Chapter 47

Jim LaCross had come to a decision as he watched the players warm up. He decided he wanted to see what Brock could do at second base without any specialized coaching. It would give him a better idea of what he would find in seven weeks when Opening Day rolled around. He led the Major League and Minor League coaching staffs onto the field and clapped his hands sharply.

"When a coach calls out your name, go with him," LaCross yelled. "Miller and Hartman, you're with me."

He turned and headed off to one of the practice fields on the edge of the complex. He didn't want anyone to watch this in case it turned ugly.

Fred Hartman frowned when he was singled out to join Brock Miller. Hartman was 30 years old but hadn't played in the majors in four seasons. He had spent all of the previous year at Class AAA Indianapolis in the Pirates system, not even able to break into their lackluster lineup. He was considering hanging up his spikes when his agent called to let him know that Armando Guerra had been shot and that the Dodgers were in dire need of a second baseman.

In days, the farm hand had signed a minor league deal with Los Angeles and secured an invitation to Spring Training. Hartman had never gone north with a team for Opening Day. He had been called up a half dozen times but had only appeared in three dozen Big League games in his 12 years in professional baseball. He was probably the person most disheartened by the trade the brought Matt Driesbach over from Seattle – and shifted Brock Miller to second base.

Despite the trade, Hartman had shown up in Arizona early in the hopes of impressing the Dodgers coaching staff but he could already see how this was shaping up. He was going to be expected to tutor Miller at second base and then spend the season in Las Vegas. He had already decided if he was sent down he was going back to Mississippi. He had an out-clause in his contract that let him become a free agent on May 30th if he wasn't on the team's 25-man roster. When he signed the deal, he was certain he would be. Now it looked as though the Dodgers were just another team who would refuse to give him a shot – just like the other nine teams he'd played for since signing right out of high school.

Still, with a sigh, he jogged off to the farthest reaches of the complex to show a kid how to play position he'd mastered in his teens.

Jim LaCross wasn't much for teaching. He had coaches to handle that part of the job. He was a tactician. He knew when to bunt and he knew when to hit and run. He knew when to give his pitcher the hook and when to leave him in one batter more. His manner was abrupt and his sense of humor, at least on the field, almost non-existent.

That was evident when he arrived at Field E with the two players he'd brought with him.

"OK, let's see what we have to work with," he said without preamble. Both players headed out to second base, Brock because that was where LaCross expected him to be; Hartman because that was the position he played.

"Jesus Christ," LaCross muttered to himself. "Hartman, take some throws at first."

Hartman found himself frowning again but did as LaCross had ordered. He had barely reached the bag when he heard the crack of wood against rawhide. He turned to see Miller make a nifty backhand grab of a sharply hit ground ball near second base. The new second baseman pivoted and fired a rocket across the 80 feet that separated the two players. Hartman had tried to use proper footwork at first to show he was willing to be versatile. He had never played first base – well, not since he was seven years old and was the only player on his Tee League team who could catch the ball consistently.

"Excellent!" LaCross yelled. Hartman thought he might have made an impression. But he saw LaCross was talking to Miller as he rolled the ball back to the manager. Seconds later another ground ball was on the way. This one was in the hole between first and second. Hartman took a step and backhanded it cleanly. He trotted to tag first base and turned to roll the ball back toward home.

He found LaCross glaring at him from 90 feet away.

"Just let the fucking thing go through," he said. "For God's sake."

"Hey, Skip," Brock yelled. "That was a hell of a grab he made. At least give him some love."

LaCross' glare shifted from first base to his second baseman, who was on his knees after he dove in case the ball got through. The manager shook his head. He wanted to see what sort of footwork Miller had. He didn't need some never-would-be trying to steal the show. Still, he understood Miller's rationale.

"That was a fine play, Fred," LaCross admitted. "But for now, I want to see how much work Miller needs. I know what you can do. OK?"

"Sure, Skip," Hartman said. "Sorry about that. I see a ball, I react. I'll just hang near the base and stay out of the way."

"Thanks, Fred," LaCross said. He waited for a moment for Brock to resume his position and drilled another shot toward the hole between second and short. Brock made a backhanded play and turned to throw as if he was playing shortstop. The ball sailed wide of the base but Hartman made a nice stretch to bring it in.

"Thanks," Brock said. "Hey, Skip, let's switch up for a minute so I can see how Fred would handle that one."

LaCross' minimal patience was wearing thin but he nodded. He waited for a moment until the players changed and put the ball in the same spot. Hartman made the grab but instead of jumping and throwing as Brock had done, he planted his foot fired a strike across the diamond.

"You're going to have more time at second," Hartman told Brock as they changed back. "It's a shorter throw. You've got a cannon anyway. Anything you field cleanly you're going to be able to have a play on. I mean, there aren't more than one or two players in the league who can outrun your arm. That's going to let you make up for some choppy fielding to start out with."

"Thanks, Fred," Brock replied with a nod. He spent the next 25 minutes racing from his left to his right to field balls. A few made it through to the outfield but not many. Just when Brock thought he had things figured out LaCross slammed a ball that hit only a few inches in front of the plate and shot straight into the air.

"That's your ball," Fred said when he saw LaCross' downward swing.

Brock covered the distance and fielded the ball cleanly. But he got his feet tangled up when he tried to pivot and dropped the ball to the grass.

"What did I do wrong?" he asked Hartman.

"Nothing," Fred said. "That's always going to be a tough play. Most of the time, you stay back and let the shortstop field it because he's coming toward the base. It's what Guerra would have done last year. This year, you're just going to have to wait to see how much range Driesbach has. It's possible that he can't make that play any longer. What I would recommend is that you set yourself to throw before you field the ball."

"Can you show me?" Brock asked. Hartman glanced toward LaCross for the answer and got a nod in return. LaCross banged another ball into the turf. Where Brock had fielded the ball with his back to first base, Hartman shifted until he was at an angle. The ball hit his glove for only a moment before it was heading toward first base.

"You're going to have to be quick with those," he offered. "The guys who hit the ball like that are the speedsters. A lot of them are left-handed so they already have an extra step on you. Set your body to throw and field it in one motion. It'll take practice to get used to it."

"Got it," Brock said. "Hey, Skip, can we swap for a while? My lazy ass is dragging."

The next 15 minutes were spent with Brock watching Fred Hartman play second base. But LaCross saw he was watching intently. A couple of times Fred motioned for LaCross to repeat what he'd just done so Brock could get a better idea of how the experienced second baseman had reacted.

"OK, let's take a break," LaCross said eventually. "Christ, I'm sweating like a hog and I ain't done shit but swing a bat."

Brock and Hartman grabbed a couple of cups of water – Brock handing the first one to Fred and taking the second to his manager.

"I know what you're doing," LaCross said. "Look, he isn't going to make the team. He wasn't going to make the team before we got Driesbach. He's a nice little Triple-A infielder but that's all he is."

"I'm sure you're right," Brock said. "But there is no use in alienating him right from the start. He's been a big help already. Besides, he might be a nice insurance policy. What is the team going to do if I blow out an elbow or something?"

"It won't matter," LaCross said with a rare smile. "They'll be too busy trying to talk me off a bridge to even worry if we have a second baseman."

The second portion of the morning was spent working with Brock handling throws from shortstop and third base. There was no pivot because there was no one to throw the ball to at first. But it helped to introduce him to the differences between short and second.

"Christ, this is useless," LaCross said. "Take another break."

This time it was Fred Hartman who brought the manager a cup of ice cold water. LaCross took it while he spoke on his cell phone.

"Have we got any other position players in camp?" he asked whoever was on the other end of the line. "No outfielders. I need infielders."

Fred's heart dropped. He figured he was about to be released because he hadn't even been able to show the kid the right way to do things.

"I have no idea who that even is," LaCross said bluntly. "Where does he play?"

"Yeah, that'll work," he continued. "How about a shortstop or a third baseman?"

"I don't care which one!" he said. "Either, both."

"Shit," he muttered. "Yeah, hell, send him over, too. He can have his tryout with me. Where did you say he's from? Tusculum? I've never even heard of it. It must be a real tiny little shithole. What the fuck. If he has a glove, he'll do for what I want him for."