park at 3:30 Wednesday afternoon. Rick Dempsey showed up a few minutes later. Nice car. Small SUV. Nothing pricey, but it looked like a real comfortable way to drive from Baltimore to Frederick. All of us except Dempsey were in uniform. He wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt, and shoes with rubber spikes.

"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Dempsey," I said.

Well, it was. He was one of the best catchers Baltimore had ever had. He went back a long way in the organization that I had joined only a year ago. And he had been a minor league manager, in Triple A, after his playing days. He might even manage the Orioles someday.

"I've heard real good things about you, Dave," Dempsey said. "But I'm here because we're troubled, about reports that you're not hitting."

"Yes, sir. It's true I'm down some, so far this year."

"Your last year at UAB, you hit .311 on the season. In fifty games, you had 44 runs batted in. You hit 8 homers; had a nice OBP."

"I never did hit for power, sir," I said.

"We knew that when we signed you," Dempsey said. "But you hit .311 your final year in college. That's not bad. Forty-four ribbies. Not bad at all! ... And last year, at Delmarva, you hit the ball real good while you were there."

"I'm just in a slump, Mr. Dempsey," I told him. "I'll snap out of it."

"I want to watch you hit," Dempsey said. "Evan's gonna throw you some BP balls. Don't try to pull anything; just make contact. See what you can do. Be natural. Don't tighten up, if you can help it. I just want to watch you hit. Don't impress me, just show me how you hit, every day, every game -- all right?"

"Yes, sir."

Evan McDonald, our pitching coach, is a kindly man. He only wanted the best for me. He likes me, and likes the way I handle his pitchers. I make the pitchers look good, and that makes Evan McDonald look good. And I listened -- and learned -- whenever Evan told our pitchers something. Now, in front of Rick Dempsey, Evan McDonald was working hard out there on the mound, trying to send me nothing but fat pitches, dead-solid-perfect, 80-mph, straight-as-a-laser gopher ball-wannabes.

Evan McDonald wanted me to succeed!

Even so, I looked pretty lame. I hit a couple of balls decently for what might have been, under game conditions, singles into the left-centerfield gap. But I missed a couple of Evan's fattest pitches entirely, and fouled off a couple of others. I popped up, a half-dozen times! It was a debacle.

"Evan! Throw him some breaking balls," Dempsey ordered.

Again, McDonald did his damnedest to toss me up his Curve-Ball Lite. His breaking pitches were not the vicious dirt-biters that had made him a strong starting pitcher over a half-dozen major league seasons back in the 90s. He was tossing me up nothing but sweetheart pitches.

Dempsey probably knew it, too.

Point is, sweetheart pitches or not, I wasn't doing much of a job of hitting them. On a scale of one to ten, my batting practice exhibition for Rick Dempsey was about a four.

Dempsey called us all back in, thanked Stu and Evan McDonald for showing up, and sent them on their way. They wouldn't be going far. They'd be due back at the park for that night's game within ninety minutes.

He invited me to join him in his small SUV and drove me straight to an optometrist's office.

"Won't we need an appointment?" I asked him.

"We've got one," he said.

I found it hard to believe -- and a little bit insulting -- that Dempsey would have scheduled an eye-examination for me before he'd even seen me hit.

Forty-five minutes later, we were having coffee at a Starbucks downtown. "Nothing wrong with your eyesight," Dempsey said. "Too bad. I had a little theory going, there."