August 2008

Tampa, Florida
Heroes Field

“Mattis, how’s the arm feel?”

“Great, Skip. I have one more in me.”

“Good. I’ll get Anderson loose for the ninth. You get us there.”

Tom Conrad clapped Gord on the shoulder and shuffled to the other end of the dugout. He took his regular perch on the top step of the dugout railing, adjacent to the on-deck circle.

Tristan Beem marched confidently to the plate to lead off for the Wildcats in the top of the eighth. Lakeland led 5–3 against the Tampa Americans, New York’s Single A affiliate. Gord gazed around the impressive façade of Heroes Field. It was a scaled replica of the New York’s iconic stadium, complete with concrete friezes and large columns that were reminiscent of a miniature Roman Coliseum.

The Wildcats usually “got up” for games against the Tampa Americans more than any other ball club. Especially games at Heroes Field. New York was the team to which all other clubs compared themselves, in terms of on-field success. This had a trickle-down effect in the minor leagues as well. Everyone wanted to beat the Americans.

Gord was doing his part to make that goal a reality. His performance thus far had been terrific: 2IP, 1H, 0R, and 2K. Gord was carving up the Americans’ hitters. They couldn’t put a solid swing on the ball. The lone hit was a tomahawk chop that dribbled toward third base on a 0–1 curveball. Gord made the Americans hit his pitches and managed to keep them off balance with an array of curveballs and changeups, and a diving, two-seam fastball.

Beem struck out. The second batter of the inning grounded a weakly hit ball back to the pitcher. Two out. Tyson Dante, already with two hits on the day, was up next.

It had been a week since Gord’s encounter with Kim at the steak house. He’d found himself with a little more pep in his step over the past seven days. Instead of dwelling on how things had ended between them, Gord reminisced about all their good times. He had forgotten how happy he was when he hung out with Kim.

No woman had ever made him laugh as much as Kim did. Gord noticed that there had been a small spark of that playfulness at the restaurant. Could that continue? He toyed with the idea of calling her at work. What was the worst that could happen?

The sharp crack of the bat jolted Gord back to the present. Dante sent a scorching grounder between second and third base. The shortstop got a great jump and snared the ball on his backhand. He planted his right foot, pivoted his hips toward first base, and threw a missile across the diamond.

Dante started slowly out of the box, anticipating a clean single to left field. When he saw that the shortstop came up with ball, he frantically increased his speed, trying to the beat the throw to the bag. The ball smacked into the first baseman’s mitt a split second before Dante’s foot hit the base in an explosion of dust and chalk.

The umpire pointed at the bag and theatrically cocked his right fist in the air signaling the inning’s third out.

Dante lost it.

He slammed his helmet into the ground and threw his batting gloves toward Lakeland’s dugout. The Wildcats’ first base coach tried to intercede before Dante could focus his derision on the umpire, but he was too late. Dante lunged at the man in blue. His eyes were wide with fury and a fine spittle of dip dribbled down his chin. Curses streamed out of his mouth like machine-gun fire.

Dante bumped the umpire in the chest as the crowd rained boos down upon him. He made George Brett in the pine tar game look like Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Tom Conrad and the rest of the coaching staff managed to get the crazed Dante under control. He was unceremoniously booted from the game and most likely faced a suspension at the hands of the Central Florida League’s disciplinary committee.

The rest of the Wildcats exchanged sideways glances. This would make for an interesting bus ride back to Lakeland. Gord ignored the buzz in the crowd and climbed atop the mound to begin his warm-up pitches.

The Americans’ lineup was comprised primarily of Dominican imports. Over the past few years, New York’s front office brain trust had made a substantial financial commitment to develop more Caribbean talent. The Tampa Americans were a testament to that monetary outlay.

They were mainly teenagers eager to make an impression on the organizational bigwigs. Therefore, they swung from their asses on every pitch. It was obvious that the Tampa Americans possessed prodigious talent, but they lacked a certain refinement and polish that would come from further seasoning in the minor leagues.

Gord got ahead of the first batter of the eighth. He threw two changeups that corkscrewed the Americans’ centrefielder into the red clay of the batter’s box. He practically lunged through the zone trying to take a hack at Gord’s offerings.

Gord noticed that the hitter was on his tiptoes, standing right on top of the plate. He figured it was time for some hard stuff over the inside corner. Dave Rockwood was on the same page and flashed his pinkie finger, signalling an inside fastball. Manoeuvring his six-foot-three, 225-pound frame toward third base, Rockwood held his mitt an inch off the black.

Gord, throwing with confidence, let fly with an eighty-eight-mile-an-hour fastball.

THWOCK.

The ball nestled neatly into Rockwood’s glove. The batter unleashed a meek, defensive swing that missed the ball by a foot. He was completely fooled. One out.

Gord ran the count to 1–2 on Tampa’s second hitter. The free-swinging Americans were the type of hitters Gord thrived against. If he could hit his spots, then Gord could take advantage of their overeagerness to hit the ball.

The old axiom, “You don’t walk off the island” certainly applied to these Dominican expats. Their desire to succeed in professional baseball was so all-encompassing because they had no backup plan. They had nothing to return to if they failed. This was their livelihood. Their only way to make an impact was to swing. And swing. And swing some more. You didn’t make an impact by taking pitches.

At twenty-four, Gord had the maturity to expose such callow weakness. The batter popped out to third base. Gord retired the Americans in order when the third batter of the inning lofted a fly ball to right field on the next pitch.

Gord jogged happily into the Wildcats’ dugout and exulted in the congratulations from his teammates. He had just unfurled three shutout innings against Tampa in their home park and had successfully bridged the gap to Steve Anderson.

“Great outing, Mattis,” shouted Tom Conrad as Gord walked past. “Way to pitch. That’s what I need from you.”

Gord nodded appreciatively to his manager and sat down beside Dave Rockwood. “Great sequences, Dave. They had no idea what was coming.”

“You pitched great. Lots of confidence. You hit your spots, breaking stuff was sharp. Good velocity on the fastball, too. That’s your best outing in a while.”

“Thanks. Hopefully I can start stringing together a few more zeroes.”

As the ninth inning began, Gord contemplated his recent success. That’s what I have to do every outing, he thought. Throw with command, throw with confidence, and trust my pitches. Remember what Northcutt told you.

Gord figured that he had until the middle of the month to persuade the front office that he was worth keeping around. Would he be able to convince the organization that he was a legitimate prospect, and not just a guy taking a spot from a younger pitcher with a higher ceiling? Tom will have no choice but to keep me on the staff if I keep throwing like this.

Anderson had an eventful bottom of the ninth. He gave up one run and loaded the bases with two out. The crowd smelled a comeback, but Anderson ensured that they went home unhappy. He struck out the Americans’ number five hitter on a full count with one of his patented heat seekers. The Wildcats won 5–4.

The bus ride back to Lakeland was a happy one, as the win had completed a three-game series sweep for the Wildcats over Tampa. However, one team member was noticeably silent in the revelry. Tyson Dante stewed in his seat with his arms crossed for the entire trip.

The team had fully expected Dante to continue his rant about being robbed of a hit by the “idiot” umpire. His silence meant that the Badger, Tim Reid, had severely reprimanded Dante in the locker room after his childish tirade. Tyson Dante was a complete head case, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew better than to cross the intimidating Reid, unless he wanted permanent injury to accompany his forthcoming suspension.

The bus returned to Lakeland just after six o’clock. Gord had the apartment to himself, now that Danny had moved on to greener pastures. He ordered a pizza and sat down at the circular Formica table that doubled as his dining room. He mindlessly flicked through the channels on the television, absent-mindedly stopping at the Channel 13 Action News broadcast. I wonder if Kim’s on, he thought.

He watched until the top of the hour, but did not see Kim flicker across his TV screen. Disappointed, he caught up on the day’s sports highlights. He tried to focus on the stories permeating throughout the sports world, but he was distracted. He kept thinking about Kim and their chance meeting the week before.

An idea popped into Gord’s head. Should I? What’s the harm? I won’t know if I don’t try. He went down to the lobby of his apartment building, which doubled as a weekly rate motel.

Mrs. Henderson, the black octogenarian building manager, manned the front desk lobby just as she had for the better part of half a century. Widowed twenty years earlier, she was still sharp as a tack and loved baseball players.

“Hi Mrs. H. How are you doing tonight?”

“I’m great, hon. Did you boys win today?”

“We did. Five to four. I pitched three shutout innings.”

“That’s fantastic, Gordon.”

“Thanks. Do you have an Orlando area Yellow Pages I can take a look at?”

“I think so. Let me check.”

Mrs. Henderson shuffled slowly into the back. The ravages of osteoarthritis had slowed her gait considerably. A few minutes later, she returned bearing two large telephone books.

“Do you want a hand with those?” Gord inquired as she struggled mightily with the massive tomes.

“Don’t be silly. I may be an old woman, but I’m not useless,” she snapped back at him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Gord replied sheepishly.

Dropping the books on the lobby desk with a loud thud, Mrs. Henderson grinned at Gord mischievously. “What do you need these for? Looking for a lady friend?”

Gord smiled back at her. “Something like that.”

“I had my fair share of suitors back in my younger days. Especially during spring training. All of the big stars always wanted to take me out for dinner.” Mrs. Henderson looked skyward and closed her eyes, as if a reel of her life played inside her eyelids. “I was quite the catch back then.”

Gord looked around uncomfortably. Once Mrs. Henderson got started on the “golden age of baseball” in the 1940s and 1950s, she was impossible to stop. She had stories about everyone: Mantle, DiMaggio, Aaron, and Jackie Robinson. And most of her stories were intended for a “mature audience.”

“I remember one night: Bob Gibson took me for a ride in his big Studebaker down the coast in Cocoa Beach. He took me in his big, strong arms. The moonlight sparkled in the waves and he — ”

Gord gently tried to cut her off. “Uh, Mrs. Henderson, I really should be going. I have to make this call.”

“Oh, go ahead. You young people are always in such a hurry. I understand.”

Gord smiled, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll bring these back in the morning. Good night, Mrs. H.”

“Take your time. ’Night, sugar,” she replied warmly, as visions of Bob Gibson frolicked around in her old mind.

Back in his apartment, Gord found the main station number for Channel 13. He dialled and followed the automated prompts into the station’s voice-activated directory. Gord confidently said the name “Kim Bell” and waited for a connection to be made.

“Hi, you’ve reached Kim Bell …”

Damn, he cursed internally. The machine.

“I am in the office from ten to six Monday to Friday. Please leave your name and number, and a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon I can.”

Gord hung up. He wasn’t going to fumble through a poorly constructed voicemail message. Ah well. I’ll just try again tomorrow.

Gord woke at nine o’clock without the assistance of an alarm. This underrated pleasure was due to the Wildcats’ having a night game that evening at Mercantile Stadium.

Gord’s left arm barked in obvious duress. The three innings he had tossed the day before had left his shoulder and elbow joints cracking and creaking like the floorboards of a century-old home. He went for a light jog to increase the blood flow to his extremities and did a few sets of push-ups and pull-ups to transform the barking in his arm to a mild whimper.

Famished, he stopped off at a greasy spoon for a hearty breakfast. After his plate was all but licked clean, Gord glanced at the clock on the pastel pink wall. Noon. He had to be at the park at two o’clock. He knew he was stalling. He was nervous about calling Kim.

What is wrong with you? This is getting pathetic. Nut up, for Christ’s sake!

The personal pep talk forced him out of the restaurant and back to his apartment. Gord sat on his bed and stared at the phone.

Come on, just do it.

He took a deep breath and punched in the numbers. He waded through the automated system once again. Kim picked up on the second ring.

“Kim Bell.”

“Hi, uh, Kim. It’s Gord.” He held his breath, praying for an enthusiastic greeting.

“Gord! Hi!”

His prayers were answered. “How are you?”

“I’m good. I’m just prepping for today’s segments. It’s nice to hear from you. What are you up to?”

“Not bad.” Shit, that didn’t answer her question. He tried to maintain a semblance of poise. “I’m heading to the park in a bit. We have a game in Lakeland tonight.”

“Cool.”

He heard the rustle of papers on the other end of the line. She was busy. Get to the point.

“Anyways, Kim, the reason I’m calling is that we have an off-day the day after tomorrow …”

That was true.

“And our coach always makes the team do these community involvement activities all over the state on our off-days …”

Also true.

“So we actually have one scheduled in the Orlando area. At the Troubled Teens Shelter, I think …”

False and False. The team had won ten of their last twelve. Conrad had given the Wildcats the whole day off to do as they please.

“I was wondering if you wanted to grab lunch. Say one o’clock?”

Gord waited with bated breath as Kim pondered his offer.

“Sure. Yeah, I can do that. Where did you have in mind?”

He laughed nervously. “Actually, I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

“Okay, let’s meet at Glade Restaurant. It’s four blocks north of the station at Eola Drive and Church.”

“Great. Sounds good,” he replied, making a mental note of the restaurant and major intersection.

“Okay, I have to run. See you then, Gord.”

“ ’Bye, Kim.”

Paint thinner couldn’t peel the megawatt smile off Gord’s face. Whistling to himself, he got ready for the short commute to the ballpark. However, baseball was the last thing on his mind. He was more excited for his upcoming lunch with Kim.