Magic Time, page 13
“Do you have any idea why you lose control the way you did?”
“Yeah, I do.”
‘Well, recognizing the problem is half the battle. At least that’s what psych majors say”
“Mike, I came over to your place to open up to you, tell you things I’ve hardly even admitted to myself, let alone spoken aloud.”
“And you still want to do that?”
“Hell, what have I got left to lose? Will you listen, Mike? Will you hear me out?”
I thought about it for a moment. I decided I can listen as well as the next guy.
‘Tell me whatever you want,” I said. “Strictly confidential.”
We strolled through the downtown, the streets silent. We ended up at the ballpark, sitting in the stands, just to the outfield side of first base. The dew was beginning to fall and the odors of the ballpark at night filled our senses.
Barry McMartin talked.
“My buddies Pascoe and Martinez came to visit me at Vancouver General Hospital the day after I picked up forty-one stitches from running through the plate-glass wall next to the front door of my girlfriend’s apartment building.
“Pascoe was black. He was our first-base man, in his third year in Triple A and not likely to go any higher, even for a cup of coffee. He was six foot seven and shaved his head to resemble a pro wrestler; he looked mean as a boil, but one of the reasons he was never going to get a shot at the Bigs was he lacked the killer instinct. He played an average first base, but for such a big man he had only warning-track power.
“Martinez was new to the team, came from the Dominican Republic, that famous town where they turn out iron-armed shortstops who gobble up ground balls as if they were part of a video game.
“Martinez spoke only about ten words of English, so he was happy to have anybody pay attention to him. He had worried brown eyes and was so black his round cheeks and wide forehead gave off a glare in bright sunlight. Martinez had no idea he was getting himself in the manager’s bad books, making himself an outcast by hanging around with me. But Pascoe knew.
“Reporters described me as the team’s designated flake. A bad boy who didn’t have lights on in every room. A troublemaker. Most of my teammates disliked me and were a little afraid of me. Which I didn’t mind.
“Some of them thought I was on drugs. Which I did mind. I never did drugs. Never will. I do have some common sense.
“At the hospital, Pascoe stuck his head around the door-jamb and said, ‘McMartin, how the hell did you get all the way to Triple A on one damn brain cell?’
“I smiled, though it hurt like hell. Nine of those forty-one stitches were in my hairline. Martinez grinned, said something in Spanish, and ended by clapping his hands and doing a little dance step. I assumed he was wishing me well.
“‘How long will you be out of action this time?’ Pascoe asked.
“‘Management put me on the fifteen-day disabled list. I’ll be ready to go in less than that.’
“‘You are very lucky you are not dead,’ is what the doctor in emergency said to me as he was sewing up my cuts. ‘A couple of guys get killed every month doing what you did tonight. You must have a guardian angel. You’ll be back playing baseball inside of two weeks.’
“I pulled up my hospital gown and showed the guys the rest of my stitches, like a primitive mark of Zorro on my chest. Not close to an artery, not even a tendon. What scared me at the time was a shard of glass clipped the tip off my right earlobe and I bled like a stuck pig. I came to lying in a pool of blood and glass. I thought I was a goner for sure.
“‘Well, what are we gonna do to cheer our friend up, Marty?’ Pascoe asked, with a smile that went halfway to his ears.
“‘Si,’ said Martinez.
“‘Tell me a joke,’ I said.
“‘We know he can’t play, Lady. We want to use him for second base,’ said Pascoe, and we both broke up, while Martinez watched, mystified. My laughter lasted only a few seconds before pain from my stitches brought me up short.
“One night early in the season, soon after I became Pascoe’s roommate, we stayed up all night telling jokes. We were sitting in a twenty-four-hour café, and we just kept drinking coffee and telling stories until the sun came up. We told every joke we knew, clean or dirty.
“Gradually, instead of retelling a whole story, we’d just shout out the punchline. We both knew the joke so we could both laugh. Like, there’s a long shaggy-dog story about a white man trying to prove himself to the Indian tribe he’s living with. The Indians give him a list of acts to prove his courage. When he comes back to camp, looking happy but torn to rat shit, the chief says to him, ‘You were supposed to kill the bear and make love to the woman.’ So we’d just shout out the punchline and laugh like crazy. But it stymies players who aren’t into storytelling, and doesn’t go over well on dates.
“‘The trouble was the pilot was gay,’ I said, and this time Martinez laughed along.
“Martinez was so congenial we were teaching him real English, not the kind we taught to some of the Spanish-speaking players. We had been known to coach a Spanish player, at a restaurant, to say to the waitress, thinking he was ordering a hamburger, ‘I would like to eat your pussy, please.’
“‘What did management say?’ Pascoe asked, changing the subject.
“When you get to my balls try to act as if nothing unusual is happening,’ I replied. That’s a punchline from a joke about a famous detective going undercover in drag.
“‘I’m serious,’ said Pascoe.
“‘So am I.’
“‘Goddamnit, Barry. How much trouble are you in?’
“‘Well, Skip wanted to fire my ass. Or so says the GM. But I’m too valuable for them to do that. The White Sox are going to call me up inside of a month — you can bet your balls on it. So it was Old Springs himself came down to minister to me.’
“‘Springs’ was what we called Osterman, the general manager. He was one of those dynamic guys who walked like he had springs in his shoes, a guy who’d read all those inspirational books like How to Screw Your Friends, Rip Off Your Neighbors, and Make a Million by Age Thirty. He was always talking to us ballplayers about long-term investments, five-year plans, and networking.
“‘You’re a jerk, McMartin,’ he said. Not even a hello. ‘You’re a screw-up.’ He called me ten more names. ‘You’re also a criminal. If it wasn’t for baseball your ass would be in a jail out in the Oklahoma desert, or in a psych hospital, which is where I think you belong. The front-office personnel voted unanimously not to send you flowers or wish you a speedy recovery, Skip said, so he sent me. For some reason, he figures I have more self-control. Skip says to tell you he wishes you’d cut your trouble-making throat when you fell through that window.’
“‘Yeah, well you tell Skip his wife’s not bad in bed. But she’s not nearly as good as your wife.’
“I was sorry as soon as the words were out. I didn’t really want those guys to hate me. I just wanted to make it clear that I didn’t take crap from anybody.
“‘You really are pure filth, McMartin,’ Springs growled. ‘Unfortunately, in Chicago they think you might hit thirty home runs for them next year. They’d let Charles Manson bat clean-up if they thought he’d hit thirty dingers. But just let me remind you, the minimum wage in Oklahoma is about three-fifty an hour, and out of a uniform you’re not even worth that.’
“‘Try to imagine how little I care,’ I said.
“‘We’re going to tell the press you were being chased out of the building by an angry husband,’ said Springs. ‘It will fit your image. But let me tell you, even Chicago is fed up with your antics. This is absolutely the last time.’
“‘Did management suspend you, or what?’ asked Pascoe.
“‘Nah, I told you, I’m their fair-haired boy. I’m on the DL. I’ll be out of here tomorrow morning. So while you guys head to Portland and Phoenix and get your asses whipped eight out of nine without your clean-up hitter, I’ll be sitting in Champagne Charlie’s pounding a Bud and drooling over the strippers.’
“‘I should have such luck,’ said Pascoe. ‘I don’t know, Barry, you’ve got to stop acting so … so external, man.’ He shook his head sadly.
“I should treat Pascoe better, I was thinking. He was a decent guy. I couldn’t figure out why he hung with me. When I first arrived he showed me around Vancouver, which bars and clubs to visit, which to stay away from.
“‘Stay away from the King’s Castle.’ he said to me as we walked down Granville Street one evening, heading toward Champagne Charlie’s. ‘It’s the biggest gay bar north of San Francisco. Stay away from the Crown Jewels Bar, too. Lesbians and bikers. Over half the people in that bar have shivs in their boots.’
“There was a flamingo-colored neon sign above the entrance to the King’s Castle, and a dozen young men were standing in groups or lounging against the walls near the entrance, all caught in the pinkish glow of the neon.
“‘Queers,’ I snarled as we passed, not caring if I was heard.
“‘Behave yourself,’ snapped Pascoe.
“I have to admit I am naturally a loud person. I tend to shout; I walk with a swagger; I keep my head up and my eyes open. I’ve never minded being stared at; I like it that girls often turn and stare after me on the street.
“Two weeks into the season we were at home against Phoenix. I tripled to lead off the second inning. Pascoe was batting fifth and he popped up weakly to the shortstop. The manager put on the suicide squeeze.
“The pitcher checked me, stretched, and delivered. I broke. The batter bunted, but way too hard. It was whap! snap! and the ball was in the pitcher’s glove. He fired to the catcher, a skinny little weasel, who was blocking the plate. I was dead by fifteen feet, but I’d gotten up a real head of steam. I weigh 217, I’m six foot four, and I’d played a lot of high-school football in Oklahoma.
“I hit the guy with a cross block that would have gotten me a starting job in the NFL. I knocked him about five feet in the air, and he landed like he’d been shot in flight. The son of a bitch held onto the ball, though. The guy who bunted was at second before someone remembered to call time. They pried the ball out of the catcher’s fingers, and loaded him on a stretcher.
“I’d knocked him toward our dugout and had to almost step over him to get back to the bench. What I saw scared me. His neck was twisted at a weird angle and he was bleeding from the mouth.
“The umpire threw me out of the game for unsportsmanlike conduct. The league president viewed the films and suspended me for five games. The catcher had a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and three cracked ribs. He was on the DL for sixty days.
“The next time we played Phoenix, I got hit by a pitch my first time up. Reprisal pure and simple. I charged the mound, and the benches cleared. But before I got to the pitcher, Pascoe, who was in the on-deck circle and must have anticipated me being hit, landed on my back and took me right out of the play Suddenly, there were three or four guys on top of us.
“‘Behave yourself,’ Pascoe hissed into my ear, as he pinioned me to the ground. Those became Pascoe’s favorite words as the summer deepened and I kept finding new ways to get myself into trouble.
“Pascoe was happy when I started going out with Judy. Judy was a friend of a girl he dated, a tiny brunette, a year younger than me, with dancing brown eyes, a student studying sociology. Word even got back to Skip, and he said a couple of civil words to me for the first time since I had cold-cocked the Phoenix catcher.
“‘You’re just shy,’ Judy said to me on our second date.
“‘Ha!’ cried Pascoe. He and his girlfriend were sitting across from us in a Denny’s.
“‘It’s true,’ said Judy. ‘People who talk and laugh loudly in order to have attention directed toward them are really very shy.’
“‘You are, aren’t you? Shy, I mean,’ Judy said later that evening in bed at her apartment. Our lovemaking had been nothing spectacular.
“‘I suppose,’ I said. ‘But I’d never admit it.’
“‘You just did,’ said Judy, leaning over to kiss me.
“Pascoe, Martinez, and I made the rounds of the bars after a Saturday night game. I’d had several beers, but not enough that I should have been out of control. We closed up Champagne Charlie’s and decided to walk home. We were approaching Broadway and Granville, swinging along arm in arm, when a police cruiser pulled up alongside us.
“The passenger window rolled down and an officer, no older than us, said, ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’d like to see some identification.’
“Pascoe was reaching for his wallet when I said, ‘What are you hassling us for? We’re minding our own business.’
“The officer ignored me, but he opened the door and stepped out, accepting the piece of ID Pascoe handed him.
“Martinez, hailing from a country where police do not always exhibit self-control, stayed behind us, looking worried.
“The officer returned Pascoe’s ID.
“‘And you, sir?’ he said to Martinez.
“‘Leave him alone,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t speak English.’
“‘I’m not addressing you,’ the officer said.
“‘Leave him alone.’ I stepped in front of Martinez.
“‘Behave yourself,’ said Pascoe, and grabbed my arm. I pushed him away, and before he could recover his balance, I shoved the officer against the car. As the driver was getting out I leapt on the hood.
“What happened next is a blur. I remember screaming curses at the police, dancing madly on the hood of the police car, feeling it dimple under my weight, dodging the grasping hands of the police and Pascoe.
“I remember hearing Pascoe crying out, ‘Oh, man, he’s just crazy, don’t shoot him.’ Then there was a hand like a vice twisting on my ankle and I toppled sideways to the pavement. My mouth was full of blood and someone was sitting on me, while my arms were being cuffed behind my back.
“I missed the Sunday afternoon game — management let me sit in jail until my court appearance Monday morning. The police had charged Martinez with creating a disturbance, but after a translator explained what had happened, the charge was dropped. I faced a half-dozen charges, beginning with assaulting a police officer.
“The judge looked down at me: unshaven, my shirt torn and bloodstained, the left side of my face scraped raw from where I had landed on the pavement. He remanded me fourteen days for psychiatric evaluation.
“‘I’m not really crazy,’ I said to no one in particular.
“The team lawyer got on the phone to Chicago, and then the White Sox’s lawyers got in on the act. Before the end of the day, they struck a deal. If I agreed to spend an hour every afternoon with a psychiatrist, the team would guarantee my good behavior, and my sentencing would be put off until the end of the season. If I kept my nose clean, the sentence would be suspended.
“Management had me by the balls. ‘You screw up again and you’re gone, kid,’ Skip said. ‘It doesn’t matter how talented you are. I don’t care if you’re Babe Ruth reincarnated, you’re not worth the aggravation.’
“I saw the shrink every afternoon for the whole home stand. I took all these weird tests — questions like ‘Are you a messenger of God?’ and ‘Has your pet died recently?’ I wore a jacket and tie to every session and talked a lot about what a nice girlfriend I had and how much I respected my parents.
“‘Well, Barry,’ the doctor said to me after about ten sessions, ‘on the surface you don’t appear to have any serious problems, but I do wish you’d make an effort to be more cooperative with me. I’m here to help you with your problems, after all.’
“‘I thought I was being cooperative,’ I said innocently.
“‘You have been, but only partially. I find that you are mildly depressive, that you’re anxious, under a lot of stress. Stress is natural in your profession, but there is something else bothering you, and I wish you’d level with me.’
“‘Look, I’m okay, honest. I had too much to drink, I got out of control. It won’t happen again.’
“‘Suit yourself,’ said the doctor.
“My life leveled out for almost a month. We went on a road trip. I continued to hit well; I watched the American League standings, studied Chicago’s box score in each day’s newspaper, watched them fade out of the pennant race. I wondered how much longer it would be before I got my call.
“Once, in Tacoma, Pascoe had to keep me from punching the lights out of a taxi driver who said something insulting about ballplayers, but otherwise I stayed cool. I phoned Judy almost every night. I’d analyze the game, dissect my at-bats pitch by pitch. I doubted that what I was saying was very interesting to her, but it was a release for me, and she seemed to enjoy it.
“Judy brought two friends to a Sunday afternoon home game, on a perfect blue day. The stands at Nat Bailey Stadium are close enough to the field that I could smile over at Judy from the on-deck circle.
“Her friends were a couple, Christine, a bouncy blonde with ringlets and a sexy way of licking her lips, and her husband Trevor, a wimpy guy who wore a jacket and tie to the ballpark and looked like he was shorter than Christine.
“Although I had three hits and two RBIs, I wasn’t in a good mood after the game. We went to one of those California-style restaurants with white walls, and pink tablecloths, where everything was served in a sauce, and they looked at you like you just spit on the floor if you asked for french fries. To top it off, I didn’t like Trevor, and he didn’t like me. I pounded about three Buds and then I drank a whole pitcher of some wine-cooler slop that tasted like Kool-Aid.
“What really threw the crap into the fan was when the three of them decided the four of us would go to a movie, Kiss of the Spider Woman, about a couple of queers locked up in a prison in Argentina or someplace. To top it off, Trevor gave us all a little lecture about the eloquent statement the director was trying to make.
“‘There’s no damn way I’m going to a movie like that,’ I said, standing up to make my point.
