Second Chance at Bat, page 25
xxxxx
"Joey, he was talking about me getting arrested for a felony and wire fraud, that's a federal offense. I had no idea what a mistake I was making when I walked into his office."
"That's the last time, I am bailing you out Hot Shot. Do you know how long its been since my dad and I have gotten together?"
"None of that is my fault, mi amigo. From what I remember, you shit the bed there yourself."
"Yeah but I was this close.
" Joey said with his fingers measuring an inch."I didn't know a fucking thing about your little scheme. I picked you up at four in the morning and two days laters I find out that my Dad isn't going to meet with me. I do you a favor and I'm in the doghouse again."
"I'll fix that Joey, I promise."
"How Hot Shot? How? You already tried to lie to him once, why would he believe you second time?"
"I'll fix it little buddy. I swear."
Joey's sponsor was listening to this argument ebb and flow. He agreed to meet Joey and his hot-headed friend at the diner. Joey was buying and the Chocolate cream pie a la mode was delicious, both times.
Both he and Joey were splitting the coffee pot on the table. Hot Shot was drinking Sweet Tea and crunching the cubes like a pile driver.
Hot Shot was afraid to be seen at the AA meeting at St. Helena's. After all, he did want to remain anonymous as Joey explained to Tom, so they picked the diner.
"Have you tried cutting back on the booze kid."
"Yeah and that's the scary part, Sir. Since I was promoted to Reading, I've been drinking more and more often, not less and less often. Doing a lot more shots than I ever did before. I think its because of the familiar surroundings and because things aren't going so hot." Hot Shot trailed off in his own thoughts for a moment. "When I promise myself to go light, I wake up the next morning with my head splitting open. Its like I'm doing the opposite of what I say I want to do."
Tom had been there and done that too. This scene had been played out a million times in AA.
"What's worse is now I drink to calm down the night before I pitch. I never used to touch the stuff twenty-four hours before a start, that's like breaking my own code."
That got Tom's attention for a couple of reasons. "I know what you mean kid. I have heard stories from surgeons who couldn't blow clean on a breathalyzer, yet walked into an operating room. You'd be surprised about the airline pilots that have a few pops before boarding just so they could get their nerve up to fly." The kid was spiraling down and was in free fall, but did it mean that he had hit rock bottom. Was this the first scare? If he went cold turkey, how long before he won a few games and said 'what the hell, I'm cured'. He'd be back on the sauce in no time and it would get worse.
"Tell me about the accident, Blake." It was the first time he used Hot Shot's given name.
So Hot Shot did and when he finished, Tom asked him. "So you were passed out or fell asleep?"
"Yeah and I still don't remember most of the night." He stopped and then added, "I didn't get a concussion, so it had to be a black out."
"Blake, what if the road curved the other way and instead of a telephone pole on the right, it was head on with a min-van full of people?"
Hot Shot was silent while he mulled that over. "I could be dead or worse."
"What's worse than dead, Blake?"
"I could be dead or paralyzed and a killer too."
Joey piped in now."There is a saying around the rooms, Hot Shot and it goes like this, 'By the grace of God go I'."
Tom saw that Joey was shifting the conversation from 'Poor me, what am I gonna do, wah-wah-wah' to the more deeper level of life and death. Joey could make a good sponsor someday, he thought.
Tom said, "This talk of God is pretty heavy right now. Let me make it simple for you Blake. Don't drink and go to meetings".
"That sounds so simple", Hot Shot said.
"But its not so easy, let me tell you." Joey said.
"But I can't go around here, they will recognize me." Hot Shot was hedging.
"Where can you go where they won't recognize you Blake", Tom asked. It had to come from the kid's mouth.
"Pottstown or Lancaster." Hot Shot replied. What about when I am on the road, what do I do then?"
"What do guys that travel for business do, Blake?"
"They find meetings in the cities that they are working in?" Hot Shot answered his own question.
"Go online." Joey said.
"How many meetings?" Hot Shot asked. Tom had him pointed in the right direction.
"Ninety meeting in the next ninety days Blake."
"Wow, that's a lot." Hot Shot was equivocating.
Tom scraped around the whipped cream and extra chocolate sauce before replying. "I think it will help you with your change-ups too." Tom said as he finished his last bite.
"Really?" Hot Shot straightened up.
Both Tom and Joey nodded.
xxxxx
If Joe got an icy cold bath in New York, he was getting the exact opposite at home. There was no thought of hanging up his cleats and returning as celebrity owner of an insurance agency. He was packing for the longest road trip in his short time with the Phillies and given the rancor spewing from Linda and her big-mouthed big sister Juliette, he wasn't packing enough.
"There you go running out on your wife again." She said.
"Think of it as a business trip, Juliette, its part of my job." He said.
"We know about what goes on those business trips, Joe." She said.
"Just cause your Ex couldn't keep in it his pants, doesn't mean every husband is like that Juliette." Joe shot back.
"What's that supposed to mean Joe?" Juliette ratcheted up a notch.
"It means, you have no business sticking your nose where it doesn't belong again. It means that you shouldn't throw stones in glass houses. It means that your affairs while you were still married, doesn't mean that other people act that it way. It means-"
"Enough!" Linda screeched. "You leave Juliette alone. She's here to help you see that your belong here and not running around playing Mister Big Shot."
"Mister Big Shot?"
"D, you're this guy, this Average Joe. I don't even know him. Everybody tells me how lucky I am to be married to this good-looking baseball player. They think you are so hot. It makes me crazy. I want it to end." Linda began crying. Juliette moved in to comfort her little sister.
Joe continued packing. He was the subject of his wife's pain and it hurt him to see her this way. He had devoted his life to his family and what should be a good thing, this new found fame and fortune, was tearing his family apart. No, correction, it wasn't tearing Joey and he apart. Linda was torn up about it. She never wanted him to play professional baseball. She never supported his dream. He saw her now, as he did all those years ago when she found out she was pregnant. She was afraid of losing him to the sirens.
He finished packing in silence as she sobbed and Juliette oscillated between Florence Nightingale and Lizzie Borden with the looks.
"I'll call you when I land." he said.
"Don't bother." came the muffled response.
xxxxx
It was a disastrous road trip and everybody was anxious to get home. In all his years of coaching and in his short time in the big leagues, Joe had never endured so many losing games in such a short period of time. What was most frustrating was his inability to do anything about it. He watched helplessly as the team lost more than just the games played. Winning is infectious, so is losing, but even more so. It feeds the inner-critic of self-doubt. The Phillies played tight and pressed too hard which are symptoms of that illness. Julio and Clay held the fort and reported daily on Joe's progress to the media. Finally now, they were in the air and with the dust of the road behind them, there was reason for hope.
Joe sat across the aisle from Doc and they finished a wide-ranging conversation. Between the therapy and rehab, he had a lot of time on his hands. He was a good listener and learned that the coaches were acutely aware of his absence on the field. They had to mush on and make the best of the situation. The manager remained stoic, said the right things and didn't whine about their fortunes. They would have to make up the lost ground one game at a time. Joe had always preached to his players about winning the game they are playing and not looking ahead. No matter how somebody looked in warm-ups or batting practice, a coach couldn't predict what would happen in the game. However Doc brought a different perspective to the game than most of his counterparts. It kept him in equilibrium.
"Yeah, he was looking for action and he sure got it." Doc said about the first time he met Stew Menke.
"We had gotten some intel that our little friends were moving to take over our position. He came in one the choppers bringing in another Company to reinforce us. Looking back, we didn't realize how big a can of hurt they were about to open up on us." Doc had been to some of the reunions with fewer and fewer Marines to remember the Winter of '68 at Khe Sanh and the night that joined Doc and Stew together for eternity. The stories were now more about their camaraderie than individual acts of heroism, except those acts of bravery from those who had passed on since the last reunion.
"Stew couldn't enlist because of his leg, but that didn't stop him from going. He covered the war as a stringer for AP. He was pretty good with a camera too." Doc reached into his wallet and pulled out a dog-eared photo of a group of marines, all young, bare-chested and posing with their favorite weapons. Doc was easy to pick out with his little medicine bag.
Joe held the photo closer to the jets overhead reading light and could see the eyes. The eyes told him of unspeakable horrors of war and everyday bravery. They had been to hell and back.
"These guys." Doc didn't say anything more about them and put the picture back in his wallet.
Joe asked, "What happened to Stew?"
"You should ask him yourself." Doc said.
"I mean after the war, what did he do?"
"He came back to Philly and did hard reporting. Today, they call it investigative journalism. Back then, a newspaper would spend the time and money to develop stories. When the guy covering the Phillies quit, Stew volunteered and he has been a fixture ever since."
Joe asked, "Was he always this acidic?"
Doc's answer was simple. "As the salaries have gone up, so has his venom. After the war and writing stories of real people doing extraordinary things- real heroes- he has a hard time with the way the game has morphed. I think he regrets that he stopped working the police beat too. That's part of the reason why he's tough on both the players and management, he doesn't take sides. He writes for the little guy. That's why he likes you."
Joe was surprised, but quickly added, "He leaves you alone Doc, I've noticed that he always puts you between the rock and the hard place,but he doesn't aim his poisonous pen at you."
"Shhh." Doc warned Joe, sidestepping the question veiled as an observation, "He might hear you."
Joe smiled and returned to the book on catalytic philanthropy that Ellis had given him. It was good reading, but with the fatigue and boredom of flying cross-country, he mind wandered. First to his honeymoon, then the night he flew home from Phantasy baseball camp and finally reliving the excitement of his very first road trip as a player for the Phillies. It seemed that flying and pivotal moments in his life went hand in hand. He pondered this while questions bubbled up from last week's rain out at Chavez Ravine like too much water in the drains during the flash flood.
Physically, he was nearly one hundred percent. He was able to run, practice yoga and most importantly, throw without pain or restriction of movement. He was ready to get off of fifteen day disabled list.
AIN'T NO SUNSHINE WHEN HE'S GONE
By Stew Menke
San Diego, LA and Arizona had plenty of sunshine but not for our Fightin' Phils without Average Joe.
Bill Withers said it best all those years ago and it is just as true today. I know. I know. I know. I know. Now that you can't get the tune out of your head either, just try to remember two weeks ago, when the team held a slim lead in the NL East; the day a baseball game turned into a brawl that you will never forget.
A cheap shot got settled when the team rallied around their injured man on the mound.
Neither group of combatants have fared well since then. The nasties from New York have gotten pummeled by the NL East and our guys won only once on the West Coast swing. C'mon, who loses a series to the Padres?
If it wasn't for the All-Star break and a rainy day, it would have been a lot worse. We know a couple of things now. The Triple A kids got burnt on their days in the sun. They are not ripened and need more time back on the farm. The back end of the rotation were out-dueled by the West's best gunslingers. Without our favorite hurler putting zeroes on the board, it made it real tough on Ellis and the boys to come from behind every contest. The bullpen was ravaged and those tired arms need a break.
We all know the darkest hour is just before the dawn and with Average Joe coming off the DL, the warming rays of daylight could soon be upon us. I know. I know. I know. I know.
SUMMERTIME
The clubhouse people were all glad to see their returning warriors and moved about with a happy step. Uniforms hung smartly in the lockers, shoes were shined and the extra-fluffy towels were stacked high. The grounds crew laid down the chalk lines with a precision of a surveyor. There is something real about seeing the green grass of home as they stepped out onto the pristine field for their pre-game rituals. Never mind that the Delaware Valley was in the midst of hot dry spell. The field was soft and springy under the feet. Last time Joe was here, he wasn't injured and the place was standing room only. Again tonight, Citizens Bank Park was filling up nicely and the concessionaires were doing a brisk business. He and Clay went about their warm up with a practiced precision as if they had no interruption. Joe knew that Clay had used his extended break to rest his knees but he did keep up his back stretches and hip openers. The improved diet was showing progress. When he and Joe became battery mates, Clay lumbered and labored, now he moved with the purpose of a hungry bear.
* * *
It struck Joe that this wasn't all brand new anymore. He fell into the routines and rhythms now of his home ballpark. He was able to say a quick hello to his new policyholders that were grateful for the seats and autographs. He made sure to mix them in with his Bay Sox family. The press and media were not clamoring for his time. They came out to see if the second half of the season would be like the first, but they were respectful of his wishes. They knew the drill as well.
Joe had done a bullpen the last night in San Diego and it was thumbs-up for starting tonight. The no-seamer was hopping and bopping and doing the crocodile rock just like the song resonating around this showcase stadium as he and Clay finished their last throws before the National Anthem.
* * *
Since 9-11, the ball clubs made a big deal about their active-duty troops and veterans in attendance. Doc had told Joe that when he came home from Vietnam, that his dress blues stayed in his closest and it was only in the safety of the American Legion and VFW halls that he felt he could be a veteran of a foreign war. The other guys there understood what their sacrifice meant, even as they struggled to make sense of why their valor and heroism had to stay in the closest of everyday American life.
* * *
So between the National Anthem and God Bless America sung at the Seventh inning stretch, the Reds All-Star pitcher and Joe were each throwing a shut out. Not all of the NL Central had seen Joe's no-seamer yet and like most first-timers each batter had to take the first pitch strike, then tried timing strike two before swinging pretty on strike three or swinging ugly to produce weak pop-ups or easy grounders. A cheap hit here or there and a errant pitch that fluttered into a Red's batter were the only reprieve from their misery that the boys from Cincinnati could muster. Unfortunately, the boys in the white home jerseys with the red pinstripes only got two guys into scoring position and left them there for somebody to hand them their gloves and caps at the end of both innings.
* * *
Now, here in the bottom of the Seventh with two outs, a polite Clay Triandos, who hadn't argued balls and strikes on this hot arid summer's night took strike three. It was called ball four by the only man that counted, much to the ire of Red's pitcher. He just turned the batting order over and will see better hitters without the pitcher being out number one in the Eighth. This was not a happy guy as he snorted and kicked the imaginary dirt from his spikes.
* * *
As Clay made his way up the First base line, he turned towards Joe and yelled, "Just make contact." Joe looked and saw that Clay was wiggling his throwing hand's index finger in a down position. He shielded the Reds from this sign so that only Joe and the Phillies bench saw it. FASTBALL.
* * *
Joe settled into the box against this hard-throwing righty. Joe understood exactly what Clay was telling him. Almost like reading this guy's mind, Clay knew that hard fastball was coming right down the pike.
* * *
When the pitch came, Joe was ready for it. Just like he taught the kids, Joe followed the ball with his eyes until it leapt off his bat. The swing felt effortless, just like a good shot at the driving-range.
* * *
Joe was running hard down the first base line now as the surprised Right fielder took an instinctual step in and then started running towards the fence in a dead sprint. Just as Joe began to acquire the bag to get his footing right for the turn, He heard Roy Hoak yell, "Way to go, Joe!". He saw Roy was laughing and clapping now. The outfielder slumped, stopped and turned his back to the wall. Where was the ball, he thought?
