May 2007

Joliet, Illinois
Silverback Field

“After you’ve registered for the tryout, all players are to report to the third base dugout to await further instructions. Have your release forms ready when you approach the desk and remember the number that we give you. That is how you will be referred to for the duration of the tryout.”

Gord stood in a long line winding along the concrete concourse encircling Silverback Field. It was just after eight o’clock in the morning, and there were dozens of players waiting to register for the Joliet Lumberjacks’ open tryout. The line was moving with the efficiency of the DMV on a weekday morning.

A man clad in a Lumberjacks polo shirt had just addressed the line, hoping the next part of the process would go more smoothly than the initial registration. The team had requested that all players wishing to attend the tryout register in advance, but a huge influx of men chasing their dream had shown up at the field that morning, their $100 fees in hand.

The Lumberjacks, an independent franchise in the Pioneer League, were not going to turn away players with cash, so the registration ground to a halt as the people running the administrative portion of the tryout scrambled to handle the increased demand.

Gord glanced at the varied array of colours blanketing the shirts and hats of the players in front and behind him in line. It was a veritable rainbow of college athletics — it seemed that every colour in the visible spectrum was represented. To pass the time, Gord tried to guess the school of those closest to him in line by the colour swatches, but he quickly gave up.

He’d never heard of most of the schools, let alone knew they had a college baseball program. He did recognize a few players from Michigan’s conference, but the rest of the guys were a blur of blues, reds, greens, and blacks.

Gord heard the clang of the steel staircase to his right and looked toward the source of the sound. Wobbling up the steps — in a pair of comically high heels — was a girl in a cleavage-baring shirt and white shorts that barely concealed her ass. She walked beside a player — most likely her boyfriend — and carefully navigated the steep staircase leading to the concourse.

Gord and the rest of players in the vicinity immediately forgot about the numbing wait to approach the registration desk and were transfixed by the sight. They were not expecting to see such a show near the field today. Baseball was immediately pushed from their minds.

The tall, lanky player in front of Gord whistled appreciatively under his breath. He and Gord exchanged bemused glances.

“Jesus Christ, it’s way too early in the morning for that,” the whistler said.

“Tell me about it,” Gord replied. “Do you think she realizes it’s only sixty-five degrees out?” he asked, as a stiff breeze whipped through the concourse.

“Better for us,” the tall player quipped.

“Welcome to Silverback Field. My name is Chris Carlucci, and I’m the owner of the Lumberjacks.”

Carlucci was on the crest of fifty years old, evidenced by his paunch and his balding hairline. He stood in front of the dugout, clutching a list of the names of the players in attendance.

Well over one hundred players looking for a roster spot sat clustered in the dugout and spilled into the first row of seats along third base. They all sat in rapt attention as Carlucci spoke, as he was one of many men they would have to impress to obtain a contract.

“Our goal from today’s tryout is to get as many of you guys jobs as we can. Last year we had twenty-five guys signed to independent league contracts. You’re not just trying out for the Lumberjacks. There are,” Carlucci waved his hand at the men spread out behind him, “representatives from other teams in the Pioneer League, the Border League, and the National Association.”

Carlucci let his words sink in to the assembled players as they gazed at the myriad of scouts and directors of player personnel flanking the owner of the Joliet franchise.

“The biggest piece of advice I can give to you today is to leave everything on the field,” Carlucci continued. “Don’t walk anywhere. Show us you want to be here and that you deserve a contract. I cannot stress that enough. Besides talent, we will be looking for guys who want to work hard. If you’re a hitter, then swing the bat. We can’t tell what type of player you are from walks. You’re here to swing. Pitchers, throw strikes. Challenge batters. Don’t nibble on the corners. Play good, hard, smart baseball. We’re on your side — we want to get you all signed if we can.

“I want to introduce all of you to the man who will be running the tryout. He’s been a special adviser to a number of big-league clubs and he’s been in baseball longer than most of us have been alive.” He pointed to a diminutive, frail man clad in a Lumberjacks uniform with a thick mane of white peeking out from underneath his baseball cap. “This is Buck Chamberlain. Any of you who harbour dreams of playing in the Show, then this is the guy you want to impress. Take it away, Buck.”

Chamberlain limped toward the dugout railing and extended a bony hand toward Carlucci. The Lumberjacks owner shook it and quickly retreated to the group of scouts milling around the on-deck circle. Chamberlain leaned against the railing and stuffed both hands in his back pockets. A giant wad of chewing tobacco protruded out of his cheek. He spat a wad of dip onto the gravel beneath his feet and studied the faces in front of him.

“All of us are here looking for players. If I see someone I like, I will call the big club and let them know what I saw. I’ve been doing this for fifty years. I know talent when I see it. The front office trusts my eye. There’s a chance one or two of you might even get a contract from me at the end of the day. It’s happened before. As Chris said, we need you to show us your stuff. We can’t sign you if you don’t play well. Simple as that. And if you think that’s a lot of pressure, well maybe you’re playing the wrong game. Baseball is all about managing pressure. If you can’t take the heat at a tryout camp with two dozen people watching, then you have no chance playing in front of 30,000 screaming fans.”

Chamberlain paced in front of the dugout, his turf shoes crunching over the red gravel. “The itinerary for today: we’re going to run you in the sixty-yard dash. We’ll give you some time to stretch. After we get your sixty times, you can throw, get your arms loose. We’ll do an infield/outfield. After I/O, I want the catchers at home plate. You’ll be throwing to second; we need your POP times. Then we’ll play an intra-squad game until we see everyone hit a couple of times. Pitchers, none of this applies to you. I don’t know what the hell you guys do anyway. Just remember the number we gave you this morning and you’ll be throwing in that order in the game.”

The players laughed nervously at Chamberlain’s straightforward approach. He was not the sort of man to be crossed.

“One more thing for you position players. I know a bunch of you think you can play a variety of positions and want to take reps all over the diamond today. Don’t do it. Whenever I hear a kid describe himself as a utility player, I automatically assume that means he can’t play one position well. If the fate of the universe depended on the result of a baseball game you were starting, where would you play? That’s the position I want to see you at today. A utility player is just another word for a guy who plays like horseshit. Understood?”

Dozens of heads nodded.

“Okay, let’s get after it.”

For the rest of the morning, Gord and the rest of the pitchers — with nothing else to do — were forced to watch the position players run, field, and throw in the hot Illinois sun under the watchful gazes of Buck Chamberlain and the rest of the scouts.

Gord — taking refuge in the shaded confines of the dugout — wasn’t particularly impressed with the talent of the position players in attendance. A good number of them seemed to be nothing more than professional tryout players. These were guys who, every summer, earmarked a couple of hundred dollars of disposable income toward throwing their baseball gear into the trunk of a car and attending every open independent league tryout in a 200-mile vicinity.

They had zero chance of actually obtaining a contract, but just relished the opportunity to play baseball in a professional environment for a day. No one really had a problem with their attending workouts. The teams running the showcases saw the dreamers as dollar signs filling their coffers, and other players looked at them like injured gazelles languishing on an African plain. They were cannon fodder to make a serious player look good. If the dreamer was a pitcher, then hitters jockeyed for the chance to feast on their slow, meaty fastballs and looping breaking pitches. If the tryout player was a hitter, pitchers immediately recognized their weak swing and exploited their terrible plate discipline for a devastating strikeout.

However, there were definitely a couple of players at the tryout who had pro potential, and the scouts took notice, calling a select few fielders over to chat for a few minutes to find out more information about their baseball backgrounds.

As the sun reached its zenith in the sky, the first portion of the tryout mercifully came to a close as the last catcher completed his throws to second base. The grounds crew worked to prepare the field for the intra-squad game as the first pitcher scheduled to throw warmed up in the bullpen.

The pitchers’ numbers were organized in alphabetical order, so Gord would throw in the middle of the pack. He hadn’t even changed out of his running shoes — there was no need. Each pitcher would throw twenty-five pitches in the game, and then a new arm would be called in from the bullpen. Gord still had a couple of hours to kill before he would take the mound.

“Next pitcher!” Chris Carlucci shouted from behind the batting cage set up behind home plate to collect foul balls.

The other scouts stood around the semicircle of netting with their elbows propped up on the aluminum beams of the cage. Some held radar guns to clock pitch speed, while others charted notes on clipboards. Gord knelt next to the cage waiting for the man on the mound to finish his outing. He was the next hurler. Gord was about to jog out to the hill when Buck Chamberlain emerged wearily from his steel chair near the first base dugout and halted the tryout.

“Hold on a minute, Chris. I want to say something. Bring everyone to the mound.”

Chamberlain shuffled toward the centre of the diamond as Carlucci signalled all players to join the grizzled baseball veteran on the hill. Gord jogged toward the mound with a quizzical look on his face.

What does he want? And why now? I’m warmed up and ready to go. Gord took a knee at the base of the mound with the rest of the players. Chamberlain stood atop the hill and surveyed his charges like an army general studying a new batch of recruits.

“Men,” Chamberlain began, “some of you are giving a good effort, and we appreciate that. But there are an alarming number of you guys going through the motions out here. I don’t know what kind of ball you’ve played in the past, but this is not the way the game is played. This isn’t college baseball anymore. We’re not here to hold your hands and pat you on the bottom when you make a nice play. This is pro ball, gentlemen. Treat it with respect. The calibre of ball I’m seeing right now should be in a recreation softball game. It’s fucking embarrassing.” He spat on the ground.

“It’s an honour to be on this field. Baseball is the greatest game in the world. It’s also a very tough game. You play every day for six months straight. In what other sport are you forced to play so much in such a short period of time? And perform at a high level day in and day out? There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s the hardest game in the world to play. People always talk about football being a tough sport. Give me a fucking break. Out-of-shape fat guys push each other around for five seconds and then rest for a minute. And they only play once a week. Yeah, real impressive athletes. Football is a joke. Baseball is the sport of kings. Treat it that way.”

Gord struggled to focus. There seemed to be no point to Chamberlain’s meandering ramblings. Gord broke his gaze from the baseball lifer and stole a quick glance at his fellow players. They had the same bored expression on their faces as he did, marked by constant eye blinking, stifled yawns, and uncomfortable fidgeting from being stuck in a kneeling position. But Chamberlain wasn’t finished.

“I couldn’t care less about what my players do off the field or during the off-season. I really couldn’t. As long as they give me an effort and produce between the white lines, that’s all I’m concerned with. Winning baseball games is the number one priority. I told a scout once — he was worried about a prospect’s character — I told him I didn’t care if the guy was a serial killer in the off-season if he would help the team. I’m dead serious. Now carry yourselves with some fire, some passion, and finish the rest of the day strong. Your careers depend on it. Get back to work.”

Chamberlain spun on his heel and trudged back to his folding chair. The players dispersed back to their positions, and Gord climbed atop the mound, shaking the stiffness that had seized his joints during Buck’s speech.

It’s about damn time. His arm had gotten cold. He needed to warm up in a hurry if he wanted a contract.

“Hello? Anyone home?” Gord felt the locking mechanism unhinge as he slid the key card into the slot. He pushed the door open with his right knee. He carefully navigated the doorway as he carried three duffel bags into the room and dropped them onto the linoleum tile.

He heard footsteps off to his left.

“Ah, hello, Bro. What’s up?” a Spanish accent floated to Gord from down the hall.

A tall, brown-skinned man with jet-black hair appeared from one of the bedrooms. He was dressed in designer jeans and a dark grey, skin-tight, V-neck T-shirt. He didn’t as much walk toward Gord as he seemingly floated toward the open door. The man’s hair was coiffed to perfection. He was the epitome of a metrosexual.

“Hey, man,” Gord replied. “I guess I’m your new roommate.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said in heavily accented English. “My name is Yunel.”

“Gord.” They shook hands. Yunel brought Gord close in a half handshake, half chest bump.

“Position?”

“Pitcher,” Gord answered. “I’m a lefty.”

“I peetch, too.”

“Where are you from?”

“Cuba,” Yunel said. “You?”

“Michigan. Do you know where my room is? 112C?”

“Yes, yes.” Yunel pointed back toward an open hallway. “Past the TV and around the corner.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“You need help with the bags?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks, though. We have to be at the park at 2:30 p.m., right?”

“Two and a half, yes.”

That afternoon would be Gord’s first practice with the Joliet Lumberjacks. He had thrown extraordinarily well during the open tryout: two innings pitched, six strikeouts — it was reminiscent of his first workout with the University of Michigan. After Gord had finished throwing, Carlucci streaked across the field toward him with his hand extended, offering a playing contract with the Lumberjacks. Gord was a member of the Pioneer League before he crossed the foul line. He was by far the best lefty in attendance. His velocity was consistent at eighty-seven miles per hour with pinpoint control, and all of his pitches had plenty of life. It was a terrific performance.

Most independent league teams depended on the generosity of local families to billet players for the summer. Carlucci utilized a different approach to house the team for the season. He struck a deal with Joliet College to put the Lumberjacks in dorm rooms for the duration of the summer. Joliet College had suite-style dorms, which meant four players were housed in each suite. They had their own rooms with a locking door, but the suite also included a furnished living area and a kitchen to prepare meals. Carlucci hoped that placing teammates in close quarters would allow them to jell and bond faster than if the players were spread around town in different homes.

At practice, Gord met the rest of his roommates. They stood in the short grass of the outfield during batting practice getting to know each other.

Dallas Brown was a six-foot-six behemoth from Chapel Hill, North Carolina. He was dark-skinned with a body chiselled out of granite, but his physical appearance belied his cheerful disposition and sunny personality. Brown was always smiling. The third and final roommate was Pierre Coubertin, a French Canadian from the backwoods of Quebec. He was young — still a teenager at nineteen, but looked closer to thirty, and had an abrasive personality that you either found hilarious or ended up wanting to punch him in the face. He had eschewed college to play for the Lumberjacks.

Brown was the Lumberjacks’ starting first baseman, while Coubertin was fighting for a starting position in Joliet’s outfield.

At Michigan, players were forbidden from socializing during BP; Perry Picard and the rest of the coaching staff believed that batting practice was work time, and players inevitably succumbed to laziness and lacklustre effort if allowed to congregate in small groups when they were supposed to be shagging flies.

Conversely, the Lumberjacks’ coaching staff believed that, as long as the pace of BP didn’t slow, conversation between players was fine. Plus, it broke up the monotony of batting practice. This was the first foray into the world of professional baseball for most guys, and the Lumberjacks wanted to treat their players like men. They were no longer college boys. And if they wanted to make it to the next level, drive, determination, and knowing when to focus and when to have fun would have to come from within.

Gord wasn’t necessarily small by baseball standards, but he was dwarfed standing beside his roommates. They all had big, strong bodies that scouts drooled over. You couldn’t teach that kind of size. It was purely the luck of the genetic lottery. Both scouts and front office personnel would give chance after chance to a guy with bowling-ball shoulders, a broad chest, and a lean waist: the superhero physique.

They would ignore a low baseball IQ and less than total mastery of hitting and throwing for the potential to transform athletic freaks into five-tool players. It was a practice with a dismal success rate — and it meant that players with more talent but less physical gifts would be overlooked — but polishing that one raw genetic talent into a once-in-a-generation player with no discernable ceiling made the process worth it in the eyes of baseball men.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” Gord asked as a lazy fly ball nestled into the webbing of his glove. “Does Joliet have a good bar scene?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty good,” Brown replied. “We pretty much run the show here in town. This is my second year with the Lumberjacks. Just stick with me and you’ll be all right.”

“I love American chicks. They’re so much easier than Canadian girls,” Coubertin interjected. “I can get any girl I want at the bar here.”

Brown laughed. “Shut up, Frenchy. You look like Paul Bunyan with more body hair. No girls at the clubs here want to fuck a gorilla.”

Coubertin snorted. “We’ll see tonight.”

“Goddamit! I can’t find my front foot! Where the hell is it?”

Gord and his roommates looked away from the action at home plate toward the bullpen mound near the right field corner. They watched a pitcher kicking violently at the dirt, sending clouds of dust into the air, stammering to himself about his wonky mechanics.

“Who is that?” Gord inquired.

“Billy Nickerson,” Brown answered. “He’s been on the team forever. He hardly ever plays anymore — he’s a complete nut job. I honestly think he’s only on the team because Chris and everyone else in the front office are scared he’ll try to blow up the ballpark or something if they cut him.”

“Bullshit.” Gord rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious,” the big outfielder said. “Take a look in his eyes when you talk. There’s something off about him. He has crazy eyes, man.”

Gord looked back toward the bullpen. “Is that his fastball?”

Nickerson was throwing to the bullpen catcher, driving hard to the plate with his lower half, but the ball came out uncharacteristically slow. It looked like he was almost shot putting each pitch.

“He’s throwing a weighted ball,” Brown said.

“From the mound?” Gord was incredulous. “Why the hell would he do that?”

“He thinks it makes him throw faster in games.”

“He’s going to fuck up his mechanics, not to mention hurt his arm.”

“I told you he was crazy.”

Gord shook his head. “Apparently.”

“He also throws a three-seam fastball,” Coubertin piped up. “Ask him to show you some time. It might help your career,” he quipped.

There were two main types of fastballs: a two-seamer and a four-seamer. The two-seam was a secondary fastball. It had less velocity than a four-seam but had a downward spin so it appeared to reach the batter waist-high in the middle of the plate before it dove to the bottom of the strike zone. Many pitchers used the two-seam fastball when they needed a ground ball. Conversely, a four-seam fastball was delivered up in the zone. It was the out pitch — pitchers used it to light up the radar gun or when they needed a big strikeout.

There was no such thing as a three-seam fastball unless the pitcher had lost a few fingers in an unfortunate accident.