Evan Harnessy glared down the right-field line at three dozen boys in Twins uniforms bracing for another sprint across the outfield of minor league diamond #4. A stopwatch and a whistle hung from his neck on separate lanyards. He rarely needed either. The second hand in his head was as accurate as the watch, and his voice pierced the morning air sharper than any whistle.
Hardass Harnessy is what the boys called him. Or Coach Hardass. He knew. He’d overheard it every spring, whispered as the players stretched or ate lunch in the cafeteria. He relished it. The line between hate and respect meant nothing to him; the end result was the same. No one was ever late to his practice, no one talked back. They just cursed him under their breath and counted down until April. When camp broke and they all left for their full-season assignments, Hardass stayed put in Fort Myers, running the Twins’ extended spring training like Quantico.
“On your marks,” the chiseled coach barked, sunlight glinting off his silver crew cut.
Bunched in the middle of the pack, Del toed the chalk line next to Edsell. Both were breathing heavy already, having run eight sprints in the previous fifteen minutes.
“Go!”
Del flinched as the rest of the line surged forward. Where was “get set”?
“Catch them, Tanner. Move, Gonzo. Ferguson. You boys finish last, everyone runs again.”
Gassed though he was, Del had no desire to be the shithead of the day, the culprit Hardass would cite when he made them run again. Not this time. He’d been SOD last Tuesday, and though most everyone took a turn in the role they all razzed him hard that morning. Wouldn’t be him today. By his fourth stride he was at full speed. He caught half a dozen stragglers before they passed second base. When he crossed through the cones in left field he was solidly in the middle of the pack.
“One minute, gentlemen,” Hardass called from back at the starting line.
Del leaned forward, sucking air deep into his lungs as he started back across the field. “God, please, not another one,” he muttered to Edsell, marching back alongside him.
“Who’s shithead?” Edsell asked.
“Wasn’t me.”
“Prob’ly Fergie. Fat bastard.”
“Can’t help the way he’s built.” Del massaged his aching sides just above his hips with his thumbs.
“Sweet Jesus.” Edsell nodded ahead. Bespectacled Don Dallimore, the overseer of Minnesota’s entire farm system, strode onto the field. “Double-D saves the day.”
“Please be right.”
“Ferguson’s off the hook. We got a call from the guv’nor.”
“Bring it in, gentlemen,” Hardass ordered. “You’ve got five ... four ...”
The last thirty feet was a mad race to reach the line and find a spot on the grass. Del claimed a patch of turf in foul ground. Edsell slid in next to him.
“Very nice, boys,” Dallimore called. “Well done.”
Hardass stood next to the farm director, stiff and military, the scar on his cheek whitening against the leathery skin of his clenched jaw. Dallimore ran his fingers through the sun-bleached bristle brush hanging over his top lip and ignored his lieutenant.
“Eyes, fellas,” he said. It wasn’t necessary. Three dozen players were already focused on the former catcher. Dallimore cleared his throat as he surveyed his men. “It’s been a good camp. I want to thank each one of you guys for the effort you’ve put in. I’ve been watching you for the last month. Sometimes you may not have seen me. But I’ve seen you. And with rare exception, I’ve been pleased with your effort.”
Here he broke eye contact, glancing down at his loafers. Hardass, who never gave any outward sign of appreciation to any of them, slipped away from his side and began walking the perimeter of the group. Del, sitting Indian style near the rear, followed him with one eye until he had stepped beyond his periphery.
“But tomorrow, I have to say good-bye and good luck to some of you. I hate the day more than you guys. You might not believe that, but ... we all get the jersey ripped off our back eventually in this game. If I see you in my office tomorrow, well, don’t take it personally. There just ain’t room for everyone. Most of you have survived this before, and you know how it goes. Please be sensitive tomorrow, if you’re one of the lucky ones who gets to keep living his dream. Cut day is ...”
“Lucky bastard,” Edsell whispered. With a quick, almost imperceptible jab he socked Del in the thigh.
“Dammit,” Del exhaled quietly.
“Seven, four, my lead,” whispered Edsell.
The game of Punch had originated their first summer in Elizabethton. The object: land as painful a blow to the other guy’s leg as you could strike without being seen. The recipient couldn’t yell, groan, or otherwise draw attention to the crime, which was perpetrated only in settings such as this.
“Good one.” Del rubbed his quad with the flat of his palm. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“I’m the king.”
“Edsell,” came a bark behind them.
Don Dallimore halted his speech, and three dozen faces turned in their direction.
“You and Tanner might want to listen hard to this part,” Hardass scolded. “One of you might be packing tomorrow.”
Del’s throat and sphincter tightened simultaneously. It was him. Had to be. Edsell was knocking the logo off the ball. After taking a pitch off the wrist in BP the second day of camp, Del had spent most of the first week icing his hand. He went nearly a week without reaching base and had only regained his stroke a couple of days earlier. Maybe it hadn’t been enough.
Jim Ferguson followed Del and Edsell back to their room after dinner.
“It’s been nice, guys,” Ferguson said as Del swiped his key card in their door. “But Hardass has had it in for me all spring. I know I’m gone.”
“You’re not getting cut, Fergie,” Edsell said. “How many catchers we got? Rogers tore his fucking meniscus. He’s done until at least August. As long as you can hold a glove up you’ve got a job.”
“I ain’t hit nothing,” Ferguson said. “I’ll be seeing Underholt in my dreams tonight.”
Greg Underholt was the equipment manager who greeted the guys when they arrived in Fort Myers and checked them out when they left. One of his incidental chores was tapping the victims with the reaper’s finger each spring. He’d been delivering the bowel-wrenching phrase “Dallimore wants to see you” for half a generation now.
“I’m right there with you,” Del said.
“What are you talking about, man?” Edsell asked. “You hit three hundred last year. They’re not cutting you.”
“I’ve sucked this spring. What do I have, like three hits?”
“Shut up, dude. You’re fine. Double-D knows you were hurt.”
“You heard Hardass. One of us is gone. Ain’t you.”
“Gimme a break. He’s just talking. Guy probably threatens his kids like that, too. Dinner time at the Hardass house must be a bowl of laughs. He’s probably like, ‘We only got enough food for two of you, one of you will starve.’”
“What’s his daughter like?” Ferguson asked. “I bet she’s—”
“Don’t go there, man,” Edsell cut in. “He’d rip your dick off and club you to death with it.”
“You’d definitely get cut then,” Del said.
Edsell flung his head back and belched out a laugh. He pantomimed wiping a tear from the corner of his eye and flung it down at Ferguson, who had assumed his customary spot on the floor at the base of Edsell’s bed. “You guys are just way too uptight tonight.”
“Says the guy who’s hitting four-fifty this spring,” Ferguson replied.
“Doesn’t matter now,” the second baseman said. “They’ve already made their decisions. Ain’t no use in worrying about it now. You’re just gonna make yourselves sick.”
“How’s that going to help me sleep tonight?” Ferguson asked.
“Yeah,” Del added.
“What you talking about, Tandy? You slept through a fucking tornado last year.” Then aside to Ferguson, “He did, literally. It was like watching Twister from the hotel lobby. Fucker slept right through it. We’re all shitting our pants watching cars getting thrown across the parking lot, he’s in the room sawing timber.”
“That’s different,” Del said.
“So, getting cut is worse than getting killed?”
“No shame in getting killed by a tornado,” Ferguson said.
“No shame in getting cut, neither,” Edsell said. “You heard Double-D. Happens to everyone eventually.”
“I rather it didn’t happen to me tomorrow,” Del said.
What would he do if it did? Go back to school? And then do what with a degree in graphic design, a major he’d chosen primarily because it looked easy and he figured he could keep his grades up without too much effort. He’d grown to loathe the program by his junior year. It was too technically oriented. Too much emphasis on computers. The only part he liked was the drawing, and even that wasn’t as much fun on a class assignment as it was just cartooning on his own. But sketching Sir Del and Damsel Dana wasn’t any more applicable to earning a living in the real world than hitting a curveball.
“Stop, guys,” Edsell urged. “We’re all in. We’ll all be right here in Fort Myers. You’ll see.”
When they knocked on Ferguson’s door at eight the next morning there was no answer. The catcher and his roommate had already caught a shuttle to the Twins’ minor league complex. Del and Edsell were the only passengers on the 8:15 van. When they pulled up, two teammates were on the curb, seated atop their stuffed equipment bags.
“Is that Gonzo?” Edsell asked.
“Yep.”
“Shit, I didn’t think he’d go.”
Del was unsure whether to acknowledge his fallen comrades with an empathetic-but-manly final hug or let them grieve privately on the curb. They made the decision for him by looking away as he and Edsell passed. Bear Lupin, the athletic trainer who had risen through the ranks with them, climbing from Elizabethton to Quad City, glanced out from his office when they walked by. Did he know anything? Del searched his face for insight, but found no clues. Bear was safe. Trainers didn’t get cut. He was already assigned to the Fort Myers club, giving the South Florida native a rare season at home.
The locker room was like a Berber-carpeted tomb. Jake Withers, a relief pitcher who dressed three spots down from Del, thrust his belongings into a long Twins bag. He was a pariah now, politely ignored by the remaining players. Some dressed while others simply sat in front of their cubicles. The locker to the left of Del’s had already been cleaned out. All that remained was a pair of cleats with the sole tearing loose and a dusty pair of sliding shorts, crumpled on the top shelf.
“Should we change?” Del mouthed to Edsell, who only shrugged in response.
Del sat down on his stool and untied his sneakers. The room grew so quiet he could hear the laces rub against each other. A thick shadow fell across his shins.
“Dallimore’s looking for you, Tanner,” Underholt monotoned. He was gone before Del looked up.
“Fuck, dude,” Edsell said.
Del’s eyes watered. He tried to swallow. Instead his throat tightened, then opened, flooding his mouth with the acidic blowback of breakfast’s bacon and hash browns.
“Maybe it’s not ...” his friend started.
Del cut him off with a sideways glance. “It’s been real, man.”
Without bothering to re-tie his shoe he stood and trudged across the clubhouse to the farm director’s office. The door was closed when he arrived. He raised his hand to knock, but stopped when he heard the low rumble of voices. Each man should be allotted his own time to absorb the message, without witnesses. He sat down on a nearby stool, comfortably out of earshot. When the door opened two minutes later, a red-eyed Jim Ferguson stepped out.
“You too, hunh?” Ferguson said.
Del nodded.
The catcher drew him into a hug, pounding his back twice before withdrawing.
“Keep in touch, Del. I’m going to miss you guys.”
Del watched Ferguson walk away until he turned the corner, then poked his head into the office. Don Dallimore sat behind his desk, running a pen over a sheet of paper on a clipboard. After an uncomfortable silence Del coughed a faint excuse-me cough.
“Tanner,” the farm director said. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.”
Del nudged the door shut behind him with his unlaced shoe. The latch clicked like a gun shot as he slumped into the metal folding chair in front of Dallimore’s desk.
“Del ...” Dallimore started.
He sat in silence, watching Dallimore’s hands. The thick fingers were gnarled and crooked from his years behind the plate.
“You, uh, you shouldn’t still be on this list.”
Del raised his eyes. Dallimore smiled at him from beneath his thick mustache.
“I should have let Greg know.”
“Know what?” Del asked.
“We made a couple changes last night. Late. Turns out Torres’ sprained knee is an ACL. He’s cooked.”
Alejandro Torres, Del’s rival for playing time the previous summer at Quad Cities, had gone down in a heap during sprints earlier in the week, earning him SOD honors. The thick-bodied Puerto Rican had tried running the final heat, but wound up hobbling over to a golf cart while Hardass berated him and his mother’s lineage.
“You caught a break, son.” Dallimore smiled again. “But I need to see something out of you this year or you won’t be as fortunate next spring.”
“What’s that?” Del asked softly.
“You’ve got a beautiful stroke, Del. And you play a nifty first base. You scoop the ball out of the dirt better than anyone else in the organization. But it’s a power position. You’re not going to climb much further hitting a soft three hundred. You need some muscle, boy. You been really getting after your weight training?”
“Yeah.” Del shrugged. “I did all the workouts last year just like everyone else.”
Mostly true. Like a number of others, he and Edsell had clowned through the workouts as if they were in a high school P.E. class. When the conditioning coach swung by they lifted with perfect form and cranked out leg presses like model students. As soon as he moved on to the next station they were back to playing games and trading gossip with the guys on the next mat over.
Dallimore raised his eyebrows and curled the corner of his mouth into a skeptical smile. “Future’s in your hands, Del. A little man power behind that swing of yours, and, BAM.”
Del nodded. Man power had been eluding him as far back as Little League. For years he’d just figured it was his metabolism. He ate and ate in high school and nothing stuck. When he got to Central, Coach Gehring railed against weight training, favoring agility drills instead. “You’ll get tight. Too much bulk slows down your swing,” he’d warned. Del had clung to the advice even after signing as a rationalization for his half-hearted gym workouts.
“I want you to go talk to Hank Mattison. He’s the new strength-and-conditioning coach who took over for Ted. He’s gonna be your new best friend.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good deal. You work with Hank. Take advantage of the weight room here. It’s a bee-yoo-ti-ful facility. Nothing like it in the system this side of Minnesota. Now that the big league boys are out of the way, you get your butt in there and get after it, son. Cause if I gotta call you in here again next spring, well, hell, Del, ain’t gonna be a chat neither one of us enjoy.”