Chapter 11

The Saints made the Northern Division playoffs against Lincoln, but on the last day of August, we lost the deciding game of the best-of-five series with the Saltdogs and my first "season" as a pitcher was over.

It hadn't been so terrible. I finished the year with no wins and two losses, but that record wasn't awful for a middle reliever with zero experience. I'd eventually appeared in nine games for the Saints, and although my numbers for walks and hit batsmen were pretty atrocious, they had shown improvement as the season had worn on.

I even got into one of the playoff games -- a 14-inning affair in Lincoln that the Saints lost, 7-6. I gave up a run in the eighth inning that was the one that sent the game into all those extra innings, but before that I'd shut out the heavy-hitting Saltdog lineup for two and a third. As usual, I didn't get the loss (or the win) attributed to me.

"Don't worry about your record," Carlos told me after the final playoff game. "Too often, when a relief pitcher has wins on his record, all it means is he's blown some saves and his teammates have picked him up, next inning, with some runs."

"Well, the two losses were earned, I can tell you that," I said.

"You did pretty damned good, Kid," Carlos Ortega said. "You can come back next season, play for me again if you want to. I got a feeling, though, somebody's gonna pick you up."

"You really think so?"

"The major league clubs, they scout us pretty good," Ortega said. "They don't miss much. I know a couple guys -- scouts -- who have been around when you pitched."

"Mr. Bell offered me a contract for next year," I said. "But, jeez, Carlos, I don't know if I can afford to stay here another year. I mean, they don't even pay McDonald's wages, in this league."

"You go ahead and sign with the Saints," he said. "You decide to quit, next spring -- give up baseball -- you can quit, easy enough. But you're better off signing, because it means clubs in Organized Ball can deal for you. If you just go off now and disappear, you got nothing. If you're the property of the St. Paul Saints, it'll actually increase your value, to big league clubs. Sure, they'll have to throw a few bucks in the Saints' direction to acquire rights to deal with you, but it's pocket change for the big boys, Freddie. They expect it. If they don't have to deal with somebody over you, they think something's screwed up. It doesn't feel right to 'em."

"What about an agent, Carlos? You think I ought to try to hire an agent?"

"Did you have an agent, when you signed out of college?" he asked.

"No. But I was... I was real marginal, Carlos. I figured I wasn't in a position to try to negotiate anything."

"Well, you talk to Bill Bowman about it," he said. "You take his advice on this. My own advice to you would be, yeah, find you an agent. Not to push for some high-powered deal. That's not gonna happen. But just to be sure you don't, you know, get hurt. Hell, maybe Bill could represent you himself."

"You think he... you think he knows enough?"

"Well, he's not a lawyer or nothing like that," Carlos said. "But he's been around baseball all his life. He's had a couple kids, from the university, who went into pro ball. Nobody big. Nobody you've ever heard of; but they got minor league contracts. And I know Bill advised them some. He certainly knew as much about it as the regular coaches at the University of Minnesota knew."

"It would be a nice way to repay him, for helping me," I said.

"Well, not really, Kid. I mean, if you were going to sign somewhere for a big bonus, then, yeah, an agent's share of your signing money would be worthwhile. But that's not likely, Freddie. Your goal should be to get picked up by a big league club. Period. Any kind of big signing bonus isn't likely going to be a part of it."

I smiled. "No bidding war, huh?"

"You keep working with Bowman over the winter," he said. "Who knows? Maybe there could be a small-time bidding war. He's a smart old bird, Freddie. You did good, hooking up with Bill Bowman."

With the end of the Saints' season, my apartment-sharing arrangement with Henry Farris came to an end. Henry was going back to his Kentucky hometown for the winter. Like me, he was hoping to land a baseball job with a more promising future than what was available to him in an independent baseball league like the Association.

I knew Henry's chances weren't great. He was twenty-five years old -- pretty old for an unsigned prospect. He had a decent bat and could handle first base like a champ, but soon, I knew, he'd have to face the fact that it wasn't likely to happen for him. Lightning probably wasn't going to strike.

My own chances, I knew, weren't a whole lot better. Looking back on the year just past, I wondered how I could have deluded myself back in Bowie, convincing myself that somehow I was going to move all the way up to the major leagues as a regular.

But I figured that all of us, struggling in the minors, had to look at the world with more optimism than our day-to-day lives would suggest was appropriate. We all recognized, when we thought about it, that most of us weren't destined to climb all the way to the top of our chosen profession. It was a meritocracy of the first order, and you either produced or you went on back home and got honest work somewhere.

Sure, we recognized it when we thought about it, but mostly we tried not to think about it.

But this new start -- as a pitcher -- had given me a new injection of hope. I hadn't accomplished anything remarkable in the American Association as a pitcher, but the potential I saw for myself was considerably greater than I had felt when I was trying to make the grade as a position player.

Bill Bowman had warned me that I would encounter skepticism because of my slight build. "They're looking for a horse, and you come over more like a pony," he said. "They're gonna see you can throw hard, but they're gonna think you haven't got the stamina, or the strength, to throw hard for long. Shoot, Freddie, from what I've seen, I think you could develop into a starter. But the scouts won't even consider it. They'll see that you're a power pitcher, but they'll right-away assume you can't do it for nine innings. They'll tag you as a reliever, Freddie, and there's not a damned thing either one of us can do about it. Not now. Not right away. Might as well go with the flow, son. Sell yourself as a reliever."

"There are worse things," I said.

"Damned straight!... And as a reliever, you might get your shot a little sooner, too. You might not still be in the minors when you're thirty!"

"But... you think I could be a starter, Bill?"

"From what I've seen, you got a real rubber arm, kid. You're like a miniature ox! You recover quickly. But as a reliever, you could pitch every day: an inning, or even two innings, if you were called upon. That's real valuable to a club, Freddie! Maybe you won't make big bucks, but the work would be steady, and, after awhile, they'd come to appreciate it, the kind of stuff you could do for a club out of the bullpen."

"I can't wait to go to work," I told him. "I'm yours -- for the winter -- if you're still up for teaching me to be a pitcher."

"Oh, I'm up for it! You're make progress, kid. You're doing better than I expected, and you're doing stuff sooner than I expected."

"I gotta go to Baltimore, though. See Josie again. It's been too long. I'd like... I'd like to take a week off, Bill. Go see her. She's coming back here -- to St. Paul -- after the season's over, but that's a month away. It'll be even more than a month, if the Orioles get into the post-season."

"You go ahead, Freddie. You need a break, anyway. We're gonna be working awful hard, now that the season's over for you. Once we start in, it's gonna be a real grind."

"You mind if I leave my stuff at your house, while I'm gone?" I asked. "My roommate's leaving town, and I need to find a new place."

"Why don't you just plan to stay here with me?" he said. "I got this big house, nobody in it but me. We're gonna be working together, most every day. Be easier, we was right there together."

"I'd want to pay my way."

"You can run a tab, son. I know you ain't got no money to speak of."

"You're right about that. I'm going to need to take a Greyhound back to Baltimore."

"No you're not. You go ahead and fly back. We'll get on the computer, find you a good deal on a ticket. You want to spend your week with Josie, not on some bus, goin' and comin'."

"Tell you what -- see what you can find for me, a one-way flight early Friday, just to Chicago," I said. "The Orioles are playing the White Sox for three in Chicago this weekend. I could bus from there to Detroit in a few hours, and connect up with Josie again while the Orioles finish up their road trip with the White Sox. After Detroit, I could bus it back here when they head back East. It'll be a lot cheaper. Hell, by that time, the bus'll be fine -- I'll need to sleep all the way back!"

"What about all them hotel bills?" he said. "What you gonna do -- gonna sneak into Josie's hotel rooms while she's on the road?"

"It's OK if I do," I told him. "I haven't got a contract in Organized Baseball. It won't be fraternization -- just good old-fashioned country sneakin' around."

Josie and I talked about my plan that night. She was all for it. She was familiar with the hotels BirdSports contracted with in both Chicago and Detroit. She saw no serious obstacles to smuggling me into her rooms. "We'll have to be a little careful," she said, "just to protect my reputation as a proper young professional woman. But it can be done. I'll even scout out some nearby places -- away from the hotel -- where we can have breakfast together."

"What's wrong with room service?" I asked.

Making the Chicago series took some scrambling on my part to get my worldly goods moved into Bill Bowman's house, secure my one-way airline ticket in steerage class, and intercept my girl in Chicago.

The BirdSports' hotel wasn't top-of-the-line, but it was a couple of cuts better than any place I'd ever stayed before, and it was right there on Michigan Avenue. Chicago may be only America's Second (or Third) City, but it was a dynamic place for a small-town boy from the Southwest. My flight had gotten me to town ahead of the Orioles/BirdSports charter, so I cooled my heels downtown, waiting for Josie's arrival.