Chapter 6

Josie surprised me the next morning by agreeing to my renewed offer of a restaurant breakfast. "We might as well," she said. "Minneapolis is in the Central Time Zone. We can't call Reggie Johannson or Everett Bell until at least after ten here."

I was relieved to see that all my earthly possessions were still undisturbed in my little car. Figuring we wouldn't tempt fate any further, we took Josie's Hyundai Santa Fe to breakfast.

Back at her house by 10:30, Josie made the call. "Bell's a part-owner, and the managing partner of the group that owns the St. Paul Saints," she said. "If I don't miss my guess, the most we'll get from him this morning will be his promise to discuss the matter with his field manager. His name is Carlos Ortega."

"The old major leaguer?"

"Ortega? Yeah. He played two-three years. You've heard of him?"

I laughed. "Yeah. He was sort of a Puerto Rican version of Freddie Brumbelow. Good field, no hit infielder."

"Maybe he'll have a little empathy, then," she said.

Josie made small talk with Everett Bell for a few minutes and then motioned for me to pick up on the kitchen extension telephone. "Ev," she said, "I've got a young man here I'd like for you to talk to. He's just been released from Bowie by the Orioles. He's on the line with me."

"You looking for work? Is that it?" Bell said.

"Yes, sir," I said. "My name is Fred Brumbelow. I've been playing shortstop at Bowie..."

"The Orioles called him up for a few games, recently," Josie said.

"Yes, but that was only a fluke, Mr. Bell," I said, not wishing to oversell myself. "Injuries. I hardly got a smell."

"And now they've let you go?"

"It was that trade they made," I explained. "They picked up two infielders to fill in their injury gaps, up and down the system. Then I became expendable."

"It doesn't sound too much like you could help us, Fred," Bell replied. "I gather you're not showing a lot of promise, or the Birds wouldn't have given you your unconditional release."

"Not much of a bat, Mr. Bell. I was discouraged -- by some people whose judgment I trust. They told me not to keep at it, because the odds are way too long."

"Fred, if you think the Saints are some kind of semi-pro rest home for wannabe ballplayers, well -- you're wrong," he said.

"No sir!" I said. "I know you play solid ball in the Association. What I'm trying to do, Mr. Bell, is start over -- as a pitcher."

"Pitcher."

"Yes, sir. It's not just a whim, sir. Our pitching coach in Bowie suggested it."

"He thinks you could be a pitcher. Who's that?"

Josie broke in again. "Dewey Wainwright, Ev. You remember him, don't you? From when he was in the big leagues?"

"Seattle -- right?... Five, six years ago?"

"I think that's right," Josie said. "He finished up with the Orioles his final year, and they hired him to coach at Bowie."

"Junk-baller," Bell said. "Didn't last long in The Show. That the kind of pitcher you're gonna be, Fred? Low and slow?"

"No, sir, I don't think so. Dewey was talking about the fact that I threw hard. I'm pretty sure that's what he was thinking about, when he said it."

"He tell you to call me?"

"No, sir. That was Josie's idea."

"You seen him throw, Josie?"

"Oh, yeah!" she said immediately. "He's got an arm like a cannon!"

I wondered whether Josie had ever so much as witnessed five minutes of my throwing during infield practice while I had been with the Orioles. I was trying to remember if I'd even had five minutes of infield practice! She was sticking her neck out for me, that's for sure.

"Minor-league pay scales are pretty disgraceful, aren't they?" Everett Bell said.

I assumed the remark was addressed to me. "Yes, sir, they don't pay much."

"We don't pay much in the Association, either," he said. "You could do better selling insurance, son."

"Dewey Wainwright thinks I could be a pitcher, Mr. Bell. I'd sure as hell like to give it a shot, no matter how little the Saints pay."

"I can't say we've got the last word in pitching instructors," he warned. "We don't have a pitching coach, per se. Bullpen coach does whatever coaching of the pitchers we get done. He's an old catcher."

"Maybe I could pick up some tips from the pitchers," I ventured, "the other pitchers, I mean."

"The other pitchers," he repeated, laughing.

"Yes, sir. The other pitchers."

"I'll talk about it with Carlos... Carlos Ortega. Manager."

"All right, sir." I gave him my cell number.

"Where you gonna be -- Baltimore?" Bell asked me.

"No, sir. I'm going to drive west -- toward the Twin Cities."

"What if we say don't come?" he asked me.

"Maybe you could give me some names -- people from the other clubs in the Association."

"It's a real long shot, Kid," he said.

"Yes, sir. I know."

"You could have hung out here with me, until he called you back," Josie said after we'd hung up.

"I'd like to, God knows!" I said, smiling. "But I figured I ought to demonstrate some enthusiasm."

"It's a long way to St. Paul. That beat-up old car of yours going to make it?"

"It's beat-up, but it's a Honda, and not all that old, either. I have complete confidence. Hey, what about the other guy?"

"Who," she asked me. "What other guy?"

"The Johannson guy you were talking about. The other Saints guy."

"Oh. Oh, he's just my back-up. if Everett Bell didn't give you the go-ahead to come out there, I was going to call Johannson. I still will, if Bell comes back shaky." But now, Josie shifted gears on me and sounded truly unhappy. "You're actually leaving... today?"

Well, I was unhappy, too, but I was secretly pleased to hear the regret in her voice. "Josie, if this whole thing just... falls flat; if I can't get on with the Saints or with one of the other clubs in their league, I'm going to be coming right back here. There's nothing for me back home. If I'm going to flunk out as a ballplayer, I'd like to find something else to do... here."

"Don't fail," she said. "But call me if you hear something negative from Bell while you're on the road... And call when you get there and see the manager -- whatever happens. And when you call, have a Saints' schedule in your hand. I want to see if there's anyplace that team goes that's anywhere near where the Network is going to be sending me."

--I was beginning to think I maybe ought to be taking notes. But I didn't mind if Josie had a whole string of instructions for me to follow. Everything she was saying was telling me that she was interested in my welfare. She cared about what happened to me.

--That was kind of nice, you know?

It was just over a thousand miles from Baltimore to St. Paul. It figured to be more than two days of hard driving in my undersized, overloaded vehicle. I didn't even have an appointment, and I was halfway through my first day and hadn't left town yet.

So, OK. I plugged the cell phone into the car's charger and gave Josie a goodbye hug. I hit the road just after lunch (without actually eating lunch first) and figured I'd make it an easy two-and-a-half day trip instead of a ridiculously tough two.

I was in central Pennsylvania, and making excellent time, when Everett Bell called me back. "You come on ahead," he said. "Carlos says he'll look at you. We're at home for three more days. No promises."

"Thanks, Mr. Bell. Thanks a lot."

After I hung up, I started wondering whether "three more days" included today. Surely not. Today was almost over already. Then again, the Saints probably played tonight. Maybe it was only two more days, after today, before they hit the road.

I figured I'd better not waste any time, getting to the Twin Cities.

I got into town early on my third day on the road. A quick phone call verified that the Saints were scheduled to play at home that night and the next night as well. I was whipped from the thousand-mile-plus drive, and checked into a motel immediately. I set my alarm to sleep for six daylight hours, deciding I'd go to the ballpark three hours ahead of game time, and see whether Carlos Ortega wanted to see me that day or the next. Whatever he wanted, I was prepared to give him.

I found Midway Stadium not far off the Interstate, and spotted a couple of inexpensive-looking motels within close proximity. If I was going to be hanging around, I could get closer to the ballpark than I was now. I probably should have called ahead and tried to arrange an appointment, but I was eager to make personal contact with Ortega and get some idea whether this entire trip was a fool's errand. Happily, the guy at the gate wasn't the suspicious type, and I managed to talk my way in. I even got directions to the Saints' clubhouse.