Chapter 5

Next morning, Josie again declined my offer of a restaurant breakfast and I showered, dressed, and left her house by 9:30. She gave me a friendly little nuzzle on the way out, and I was rapidly gaining some confidence that this could be the start of something big.

Neither of us said anything about the hand-on-bare-breast thing. I was pretty sure Josie must have known it had happened, but she never protested, never uttered a word about it.

Nothing was said about my coming back that evening, either. The unspoken expectation was that I would call her -- perhaps before the beginning of that night's games -- to discuss future plans, if any.

Back in Bowie, I showed up at four p.m. at the Baysox ballpark, ready for extended pre-game practice. But our manager, Corky McGregor, caught me in the clubhouse while I was changing into my uniform. "Freddie, come into my office, we need to talk."

Dressed in spikes and most of my uniform, I followed McGregor into the little enclosed space that constituted the manager's office.

"I got bad news for you, Kid," he said.

"What's that?"

"Club's gonna release you. I'm really sorry, Freddie."

"Jesus Christ!... Why? What'd I do?"

"It's nothing you did, Son. I know you've done your best. The Orioles just completed a big trade with Oakland. They picked up a couple of young infielders, gave up a pitcher from the Norfolk club, and another one from Aberdeen. We're supposed to send Simpson and Hernandez up to Norfolk, and both of these new Oakland guys are coming here -- to Bowie."

"This is nuts! Just this past week, they called me up to the big club! I knew it was temporary, but, shit, I don't get it! One day I'm in the majors, next thing -- I'm out on the street!"

"I told you when they called you up, Freddie, that it wasn't your shot. They just needed a warm body to be a backup infielder during an emergency. It was all those injuries, nothing more. The injury problem was still there -- that's why the Birds have given up some very good young pitchers to acquire infield prospects from outside the organization."

"Well, why can't I play in Frederick?" I asked him. Frederick was Baltimore's Class A club -- one rung further down the ladder than Double-A Bowie. It would be humiliating, dropping down to Class A, but not as humiliating as being released in mid-season.

"Freddie, they know you could play all right for Frederick, but the consensus is that you're not really a prospect for the major leagues -- now or in the future. Your getting sent up last week to Baltimore? That was just a fluke, Kid. Goddammit, I told you that, at the time. I knew it -- and you knew it, too."

"I knew I wasn't ready to stay up there past the emergency," I agreed. "But I didn't know I was almost ready to be shown the door right after I got back!"

"It's been a scramble, Freddie. The injuries up and down the organization led to some shifting around. You're just the odd man out... I'm really sorry."

"So this is it? No trade?... Nothing?"

"It's an unconditional release, Freddie. You're free to try to catch on with some other club, but I gotta be frank with you, Son, I don't think it's likely to happen. Even if you get another job in the minors, I don't see you going all the way. You've had enough of a taste, Freddie, to know that rotting away in the minors for the next five or six years, and then finally having to give it up -- that's no life! Better to break away now -- clean. I gotta tell you, Freddie -- I don't disagree with the Big Club's assessment. I think they're right: You just don't have a big-enough bat to play in the big leagues."

"I'm a good fielder, Corky!"

"Yes. You're a good fielder. But it's not enough, just being good, defensively. You gotta hit, Kid. And the fact is, you're just a 'good' fielder -- at short or second -- not a great one. There are other guys, Freddie, lots of guys, can field with you, and can hit better."

"So you're saying this is, like, effective right away? I'm just... out? Right now?"

"One of the new guys has already arrived, Freddie. He's on the roster, and I'm going to play him, tonight. Listen, I'm... I'm really sorry about this. You're a good kid, and you've done everything I've asked you to do. But it just ain't enough, Son. Listen, go talk to Eddie Carnegie in the office. He'll have a severance check for you."

Word hadn't yet spread among my erstwhile Baysox teammates that I had been released, so I simply sat around by my locker, half-dressed, until the place emptied and everybody was out on the field. Then I put my street clothes back on, wrapped up my glove and other personal equipment in a canvas bag, and prepared to leave. Just before I did, Dewey Wainwright, the Baysox' pitching coach, came back into the clubhouse and joined me.

"Sit down a minute, Freddie," he said. "... What are you going to do now?"

I laughed. "Beats me!" I said. "This is kinda sudden!"

"It's a tough racket," Wainwright agreed.

"I guess I'm through, at the tender age of twenty-three," I said. "Goddamn, Dewey! This really sucks, big-time! I didn't get an inkling! Nothing! Shit, I was playing in the Big Leagues a few fucking days ago!"

"It's rough, Freddie, I know!"

"Do you agree with... Corky? With the Orioles' brass?... Do you think I just haven't got enough talent to make it?"

"Freddie, judging baseball talent isn't something that's easy to do. But listen, Kid, you had to know you were a fringe guy. You were drafted late. No bonus. No pop in your bat. You're not hitting for average. The tools aren't there, Freddie. You've got some range at shortstop, and a real nice arm, throwing from the hole, but that's not enough, all by itself... So, yeah, Kid, I gotta tell you, I don't disagree with the decision to let you go."

"It's hard to take, Dewey. Real hard!"

"It always is, Kid."

"Fuck! I don't have anywhere to go, Dewey! What do I do? Go on home and get some half-assed job in an office somewhere? I want to be a ballplayer, goddamn it!"

"You can try to catch on somewhere, Freddie, but believe me, it's only going to prolong the agony for you... Unless..."

"Unless what, Dewey?"

"There's maybe one thing you could do. It's a real long shot, but it's your only shot. Believe me, I'm not recommending it. You'd be way better off, just accepting that you haven't got enough talent. Hey, you got the degree, right? You could maybe coach high school ball, something like that."

"Spit it out, Dewey, goddamn it!"

"Well. You got that strong arm, Freddie... You could maybe turn yourself into a pitcher."

"A pitcher?... I was never a pitcher, Dewey. Not even in high school, f' chrissakes!"

"Well. You're the one, crying about how you want to be a ballplayer so bad. Pitchers don't gotta be good hitters, Freddie. All they gotta do is pitch. You got any chance at all, making it in this game, it would be as a pitcher."

"You think the Orioles would keep me on? As a pitcher? Maybe if I started over, down in Frederick -- or even in Aberdeen, with the rookie club?"

"There's not a chance in hell of that, Freddie. Nobody's even discussed the possibility. I'm the only one making the suggestion. The Orioles aren't about to put you on a roster -- anywhere -- as an untrained pitcher."

"So. What do I do, then? How do I do it?"

"I don't know, Kid. Maybe get some old pro to work with you, and then, if it seems to be working out, you could maybe get a tryout in front of a couple of scouts. I don't know where to tell you to start... Good luck, Freddie."

Wainwright shook my hand, turned around, and left the clubhouse.

I picked up my severance check and left without saying goodbye to anybody else. I figured I'd probably never see the ballpark at Bowie, Maryland again.

I spent the rest of the late afternoon arranging for my departure from my apartment. About the time that night's Baysox' game was getting underway, I was driving my little car -- loaded to the gills with all my earthly possessions -- north to Baltimore. I could have called Josie Fitzgerald to let her know of my misfortune, but I didn't want to.

I wanted to tell her in person.

I'd tell her after the game -- the Orioles' game. I decided I'd go to the game, and try to connect with Josie afterward.

I could have called her, and maybe wangled a ticket to the game. Josie would have readily arranged for me to pick up a ticket at the Will Call window. I could even have called one of my Orioles teammates, if I'd had a phone number for one or more of them. They'd probably remember my name. After all, it had only been a short time since I'd been right in there amongst 'em.

But I didn't. I shelled out the money for a fair-to-middling upper deck seat between first base and the right field wall. No luxury box this night. I still had never been on the field at Camden Yards; all of my Orioles' appearances had been on their road trip out west. I was watching the game from the upper deck.

And at my own expense.

The Orioles were still injury-ridden and shorthanded in the infield, but I had to admit to myself that the fill-in shortstop that night displayed more grace and skill on the field than I believed I would have been capable of, had I been there in his place.

And he got a double in four trips, and knocked in a run. I probably wouldn't have gotten that done, either.

Well. At least I was going to be in the Encyclopedia of Baseball. I'd by-God gotten my tiny, unsubstantial little shot at playing in the Majors! It wasn't exactly the shot I'd dreamed about, but it was something. A lot of guys -- a lot of guys -- would have to settle for even less, I knew.

The Orioles won the game, 6-3. I wondered, briefly, how the Baysox had fared in their game. But why did I give a damn? They weren't my club. Not anymore. I didn't have a club. I was unemployed.

Telling Josie Fitzgerald about what had happened -- that was going to be the final humiliation. I considered just bugging out -- leaving town without saying anything to her. But, jeez! Just that morning! Just those few hours ago, the two of us were starting to become -- what? Friends? Lovers? Something. We'd clicked, at some level. Hell, we'd slept together! She'd actually asked me to sleep with her! OK, so we didn't have sex. But... we'd had something! There had been a connection. We were something, together. So what, if it didn't fit into any of the little pigeonholes? We weren't lovers. Maybe we never would be, who the hell knew?

Well, one good thing. If I saw her tonight, after her Oriole-interviewing duties for BirdSports were concluded, there wouldn't be any problems with her employer's goddamned fraternization rules! Not with me. We were free to fraternize all we wanted, now. We were free as birds -- now that I was no longer one of the Birds.

I could see Josie, down on the field near the Orioles' dugout after the game, talking to Orioles third-baseman Bob Crandall, who'd knocked in the go-ahead runs in the 7^th inning. But by the time I got down to the lower deck and close to the field, Crandall and Josie were nowhere to be seen. Unsure of where to go within the stadium to make connections with her, I just left the park, went to my car and drove the short distance to Josie's little carriage house on Churchill Street.

I was there before she was, and there was no key over the doorway or hidden in any other obvious place. Probably, it would have been presumptuous of me to let myself into her house anyway. I just sat down on the stoop outside and waited.

The wait wasn't very long. In twenty minutes, I spotted Josie's car. When she got out from behind the wheel, she saw me waiting. I couldn't read, from her expression, whether I was welcome there or whether, perhaps, I was regarded as a growing nuisance. Nevertheless, she smiled as she approached. "Why didn't you call?" she asked.

I... wanted to see you in person. I've got some news. I've... been released."

Her expression clouded. "... Released? You mean... ?"

"Yeah. I'm gone. Unconditional release."

"Gosh, Freddie! I'm so sorry!"

"Yeah. Thanks. It's a shocker, I'll tell you. I knew I wasn't exactly burning up the Eastern League, but I sure didn't see this coming."

"I heard about the trade today," she said. "I figured it might cause a ripple effect through the Orioles' minor league system; but I never thought..."

"I'm the odd man out."

"I don't know what to say, Freddie."

"I know. There isn't anything."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm already out of my apartment. Everything I've got is in my car."

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know. I'm... not sure. Home, I guess. Back to New Mexico."

"God, Freddie!... You're just gonna... drive across the country?"

"Corky... the Baysox' manager... Corky said I could try to get on with some other club, but he said I just didn't have enough bat. He said if I tried to hang on, I'd just prolong the agony."

"Well. You can't start for New Mexico at 11:45 at night. Why don't you come in? You can spend the night here, with me. OK?"

"Sure. Yes. Thanks."

"What about your stuff? In the car?"