July 2008

Vero Beach, Florida

The dream was always the same.

Again and again, Gord’s pitches fly all over the park — some falling short, some going too long, others thrown halfway up the baselines. None come close to the strike zone.

He’s powerless to stop it. The crowd’s taunts become more derisive and vitriolic. The boos thunder down onto the field and rattle his eardrums.

The walks and runs pile up like stacks of cordwood. Gord looks in desperation to the bullpen, longing for relief and an end to the nightmare, but no one is there. He is completely and utterly alone …

The dream intruded on Gord’s precious REM cycle, in advance of his pitching performances, like some sort of perverse Pavlovian response. Wiping the crusty sleep remnants out of his eyes, Gord shifted anxiously under the motel room’s paper-thin sheets. They stank of disinfectant and watered-down detergent.

Staring at the ceiling, Gord realized he still had two hours before the shrill sound of the alarm clock would summon him to the ballpark. That afternoon, he was scheduled to pitch three innings against the Vero Beach Diablos in the first outing of his six-week organizational “tryout” created by Tom Conrad and the higher-ups in the front office. This truly was make-or-break time for his baseball career.

On the days he pitched, Gord’s cheery demeanour and personable attitude were replaced with the steely gaze of a gladiator ready to do battle in the Coliseum. When he was scheduled to stand on the bump, his teammates knew it was best not to engage him in typical clubhouse chatter.

On the bus ride to the ballpark, the majority of the team congregated at the back of the bus away from the attentive ears of the coaching staff. Gord chose a row near the front, an empty seat beside him, and gazed out the window as his mind cleared and focused on the task at hand. Tunnel vision.

Approximately ninety minutes before the first pitch, the rest of the Wildcats were in various stages of undress in the clubhouse. Gord sat quietly at his locker, already in full warm-up gear. He gently rocked back and forth. The adrenaline charging through his body made it impossible to sit still.

Rap music blared through the clubhouse speakers, and quick bursts of conversation could be heard around the room as Lakeland readied itself for a tough game against the Diablos.

“Where are my spikes?”

“Do you have any dip? No, not regular. I like grape.”

“My fucking glove just ripped.”

“Dude, she was a pig. Stop nailing slumpbusters.”

“Anyone have some pine tar?”

“Where’s the clubhouse kid? I need new laces.”

“Off-day tomorrow? I am getting so fucked up tonight.”

“You’re a cocksucker.”

The music and conversation coalesced into ambient white noise to Gord. He waited patiently for one of his teammates to finish dressing so he could hit the field to warm up. Gord’s regular throwing partner, on the days he pitched, was backup catcher Aaron Carmack.

Across the room, Carmack finished tying his laces, grabbed his catcher’s mitt, and made his way toward the field entrance. Gord gave him a quick nod, motioned for him to get a ball, and followed him to the field.

Carmack, a tall, lanky redhead from Reno, Nevada, was basically the Bizzaro Jeff Merkle. He was extremely quiet and shy, and usually only spoke when spoken to. That’s why Gord loved warming up with him before an outing. Gord didn’t want to take part in any extraneous banter.

Stretching back to a comfortable distance in the outfield, Gord threw until a thick pool of sweat engulfed his body, and his arm felt ready to handle the rigours of throwing off a mound. Gord jogged toward Carmack, stationed along the left field foul line, and flipped him the ball.

“Thanks, Aaron.”

Those were the first two words Gord had spoken since getting on the team bus that morning. He continued on to the clubhouse to change his undershirt and put on his jersey.

Scheduled to throw innings five through seven, Gord decided to take up residence in the dugout for the first part of the game, instead of his usual spot in the outfield bullpen.

Tom Conrad addressed his charges from the top step of the dugout. “Okay, fellas, let’s work the count. Remember the signs. Good fundamental baseball. Let’s get ’em.”

A harmonious explosion of baseball chatter sprang to life in Lakeland’s dugout as the Wildcats’ leadoff hitter, Tristan Beem, strode to the plate.

“Hum babe!”

“Come on now, kid!”

“Here we go!”

“Start it off!”

“Atta boy!”

“Hey TB, have a day, kid!”

“Stay hot!”

Gord smiled. This unrestrained, juvenile exuberance was non-existent in the bullpen. Baseball talk, no matter how nonsensical, was used primarily to keep players’ heads in the game.

Pitchers didn’t need to resort to baseball chatter to stay involved in the game. They always knew, well in advance, if they were scheduled to throw that day. Position players didn’t have that luxury, as they could be called upon at any time to pinch hit, pinch run, or enter the game as a defensive replacement.

As a group, all pitchers were mentally fragile. Smart coaches knew they couldn’t spring an appearance on a guy without advance warning, unless they wanted a pitcher with shaken confidence to take the hill. Like field goal kickers and hockey goalies, pitchers were delicate flowers and they had to be handled accordingly.

Gord watched Beem lace a single up the middle, and the bench erupted to life once again.

“Hey, babe!”

“There we go, there we go!”

“All day, boys, all day!”

“Keep the train moving!”

Batting second, Tyson Dante uncharacteristically lunged at the first pitch, popping it up directly behind home plate. The Diablos’ catcher circled under it, tossed his mask in the opposite direction, and snared the ball with two hands. One away.

Dante smashed his bat onto home plate and stomped back to the dugout. His teammates gave him a wide berth and avoided eye contact. Dante slammed his bat and helmet into one of the dugout cubbyholes. Muttering and shaking his head, Dante crunched across the discarded sunflower seed shells and expectorated tobacco juice blanketing the dugout floor. He stopped suddenly when he spotted Gord gazing out onto the field.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

Gord, unaware Dante was referring to him, remained silent.

Dante walked up beside him and poked Gord in the left shoulder. “Gord! Why aren’t you in the fucking bullpen?”

Gord shifted away from Dante’s touch. He stared at the fiery third baseman like Dante had just ripped a huge fart in a closed elevator.

“What’s your problem, Tyson?”

“You never sit on the bench; it fucking messed me up. That’s why I popped out.”

Gord looked at Dante with a look of stupefied amazement. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He hopped off the bench and walked into the dugout tunnel to get away from Dante’s superstitious idiocy. As he departed, he could hear Dante explaining to a nearby teammate how his at-bat was ruined by Gord’s appearance in the dugout.

In the bottom of the fourth, Vero Beach, already in possession of a 5–1 lead, threatened with two on and two out. Gord, warming up in the bullpen, kept one eye on the field.

He knew his entrance into the game was imminent. Conrad wouldn’t want the game to get much further out of reach. Sure enough, time was called, and Lakeland’s manager emerged from his dugout perch and slowly walked to the mound. Conrad extended his left arm perpendicular to the ground and tapped the elbow with his right hand, signalling Gord into the game.

Gord flicked his glove toward the bullpen catcher. He always ended every bullpen session with the same pitch: a fastball right down the chute. Call it tradition or superstition, but Gord didn’t feel comfortable unless his last warm-up pitch was a fastball that he tried to throw through the catcher’s chest.

Gord walked through the creaky wooden gate separating the bullpen from the field. Taking a quick breath to steel himself, he jogged across the green expanse to meet his manager on the mound.

“Okay, Gordie, I need you to put this fire out before things get out of hand.”

Gord, unblinking, nodded his head.

“Get us back on the sticks.” Conrad’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Remember, this is your time now. Make the most of it.” With that, he patted Gord on the back and trudged toward the dugout with his hands tucked in his back pockets.

Gord stuck his glove under his arm and kneaded the ball between his hands. Dave Rockwood, Lakeland’s catcher, covered his mouth with his mitt to dissuade the Diablos from trying to lip-read their conversation.

“One fast, two curve, three change?”

“Yep,” Gord replied.

On the field, all baseball players engaged in the ridiculous act of covering their mouths when conversing, as though, in addition to tremendous baseball talent, opponents also had the ability to lip-read from one hundred feet away. It was ludicrous to think teams could acquire intricate knowledge of the opposition through such reconnaissance, but it was just one of the quirks that made the game so great.

Gord completed his eight warm-up pitches, and the umpire signalled for play to resume. Rockwood called for an outside fastball. Gord nodded, came set, checked the runners, and painted the black with a tailing two-seam fastball.

Rockwood moved to the inside corner and requested a curveball. He placed his glove at the batter’s ankles, indicating he wanted the next pitch to finish low in the zone.

Gord’s offering floated lazily to the plate with a modicum of break. The pitch sailed high for ball one. He slapped his thigh in disgust — a mental reminder to stay on top of the ball and finish his delivery with a violent Tomahawk chop.

Rockwood, in addition to being a physical freak with both power and speed, possessed a high baseball IQ. Pitchers loved the way he called a game. After the desultory results of the last pitch, Rockwood figured the batter would not expect another curve, so that is exactly what he called.

Gord, impressed with his catcher’s confidence in his stuff, nodded in agreement. This time he unfurled a sharp curve with a sliding 10 o’clock to 4 o’clock break. The batter was caught way off balance and his bat flailed through the hitting zone. He managed to catch a small piece of Gord’s offering and sent a meek grounder foul toward third base.

With the count at one ball and two strikes, Gord and Rockwood had a variety of options at their disposal. They could waste a pitch and get the batter to chase some more slow stuff low and away, or bust him inside with a fastball to back him off the plate. Then, with the count at 2–2, they’d have him set up for a circle change diving to the outer half.

But the Wildcats’ battery decided to change the batter’s eye level. After an off-speed pitch down in the zone, they silently agreed that a fastball at the letters would look too enticing to ignore. This would hopefully force the batter to either miss completely or pop out.

The runners danced off their bases, trying to take Gord’s focus away from the man at bat. Gord came set and let fly. His pitch streaked toward the middle of the plate, but it was not at the letters as Rockwood’s glove directed. This fastball was belt high.

The batter’s eyes lit up as he recognized the missed location. He whipped his bat through the zone and made contact with the meat of the barrel, his arms fully extended.

Gord groaned audibly when he heard the perfect harmony of bat on ball. A pitcher like Danny Johnson or Steve Anderson would have been able to get away with a mistake pitch like that because they threw so hard. Gord Mattis didn’t have that luxury.

The ball shot toward centrefield and the runners took off around the bases. With two outs, they were running on contact. Centrefielder Tristan Beem got an excellent jump and raced toward the warning track, hoping to catch up with the frozen rope.

The ball never got more than fifteen feet off the ground. Just as it began its downward arc, destined to collide with the base of the outfield wall, Beem, in full stride, leapt out and snared the ball in the webbing of his black mitt. His momentum pitched him forward and he crashed headlong into the protective padding of the fence. Dizzy, but unhurt, he thrust his glove into the air to show the entire stadium the inning’s third out.

Gord smacked his bare hand and glove together, grateful for his centrefielder’s great play. Hopping down the dugout steps, Gord bumped fists with his teammates and got a congratulatory pat on the ass from his manager for ending the Diablos’ offensive threat.

He found Beem at the other end of the bench and slapped him on the back. “Thanks for saving my ass, TB. Great catch.”

In the shower after the game, Gord reflected on his performance. Not bad, he thought. It was a decent showing for my first outing as the long man out of the bullpen, but I need to be better. I’m still too inconsistent.

Letting the hot water stream over his body, Gord went over his pitching line in his head: 3.1IP, 5H, 1BB, 2ER, 2K.3 Lakeland had attempted a late comeback, which would have put Gord in line for the win, but they ultimately fell short 7–5.

“Gordo?” Steve Anderson poked his head into the shower.

“Yeah?”

“Hurry up and get dressed. We’re going out for a few pops.”

Gord shut off the shower and grabbed his towel. The lukewarm water pooled around his sandals, searching for the drain. He figured he could use a couple of beers to take the edge off.

“Give me ten minutes.”

A group of Wildcats occupied a back table filled with pitchers of ice-cold beer and piping-hot wings, on the patio of Jack’s Restaurant and Lounge. Overlooking the Atlantic on Ocean Drive, Jack’s was a great place for the guys to relax in relative anonymity. About a mile north of the Riocan Country Club, the bar catered to upscale clientele looking for a middle-class experience.

Joining Gord and Anderson were Danny Johnson, Chris Seaboard, and JR Coltrane, a starting pitcher from Thousand Oaks, California. The conversation stuck to baseball while the guys ate, but, as the food cleared and the pitchers of beer sank to dangerously low levels — only to be replenished by their increasingly attractive waitress — they began to take notice of some of the female “talent” at the surrounding tables.

“Oh shit, look at that one.” Johnson nodded toward the entrance.

A raven-haired beauty swivelled her shapely hips across the patio toward their table. She wore a tiny pair of denim jean shorts that would have made Daisy Duke blush. The shorts were perched atop a statuesque pair of silky smooth, olive-skinned legs. Upstairs, she wore a dangerously tight yellow spaghetti strap shirt, which barely concealed her bountiful breasts. Her cup literally runneth over.

Danny stared at Miss Duke with his mouth agape: the rest of the guys used a bit more discretion, but there was no denying that she was absolutely gorgeous. She also knew exactly what she was doing. An alluring smile pasted to her face, Miss Duke confidently strutted past the Wildcats and joined her two friends, also possessing qualities desired by the shallow male, at a nearby table.

Anderson whistled and shook his head. “A broad like that will get you in all kinds of trouble.”

Prying their gazes away from the three Sirens, the guys embarked on a time-honoured tradition and rite of male bonding: the trading of sex stories. However, the stories quickly became a juvenile game of one-upmanship similar to fishermen telling tales of fish caught. “I swear to God, it was this big!”

Johnson was the only Wildcat not participating in the discussion. Not that he didn’t have any stories, but he was completely transfixed by Miss Duke and her friends.

“Jesus, Danny, at least blink. She’ll think you’re a serial killer,” Gord quipped to his roommate.

“I love this chick,” Danny replied hungrily.

At that moment, the three ladies got up, checked to make sure every pair of male eyes had homed in on them, and strode into the bar.

Seaboard leaned across the table and smacked Danny in the shoulder. “Hey, Bonus Baby, you’re going to have to bring out your wallet to seal this deal.”

“You sure you can handle this, Danny Boy?” Coltrane inquired sarcastically.

“Fuck you, guys, I’m going in.” With that, Danny jumped up from his seat and bounded into the bar.

Gord shook his head and smiled. “The kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

Fifteen minutes later, the patio door burst open and Danny stepped across the threshold with a megawatt grin stapled to his face. Miss Duke and her gal pals trailed close behind like he was the Pied Piper leading rats to the river.

The guys exchanged astonished glances, impressed at the game of their brash teammate. Danny and his new friends joined the Wildcats at their table. The sequence of events became clear when their waitress emerged onto the patio, carrying a tray full of shots and set it down in front of the group.

Danny whipped out his credit card in an elaborate gesture and handed it to the waitress. The display of plastic and copious amount of drinks was not lost on the ladies. They had found their meal ticket for the night.

Danny passed out seven shots, keeping one for himself. This barely made a dent in the tray. Things were going to get messy.

“What is this, tequila?” asked Coltrane.

“Yeah, buddy. Patron.” Danny shot a look to the ladies. “Only the good stuff.”

As the group brought the shots to their lips, Gord wavered. “Shit. I can’t do tequila anymore. It wrecked me in college.”

Danny admonished him. “Come on, Gordo, don’t be a pussy. This isn’t your college bullshit tequila; it goes down smooth.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”

Miss Duke, privy to the conversation from her spot across from Gord, unsteadily rose out of her chair and leaned suggestively over the table. She flashed Gord her most devastating smile.

“Oh, just have some shots with us. We’re lots of fun.”

Her chest was directly at Gord’s eye level. He considered her for a moment, studying the intricate details of her yellow shirt. He looked at Anderson to his left.

“How can I say no to that face?” he said with a conceding shrug.

Gord slammed the shot down his throat and signalled Danny to give him another.

The last time Gord got blindsided by tequila was during his freshman year at university. It was the night he was introduced to the wonderful world of collegiate binge drinking.

3 IP = innings pitched, H = hits, BB = walks, ER = earned runs, K = strikeouts.