Chapter 18

Bill Bowman had found us a pretty upscale motel for our indefinite stay in the Tampa-St. Petersburg area. The view of Tampa Bay was gorgeous, and the appointments in the room were half a dozen cuts above what I had been accustomed to during my stint with the American Association's Saints.

I must admit that some of the hotels the Naranjeros had frequented on the road hadn't been half bad! While in Mexico, I had expected the usual Motel 6 - equivalents that I had known so well throughout my brief baseball career. It had been a pleasant surprise to find we often had good-to-excellent accommodations during road trips.

But the Naranjeros weren't paying the freight in Tampa, and all I could see were dollar signs. The tally of What I Owed Bill included both the intangibles -- like all the time and effort he'd spent turning me into a pitcher -- and the extremely tangible items -- like this motel room.

I damned well better collect some kind of signing bonus, or I'd be paying Bill Bowman back for the rest of my days.

That whole subject worried me a lot. I wanted badly to re-sign with the Orioles. All the Orioles' farm clubs were within a few hours' drive of Baltimore -- some within mere minutes! OK, maybe ninety minutes, but, still...

I knew that I wasn't about to be sent to a Triple A level club, but even Norfolk, the Orioles' Triple A affiliate and the farthest of its teams away from Baltimore, was no more than a few hours by car through the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel.

My most likely assignment, if the Orioles signed me, would be Frederick in the Class A Carolina League. Distance from Baltimore? Fifty miles. Aberdeen, the Orioles' lower-level Class A affiliate, was even closer, but I thought it was less likely that the Orioles would start me out there. It was a beginner's league. I might be pretty green, still, but I figured I was ready for the higher-level Class A ball played in the Carolina League.

And Bowie, my old club in Double A, was so close to Baltimore that I could live with Josie -- at least I could if I kept my head down whenever company dropped by.

But all of this worried me greatly, because my strong preference for Baltimore could become an obstacle to my collecting the highest possible signing bonus. I owed it to Bill Bowman, I knew, not to leap at the Orioles' first offer without giving any thought to the consequences.

Bill was my bona fide agent. True, I was in charge. I wasn't required to do everything he said or to sign with whichever club made the highest offer. But if I turned down a truly handsome offer from some other club, just so I could be close to Josie, Bill Bowman wasn't going to derive much benefit from our relationship over these past many months, or from all the hard work he'd devoted to my career. Sure, eventually I could pay back the costs of his out-of-pocket investment in me. But how would I pay back the bonus dollars foregone?

I had to listen to Bill. It wasn't as if he was unaware of my interests. He knew, and understood, my preference for the Birds. Not once had he ever expressed any sort of objection. But he had urged me to keep my eyes on the prize, and not to allow the Baltimore bias to be the last word in negotiations.

He was right, of course. Josie and I already had suffered through a pretty extended period of long-distance romance. Eager as I was to end that, I owed it not only to myself but to Josie to try to assure our future. Part of that future had to be economic success. My best -- maybe my only -- path to economic prosperity was going to be professional baseball. I'd already been released unconditionally once. My talent as a position player had simply been inadequate. Now I was either going to become a successful pitcher or learn to sell insurance -- or maybe used cars.

I had better start thinking of all thirty major league organizations as potential employers. I had better stop giving so much weight to winding up in Frederick or in Bowie. Time to worry more about not winding up selling previously owned Dodge Durangos.

I spent a little time on the Internet, reviewing the minor league affiliates of the clubs Bill had said were expressing an interest in signing me.

Well -- Kansas City, so far my most openly enthusiastic suitor, had a Class A affiliate in Wilmington, Delaware! Not too shabby! Wilmington would be just a hop and a skip up I-95 from my Sweetie!

Then again, what were the odds that the Royals would assign me there? Or that they would keep me there, if they did? They had another Class A affiliate in Iowa, and the Royals' Double A club was in some town in Arkansas I'd never heard of. Anyway, I'd had enough of the Great Midwest during my sojourn with the St. Paul Saints. Neither Kansas City nor its affiliated clubs looked all that inviting.

And it would be worse, if anything, if I signed with the Giants or the Rockies. The Giants, inexplicably, had a Double-A farm club in Connecticut. But all their other affiliates were on the West Coast. Anyway, even Connecticut would be a long ways from Josie.

That left the Philadelphia Phillies, the last club Bill had heard from, in terms of at least a mild overt expression of interest. Their Double A club was pretty close by in Reading, Pennsylvania, and it was in the Eastern League -- same as the Bowie Baysox. If I were sent to Reading, at least all contact with Josie would not be lost.

The Phillies had Class A farms in Lakewood, New Jersey and Williamsport, Pennsylvania. They also had one in Clearwater, Florida, just west of Tampa where I was now sitting, doing all this contemplating of my navel. The Phillies' organization at least had all its affiliates in the eastern half of the country. I should be grateful for small favors.

Bill spent a lot of time on the telephone and was making frequent trips away from the motel in his Hertz rental. When he was around, we would engage in light workouts at the outdoor facility Bill had lined up for the tryouts to come -- if any. These workouts were designed to keep my arm in shape and ready to show off on demand and on short notice.

I was being advertised around. Bill was making clear that if a club didn't want to send someone to Tampa to see us, we'd go to where they were -- at their convenience -- to see them.

Finally the Yankees, whose training site was within a half-mile of our location, deigned to send somebody to watch me throw. Bill warned me that their interest didn't appear to be very intense, and that the man the Yankees were sending was the pitching coach for the Yankees' Class-A affiliate right there in town, the Tampa Yankees.

"It doesn't mean you'd necessarily wind up playing here," Bill said. "Like most everyone else, the Yankees have a combined minor league spring training facility. It may just be coincidence that they're sending the local club's pitching coach."

The guy arrived, patiently and quietly watched me warm up, and then watched me throw to a local college kid we'd hired for the purpose. I cut loose pretty good for about fifteen minutes before he asked Bill if he could stand in at the plate like a hitter, and watch what I could do.

Bill consented to that (although it made me nervous as hell, thinking about what it would do to my budding career if I were to bean a member of the Yankees organization). The Yankee rep, whose name was Tito Cicerone, stood in, leaning over the plate like a right-handed hitter, waving an imaginary bat while Bill, taking over as catcher from our hired kid, signaled the pitches I should throw and where I should try to throw them.

We tossed this character about a dozen pitches, ranging from high heat to the nastiest slider I could muster. Then Cicerone turned around at the plate and did his lefty-hitter imitation, and we went through my repertoire once again.

"Nice arm, Kid," our guest hollered as he backed out of the batter's box and called an end to the proceedings. He then gestured for Bill Bowman to follow him -- obviously excluding me from the discussion -- and walked toward the street and his waiting car.

I just gathered up my dusty equipment and kept my distance. When Bill came back, he shook his head. "Maybe he's just being coy," he said, "but I didn't get the impression that Mr. Cicerone is going to break any speed limits getting back to Legends Field to sing your praises."

"You don't think he was impressed?"

"You did fine," Bill said. "But, no. Unless he's a better actor than I think, he was just -- at best -- mildly interested."

"Fuck him. I didn't want to pitch for the Yankees anyway," I said.

"We might still hear something from them," Bill said. "He did a good job of looking like he wasn't impressed, but I thought you were sharp out there, Freddie. If this character is a real baseball man, he couldn't have helped but be a little bit interested."

"What's next?" I asked.

"Back to the hotel, a nice shower, and a pleasant late lunch," he said. "Then I'm going to call back everyone I've talked to, and tell them they'd better move fast, because the Yankees are interested."

I thought Bill was just pissing into the wind on that one, but I didn't tell him how to be my agent, and he didn't tell me how to -- well, actually, I guess he did tell me how to do just about anything he wanted to tell me. But at least he wasn't overbearing about it.

That afternoon, at 4:10, Eastern Standard Time, the Yankees assistant general manager, Casper Harrison, called Bill and offered me a signing bonus of $75,000.

When Bill hung up and told me about it, I was flabbergasted. "Where would they send me?" I asked.

"No telling. They'd invite you to their minor league camp, and decide where to assign you when the clubs break to go home for the regular season. You might play for their A affiliate right here in Tampa. They've got one in Charleston, South Carolina, too -- nice town, Charleston. Their Double-A club is in Trenton, New Jersey."

"The Yankees," I said.

"Every boy's dream," Bill said.

"Not this boy. In my family, they were known as "Those Fucking Yankees."

"It's $75,000 more than any other club has offered you so far," Bill said.

I could tell Bill was more excited about this initial feeler than I was. He was stoked. "I've been telling everyone else -- the Rockies, the Giants, the Phillies -- about your tryout this morning, ever since we got back to the motel. But I was just flapping my lips... Now I've gotta get on the phone, call them all back again!"

"Call the Orioles first," I said.

"Oh, are you, perchance, particularly interested in entertaining an offer from the Orioles?" Bill asked, laying the sarcasm on thick.

"Only if they continue to play in, and employ minor league affiliates in, the Great State of Maryland," I said.

"Birthplace of the Star Spangled Banner," Bill offered.

"One of the Thirteen Original Colonies," I said.

"Hometown of Babe Ruth," Bill said, with reverence.

"Not to mention a certain other babe of considerable importance to at least one of us assembled here today."

"I sure wish the Twins would call me back," Bill Bowman complained.

The handsome Yankee bonus offer was a mixed blessing. When Bill talked to the Kansas City Royals' representative who had been so frankly interested in signing me, he got a cold response. "We're not interested in going that high on an untried prospect," Bill was told.

Well, I didn't exactly have my heart set on the Royals, anyway.

But if the dollar offer from the Yankees had dampened Kansas City's interest, it had been like a dose of Viagra to some of the other clubs. After dinner that same night, the San Francisco Giants assistant GM called Bill and offered $85,000.

Our dreamed-of bidding war had begun. Bill didn't seem surprised. I was still amazed at the reactions we'd received. All except that of the Royals. Their response, it seemed to me, was the most sensible of the bunch.

"The Yankees will at least match the Giants' offer," Bill said confidently.

Well, he was probably right, I knew. I opened my mouth to respond, and Bill said, "I know, I know. You're wondering whether the Orioles would match it."

"Still nobody from the Orioles has talked to you?"

"Got a call this very afternoon," he said, enjoying watching my eyes get big.

"Where was I?"

"You were downstairs, at the newsstand, remember? Looking for that Grisham paperback?"

"Yeah," I said. Bowman just looked at me. The bastard. He was enjoying this. "So, OK. So what did they say?"

"It was Mike Flanagan," Bill said. "Mike's not the main front office guy anymore, but I'd say he was higher-up in the food chain than most of the guys I've been talking to from other clubs. And he's way higher than any of the ones who've been taking my calls."

"Jesus, Bill, quit stringing this out! What did he say?"

"He said he'd heard about you from Dave Hooks. He said he'd like for you to come down to Lauderdale, day after tomorrow, let him meet you personally. He wants you to try out for them with Dewey Wainwright present -- and Flanagan himself."

"Wainwright's the pitching coach at Bowie," I told Bill.

"I know," he said.

"He's the first guy, ever suggested to me I could maybe be a pitcher!" I said.

"I know," Bill said.

"Damn!"

"Yeah. And Flanagan, in case you don't know it, was a front-line starting pitcher with the Orioles for years! Anybody knows pitchers, it's him."

"I'm gonna be shaking like a leaf down there!" I told him. "Damn! There's way too much at stake on this one, Bill!"

"You wanted this, Freddie. And now you're getting it under the best possible circumstances. You've got two solid offers in your pocket from two very good organizations. Hell, if you want, I could get the Yankee offer boosted to eighty-five or more before we even head down there to the Orioles' camp."

"No, don't jerk them around. I don't think it would be right to push the Yankees for more money, just to impress Mike Flanagan."

"Well, when we see Flanagan, don't you dare start talking disparagingly about the Yankees," Bill said. "Let Flanagan assume you're just like every other kid -- stars in his eyes, dreaming of playing for the Yankees."

"Bill, what should I do if the Orioles lowball us? You know how I feel about this. You know how much I want to be where Josie is. What if they offer me a contract, but with a smaller bonus? That would shortchange you, as my agent."

"I can't really see that happening," Bill said. "It's possible they won't like you enough as a prospect to sign you. That could happen. But if they want to sign you at all, they're not going to be deterred by the offers you've received from the Yankees -- or the Giants, either. If anything, the Yankee offer makes you far more attractive in their eyes."

"Wait a minute ... Does Flanagan even know about the Yankees' offer?"

Bill just smiled. "If he does, he didn't hear it from me. His call was based, I think, entirely on their scouting reports and on Dave Hooks' conversation with him. But don't worry. By the time we get down to Lauderdale, the word will have gotten around. I've told the Rockies, the Phillies and the Royals about your money offers -- one or both of them. There's no way the word won't filter back to the Baltimore guys."

"Please don't push them too hard, Bill. I got nothing against money, but if the Orioles make a decent bonus offer, please, please don't let it get away. I don't want to be greedy, Bill. But I do want to hook up with the Orioles, if at all possible!"

"I know that, Freddie. I'd have to be an idiot not to know that by now. But let's set some goals, here. Let's make Baltimore pay the going rate, at least, for your services. No discounts. They signed you once for ... what? Zilch, right? Just for the chance to play ball. This time, let's make them pay for the privilege. You're going to be worth it, Kid. Of that, I have little doubt."

"OK, Bill. I'll keep my mouth shut and let you handle it. All of it."

"I'm gonna call Dave Hooks," Bill said, "ask him to show up for your tryout, maybe offer to catch for you."

"I'm gonna call Josie," I said. "I'm going to tell her the good news, and tell her to make herself scarce while I'm showing the Orioles what I can do."

"You don't want her there to see it?"

"Are you kidding? I'm a nervous wreck already. Imagine how I'd tighten up if Josie were there to witness the whole thing."

"Well, you're right, anyway, that she shouldn't be around. BirdSports may know, unofficially, that you and Josie are an item, but we don't want to rub anyone's nose in it. So tell her when we're coming, and for her to take that morning off, maybe hit the beach or something."

"We're going to be staying over, aren't we, in Ft. Lauderdale, after the tryout?"

"It's almost three hundred miles down there," Bill said. "Even if we flew, we'd probably spend the night. But we're gonna drive it. We'll leave tomorrow morning, meet with Flanagan and Wainwright the next morning, and then come back up here on the following day, unless I hear from some other club, wants to look you over while we're down in that end of the state."

"I know I'm into you for big bucks already," I said, "but could we book separate rooms while we're in Lauderdale?"