WHATEVER YOU LIKE
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Whatever It TakesChapter 7 free porn video
I stayed and watched the Saints beat the visiting Lincoln (Nebraska) Saltdogs, 5-2 behind a kid who, I thought, looked even younger and greener than I did on the mound. But he was taller than I was, and had arms that seemed to hang down to his knees. Maybe he was physically better-equipped to be a pitcher than I was.
Then again, Pedro Martinez isn't exactly Goliath on the mound. It seemed to me that Sandy Koufax hadn't been a big guy, either. When I got back to the car, I found my Baseball Encyclopedia -- a little dog-eared from the stresses of travel -- and looked him up. Hmmm. Koufax had been six-two, and two hundred ten pounds. Not exactly what I'd remembered.
But I was a student of The Game. I knew there had been little-guy pitchers who'd made it big. Who was that guy, pitched for Philadelphia, back in pre-history? He'd hung around for years! Oh, yeah! His name was Bobby Shantz!
I looked him up, too. He was five-six! Five-six! I was a giant, compared to that dude! Shantz weighed in at one forty two! I wondered if he had been a hard thrower. Well, the book said he'd struck out 152 guys that one big year he had, when he went 24-7. Not bad! Maybe he was like me: small but fast.
Then again, he only had that one big year. Hung around for years after that, but never won more than twelve games in a season. Not too many innings pitched, either. They must have sent him to the bullpen. Well, beggars can't be choosers. They want to send me to the bullpen, send me, I don't give a damn!
I just want to play this game.
Ortega had instructed me to show up early Saturday afternoon for the Saints' getaway game, prepared to travel. He would arrange to have a uniform ready for me. I asked for and received permission to leave my car inside the fence at the stadium while we were on the road. I went ahead and left the car there that night, pulling my canvas suitcase-on-wheels behind me as I walked back to my new motel, closer to the ballpark. I could wait until the team got back to St. Paul before worrying about a place to live. Maybe one of the Saints' players needed a roommate at home, as well as on the road.
Back at the motel, I left the suitcase in my room and went out again to treat myself to a celebratory beer in a nearby neighborhood bar. From a quiet corner, I called Josie Fitzgerald in Baltimore. It was late: Almost eleven in St. Paul. Almost midnight, for Josie.
"It's me. I'm a St. Paul Saint, at least for the moment. We're playing a getaway game tomorrow and then leaving town for a road run to Sioux City and Sioux Falls."
"Wonderful!"
"Well, 'wonderful' may be a little strong. The pay is even less than at Bowie. I'm still living out of my car, and the bed in my motel isn't as... inviting as yours was."
"But you're on your way!" Josie said. Clearly, she was not having to force her enthusiasm. It was there, in her voice. It made me feel closer to her than seemed usual for a girl who, essentially, had been a one-night stand.
But just because you'd made love to a girl for only one night, it didn't necessarily make it a one-night stand. Besides, there were those other two nights: The one I'd spent on the couch, and the sex-free but quite stimulating night before the night we'd finally done the deed.
This wasn't going to be any damned one-night stand. Not if I had anything to say about it!
"So, the Orioles aren't going to be back in Minneapolis all season," Josie said. "Have you seen any other places on the Saints' schedule where we might get together?"
Despite Josie's earlier instruction for me to call her only when I had the team's season schedule in my hand, I had forgotten. "I don't know yet," was all I could say to her.
Weak.
"... But I'll call you again, tomorrow, soon as I know," I added hastily. "It was... quite a day for me. I just got excited. I forgot."
She wasn't upset. We both knew that a lot could happen before we were likely to find ourselves in the same state at the same time again. In addition, my tryout with the Saints could be over with. I might be released again, at almost any time.
If I was released, I'd see Josie even sooner. I'd look up the Orioles schedule, home and away. Wherever they were -- Minneapolis, Chicago, Detroit -- that's where I'd go, if I wasn't still hanging on, by that time, with the St. Paul Saints.
At eleven a.m. on Saturday, two hours ahead of the Saints' starting time, I was decked out in uniform. It was used, and a little threadbare, but I noticed it fit a lot better than the one I'd worn -- oh, so briefly, as a member of the Baltimore Orioles. I was now number 48. No name on the back of the jersey.
"You won't play today," Ortega said. "We've sent your name in to the League Office. You're probably already officially eligible to play. But you won't. So relax. Sit in the bullpen. Talk to the guys. Listen to Clint. Do whatever Clint says. He may want you to throw a little, during the game. It won't mean anything -- your getting up to throw. Our starter will already know about it, and he won't get antsy."
"Clint will teach me the signals?"
Ortega laughed. "What signals? Did you acquire you a curve ball, overnight? Learned to throw a change-up? You got one signal, kid, for now -- one finger, don't even matter which one. It don't mean "fastball," either. Not for you. It just means, 'throw the fucking ball!'... If we get in a laugher somewheres, we'll maybe give you an inning or two. We'll hafta be 'way ahead, or 'way behind. You get called upon, you just come in, throw hard and straight, and maybe you'll get by -- in this league. Later on, maybe, when there's a good reason to, we'll go over signals -- OK?"
I gathered I was going to be a spot reliever. Well, what did I expect? Instant starter? Ace of the staff?
The Saints lost the closeout game of their home series, 8-3. I watched it from the unfamiliar angle of a minor league club's bullpen. It wasn't located behind the outfield fence, as in the case of most major league clubs. It was just an open bench, close to the chain link sideline fence out past third base. But for me, it was a different perspective on watching a game. And I got into the action once. Clint Curtis told me to grab my glove and stand between the bullpen catcher (Clint) and the batter's box. Clint was warming up a reliever with his back to the plate. I was there to protect the two of them, make certain they weren't hit by an errant foul ball.
My previous skills as an infielder were being put to use.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota was a four-hour bus ride from the Twin Cities. It wasn't a bad bus at all, and I was seeing some new country. It wasn't that different, really, from being back in the Eastern League. Boots McDaniel, one of my fellow bullpen denizens, was friendly and loquacious and he was astounded when he found out -- from one of the coaches -- that I'd been up with the Orioles for several games -- earlier that very season!
"You really have played in the big leagues?" he said, awe in his voice.
"Barely," I said. "It was just an emergency. It wasn't my real shot, or anything... And I wasn't a pitcher. I was a backup infielder."
"But, shit, man! The Majors!"
I decided not to disillusion the lad further. After all, I was a mature college graduate, twenty-three years old. A former big-leaguer. This mere slip of a boy was even younger -- only twenty -- and his only professional experience was this two-month stretch he'd had in the American Association.
"I was only up for the Birds' western swing," I said modestly. "... Minnesota, Seattle, Oakland and L.A. I never even got to play a home game with them."
"You were an infielder?"
"Yeah."
"Get any hits up there?"
"I only got two at bats," I explained. "Bunt single, and an out."
"You hit .500 in the Show!" Boots exclaimed.
"Yeah. For the season, I guess you could say... One for two."
"Still! Still, Dude, you've been up there! Wow! Only other guys, on the Saints, who've been up are the manager and our left fielder, Coleman. You met him yet? Coleman? He's like, fifty years old or some damned thing! We call him 'Dads.'"
"Fifty? Really?"
"Well, maybe not fifty. But he's an old fuck! Forty-something."
"Who'd he play for? In the majors?"
"He got up twice. He was with the Athletics for about forty games one year. And the Cardinals for a little while, couple years later."
I wasn't surprised that Boots had such intimate knowledge of the abbreviated major league career of our ancient left fielder. Making it to the majors was a Truly Big Deal. A teammate who had gone all the way up was worthy of respect, however modest his career might have been.
This guy, 'Dads' Coleman, certainly had more to boast about than I did. How long had I been up? Eleven games? Two at-bats? Three fielding chances, one of which I'd (unofficially) muffed?
And the manager, Carlos Ortega. He'd actually been a first-string infielder for a few short years in the bigs. He was the real deal. No Hall of Fame candidate, surely, but a bona fide big leaguer.
"What's the story with Curtis?" I asked Boots. "He ever play up there?"
"Triple-A guy," Boots said. "Got hurt. Bad. Bad enough, he had to quit. So he never got a smell. But he played six years in the minors. He's been coach, here with the Saints, couple or three years, I understand."
"Has he helped you any?... As a pitching coach, I mean?"
"Oh, he knows some shit," Boots said. "He's smart, and he knows pitchers. He never was one, but, yeah, he can help. He knows about pitch selection. And how hitters think. Most of what he's told me, about game situations -- it seemed right."
"Pitch selection," I repeated, and laughed. "Carlos said to me, I only got the one signal from the catcher: One finger means, 'throw the damned ball!'"
Boots was shocked. "He really said that to you?"
"He wasn't being mean or nothing," I said. "He just meant, I got no pitching skills yet. I got no change, no curve. Not even a slider."
"I got a slider," Boots said. "It's a good pitch. Let me show you. But I'm a lefty. I gotta be real careful, how I use it. It breaks opposite, for me. Works better, really, for a right-hander like you. It can be a good pitch -- even for me, but, oh, boy, when you're a Southpaw, you gotta be careful where you put it, or it'll be just meat!"
"I've never pitched an inning," I told Boots McDaniel. "Not one. Not even in practice!"
"Jeez."
"Yeah."
"So how come you're a pitcher, then?" Boots asked, reasonably enough.
"Because I got no bat. Because they released me. My Double-A club, the Baysox. So I had no career. I was through already."
"And Carlos put you on the roster?"
"Yeah. No guarantees, but he's going to give me a little look."
"Fuck! You must throw pretty fucking hard!"
"That's exactly what he told me," I agreed.
"What?"
"That I threw 'pretty fucking hard.'"
Three night games in Sioux Falls, and then three more in Sioux City, Iowa. Nice little cities. Nice little ball parks. Less worn-out looking than some of the Eastern League towns -- and parks -- had been. And it was a pleasant time of year in the Upper Midwest. Mild weather, still. Small crowds, but the games were lively and well-played.
Angelica
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