Chapter 5

Oh boy, I was on the road to New York, and now playing the infield instead of pitching.

The Mets were pathetic. The three games we played were filled with Mets' errors. Their terrible play almost rubbed off on our team but the Manager was on our back at practice every day, preaching about not letting the other teams affect our play.

I remained at short, went 4 for 5 the first game, only 2 for 5 with two walks and a strike out in the second, but redeemed myself with a 5 for 6 in the last game. I wanted to strut around and pound my chest, but the pitching hadn't been very good and the pitchers threw to me like I was a rookie. Oh yeah, I am one of them.

We actually took a train from New York to Philadelphia. The players had to agree to it as the Major League contract said jet planes with first class seating. What you usually got was two men using three seats. When we arrived in Philadelphia, we convinced the bus driver to take us by the famous Geno's on the way to the hotel since it's open 24 hours. The place was busy late at night, even when we got there a little after two AM. We didn't have to worry about the time, as Thursday was an off day. We would have a practice to stay loose, but it would be in the late afternoon.

The cheesesteak was good, but I think the bun was the best part. The bread was delicious. We were served quickly and it became a party when a Philadelphia city police car stopped to see why our bus was in front of Geno's. We ended up buying sandwiches and sodas for a dozen policemen, including the shift supervisor. They were ribbing us that we would probably drop all three games after having swept the Mets.

I was up and in the hotel gym by noon. I had a great breakfast for lunch, and hung out in the lobby waiting for transportation to the ballpark. The Manager finally came to the lobby at two-thirty and asked, "Didn't you get the message? We're not having practice today, but will go in early tomorrow. Go look at the city while you have a chance."

We don't share rooms in the majors, so I didn't have a roommate to do anything with me, and I didn't know how to get hold of any of the other players. I would resolve that tomorrow and get all of their cell numbers so I could possibly tag along with some of them.

Well darn, I didn't know what to do, so I went to the front desk and asked if they knew of any nearby batting cages. One of the bellhops was a teenager and said he was playing in the 'Big Leagues' and told me where I could go. He also told me that I could come to his practice before his game that evening if I wanted, and I might get some live pitching. It sounded good to me, so I took the address of the batting cage location and used a taxi. That was an experience as I had no idea how much taxis would be up here. They are knock your socks off expensive, at least to a rookie out in the world for the first time.

I spent thirty bucks at the batting cages and went through four different machines to get a little different feel from each of them. I had asked for the fastest setting at each location, but none were more than about eighty MPH. That's changeup or slow curve speed. When I told that to the desk people, they said that the kids who came in to practice couldn't hit anything faster than eighty, and that they usually set the machines around sixty to seventy.

It was good for hand/eye coordination, but that was all. I practiced bunting for thirty or forty balls, but mostly just tried to place hits. Sure hope the slower speeds didn't screw up my eye for real pitching.

I took another taxi from the cages to the Little League complex the bellboy played at. I found out his job was a three day a week afternoon job and was considered an internship position. He said it was better than dogging around in Physical Ed class or watching people snooze in study hall.

I felt a little out of place after being introduced to the coach, because the man was a rabid Phillies fan. He told me that since I was a rookie, I might try, and he rolled his eyes when he said 'try', to get a hit against major league pitching. I told him that I knew the Marlins were probably not going to get out of the cellar, but I was going to try to help. I thought it was worth talking about, considering we were on a winning streak.

I helped the man during his batting practice and in the infield during practice. It was fun to work with the enthusiastic ball players who had the same aspirations I had at that age. They were all trying to showoff, which wasn't good but all of them were fascinated that I had gone to college instead of straight to baseball. I tried to convince those who had decent grades that baseball would be there for them when they finished college, and that they would be better players by then. That was the right thing to say as the coach was happy with that type of talk.

The game was good and the kids I had practiced with won big. I did the hand slaps with all of them, and shook with the coach after the game before looking for a taxi back to the hotel.

Supper at the hotel was solitary, but pretty good. I was finishing up when the Manager saw me and came to sit with me. He asked about my day and I told him about working out, the batting cages, and having fun with the Little League or rather "Big League" kids.

The man said, "You haven't gone out to check out Philadelphia nightlife?"

"I don't drink much, and I have a relationship that I wouldn't want to put in jeopardy. I like to be active and I love baseball, so I think I had a pretty good day;"

The Manager smiled at me and said, "You know you might not be with the Marlins next year. It's possible that you could be trade bait because they want to get back on the winning track next year. Don't let this affect your play, but a lot of people think your hitting is just rookie luck. I don't see it that way, and my vote is to keep you, but I don't get much of a vote. I did take you out of that pitching problem you had. I found out that you bitched about pitching in college as much as you did in the minor league club. You have a magic glove and a golden bat, so why would I want you to pitch? You do a good job pitching batting practice, but I'd rather you just play infield and bat."

I needed to ask him a question. "Sir, I heard you say that we had a shot at maybe climbing out of the bottom half of the East and trying to get a playoff spot. How many games would we have to win?"

The man grinned as he said, "All of them."

"I don't want to disillusion you, Matt, but we're destined to go home early unless the other teams begin a really continuous losing streak and we win out. I know that isn't very good for your ego, but just play your best and I know the owner and vice president are putting together a way to get us in contention next year. You're going to be a part of that effort if I have anything to do with it, and I'd rather see you back in Triple A but I would also like to keep you happy playing ball and batting."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. It's not that I hate pitching, because I don't. The problem is pitchers don't work but every fifth day as a starter, and bullpen guys come in for an inning and then sit. You sit for five, six, seven, innings, usually come in when the other guy is in trouble, sweat out two or three outs, and then go sit again. That isn't baseball. That's necessary, but I'm not ever going to enjoy that. That might be the ticket to stay in the game when I get close to forty and am not moving around well, but not now. Put me anywhere, but let me play ball."

The man finished his coffee, patted me on the back, and left me with the last word, "I sure hope I get to coach and manage you next year."

Well, the Phillies sucked. We swept them then went home to face the Braves. They are good and have the bats to justify being on top of the division. I continued to hit everything that came my way, but we were swept by Atlanta, and then lowly Colorado came in and swept us. That was embarrassing. I finally had a bad game. The pitcher kept throwing at me in the first inning until I was hit by a ball on the wrist of my left hand. It didn't seem to affect me using my glove, but I didn't have any pull to hit with it. I popped out once, and struck out twice swinging at fastballs. The trainer checked my wrist after the game to see that it was swollen pretty badly. I had to sleep with ice on it, and came in for an exam early the next morning. The x-ray showed a hairline fracture, and that was the end of my season. Damn, I would pound that pitcher if I could find him. I had to look up the stat sheets to see who he was. I was going to remember him.

The guy's name was Carl Montana, an easy name to remember, and I would. The Rockies were not going anywhere this year either, but that didn't make me feel any better. Their winning percentage was a hell of lot better than ours or rather Miami's. I kept forgetting that I was still considered a minor leaguer.

The Manager told me, "You're done for the season. You probably shouldn't even think about winter ball, just let your wrist heal. Wait for spring training and come in to see if you can still play ball or whether you'll be back to pitching."

"Don't you want me to hang out with the club until the end of the season?"

"Son, you were a call up but early by using up one of your options. You're on the extended roster and still officially part of the major league team. You're really still considered the property of the minor league team. Don't panic though, as you'll get major league pay while you're on the DL for the rest of the season. Go home or wherever you want, let your wrist heal, and get it x-rayed in six weeks. You need to make sure that bruise on your side goes away too. The VP or I will get in touch with you soon to talk about next season. Good luck, and like I told you, I sure hope I have you next year."

I was really slow cleaning my locker out, reluctant to leave the magic of major league baseball. I was even slower getting my few personal things into my 'new' used Jeep. I called the teammates I knew and told all of them that I hoped to see them next spring.

I heard that I-95 was closed in two locations because of accidents, so I took the interstate across Alligator Alley and on up to Tallahassee using I-75.

I called Mom around Tampa to tell her that I was on my way home because of a fractured wrist. She told me she was excited that I got to come home early, but sorry that I was hurt. She told me to leave a message on the girls' phones as they were teaching as grad students or in class, so they would have their phones turned off. I did that and gave everyone the approximate time I would get there.

The driveway was full when I pulled in at home, so I drove onto the grass in the front yard. I was just opening the door to the Jeep when the front door of the house burst open and the three women of my life came running. I had to do a lot of hugging and kissing, and then had to answer a lot of questions about my red Jeep Cherokee. They couldn't believe I didn't tell them about it.

Mom was the smart one, and said, "You know Matt did get a big enough signing bonus that he could have bought the fanciest sports car on the market, but look what he did. He bought a used car from a teammate while he figures out what kind of fancy car he wants."