A Life of Inches Read online

  An assistant coach, sticks his head into the gym and interrupts me. “Ryan, Skip wants to see you in his office, ASAP.”

  The taunting, “uh-oh’s” and, “what did you do now?” follow me out.

  I grab the doorknob to the manager’s office with a trembling hand and imagine myself announced as the starter at tomorrow’s Tribe game. Besides fulfilling a lifetime dream, it would put me closer to home—and closer to Molly.

  Young hometown hero returns to save the day. I can see it now...I stand on the mound, waving my cap to the standing-room-only crowd. This elicits an ear-splitting roar in return. The catcher throws me the ball, and as it hits my hand inside the glove, he says...

  “Are you coming in here, or do you expect me to meet you in the hall?”

  “Coming, HF.”

  The Skipper is as happy as the rest of us with our championship run. He just shows it in different ways, like yelling at us.

  When I get nervous, I babble like a machine gun, and, right now, there’s a mouthful of bullets waiting for me to pull the trigger.

  “Sit.”

  He doesn’t yell, which makes me nervous. Outside of anger, the Skipper typically doesn’t express a wide range of emotions, so we players know when he drops his hard shell it usually means bad news.

  “Well, I assume you know why you’re here, so I’ll cut to the chase.”

  Skip throws a newspaper down onto his desk. I scan the front page of the sports section.

  Before I can take in as much as the headline, Skip grunts an explanation. “Wicky, went down last night. Damn baseball broke his jaw in 4 places. Hammy needs someone to fill a hole in the bullpen.”

  I stare in disbelief. “Are you sending Popson?”

  “No, Jason isn’t going, nimrod. And before you say anything else, no, Hatrix won’t be headed north either—or Skinny, Killcoyne, or even Jeremy freaking Wilder.”

  He dares me to speak, veins bursting from his forehead.

  Silence.

  “Listen, Ryan, I like you.”

  Even though each word seems to cause him pain, I show my appreciation for the compliment with a face-wide grin and blushed cheeks.

  He continues, “You play a hard-nosed style of baseball that hearkens back to my day, and that’ll always win points with those who know even the tiniest bit of what real baseball’s all about. Today, the game’s focused on home runs, record-breaking attendance, and blah, blah, blah. Yeah, those things are great, but Ryan, you have to remember to play the game the right way.

  “As a catcher, you’ve got a man running full steam at you, as you’re awaiting a tiny ball to slide into your mitt. How you react in those split seconds can mean everything to everyone involved. The crowd doesn’t matter. The other players don’t matter. Hell, we know the players think the manager doesn’t matter, but what does matter are the few inches you have between tagging out the runner or having him cross the plate.”

  The Coach’s tone gets more desperate as his hands animate each word. “Can you understand what I’m saying here? Whoever fights the hardest for that last inch is remembered as a champion rather than a has-been. Not just on the field, either, I’m talking twenty-four seven, ‘cause this ain’t just a game of inches. If you want to succeed, you’ve got to live a life of inches.”

  Wide-eyed, I say, “HF, I want to smash through the walls in your office and go win the game right now.”

  “Pack your stuff, son,” he says. “After we win this game, you’re headed to Cleveland. Don’t make me look like an idiot for recommending you.”

  Chapter Eight

  A Few Moments Later

  If I sprint to the payphone, down the third baseline concourse, it’ll leave just enough time to call Molly before reporting in for the pitchers’ meeting. All aches and pains have been forgotten since Skip told me I was heading to the Majors.

  With my schedule keeping me on the road most of the year, it’s hard to maintain regular contact with anyone, especially Molly. We’re not in a relationship with any official tag, but I know someday we’ll be together. That is, if Woodie doesn’t sweep her off her feet first.

  Reaching the phone, I visualize my wind-up to calm my nerves. My coaches preach that mastering the mental aspect of the game helps more than the physical. I tend to agree, though in my experience it hasn’t hurt to have a cannon for a left arm.

  My fingers shake with excitement causing me to misdial Molly’s number twice before getting it right. We haven’t seen each other in months, but that all changes this week when I return to Cleveland as a champion and, even more importantly, as an Indian.

  She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  Though we’re several hundred miles apart, the breeze carries her mango shampoo with it.

  “Hey, it’s Ryan. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Not at all. In fact, I just got back from running with Wilder.” Molly named her black lab after her favorite baseball player of all time, Jeremy Wilder.

  “A jog isn’t a bad idea. I mean, without me and Woodie around to keep you in shape, you need to create the illusion of an active lifestyle, eh?”

  On the other end of the phone, the woman I love erupts with good-humored surprise. “Why, you son of a—”

  “Hey, relax. I just meant that, when I hit Cleveland, this week, I’ll be itching to play a little basketball, and I hope you’ll be up to the challenge.”

  “You’re coming home?”

  I chew on my lip, still disbelieving I’m able to let the cat out of the bag. “Well, I can’t report to the Tribe anywhere else, can I?”

  “What? Are you kidding me?”

  Each word she speaks hits a higher note than the previous. If her sentence had been longer, she might’ve shattered glass.

  “I’m still in shock, but HF told me I should get the call as early as tomorrow.”

  Molly belts an excited shriek and I can hear her relay the news to someone. In the background I hear Molly’s father congratulate me.

  I say, “Thanks, Omar. Hope to see you at the ballpark this fall.”

  Molly says, “I’m proud of you guys. I hate that I’m not there to support you two during this series. I promise to be there next time. No matter what.”

  “Molly, I totally get it. You have the elections to worry about, and—”

  From behind me, someone makes it clear this isn’t my personal phone. “Hey buddy, I don’t have all day.”

  Standing just a few feet away, Woodie, the man I’ve struck out twice so far in this series sports a well-worn Helmet hoodie and Camo shorts. His straight brown hair drops far enough to hide his name on the back of his jersey.

  I beam, happy that I’m talking to Molly, and Woodie isn’t. “Hey, I gotta get going. Someone’s waiting for my autograph over here.”

  She giggles. “Sure, sure. Hey, when you face Woodie, take it easy on him, will you?”

  I admire her for at least trying, but she must know there’s no way I’ll oblige her request. I turn and shake hands with my friend.

  Two teammates flank Woodie. His face is obscured by the shadow cast by his ball cap. “I saw you standing over here without a baseball in your hands, so I figured I’d take advantage of the situation. I’ve gotten far too accustomed to watching your fastball slide past me into the catcher’s mitt.”

  “A fastball that got past you? Not likely. I haven’t been dumb enough to throw you a fastball in a hitter’s count since high school.”

  Speedy approaches me carrying his mitt and his mask. “Ryan, you ready?”

  The catcher’s eyes are slits in the bright sun, the squinting expression exaggerating his pug nose. He inches between Woodie and me. Yes, my catcher feels compelled to protect me from the big, bad batter.

  Uncomfortable with my childhood friend and my teammate getting chippy with each other, I tread lightly, attempting to joke around. “Thanks, Speedy. I don’t know if I could’ve found the pitcher’s mound by myself.” I turn back to Woodie. “You wanna walk an
d talk me to practice? I have some kick-ass news.”

  “No,” he responds, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, “I wanna race you there.”

  “Hah, you in that much of a rush to lose again?” Though I stand half a foot taller than my friend, he outweighs me by twenty pounds of muscle, so my lengthier stride may be nullified by his brute strength.

  Woodie removes his hoodie, revealing a Buffalo Barbarians T-shirt underneath, and stretches. “All I need is a finish line.”

  “You’ll need more than that,” I say, tossing our pendant into the air. “Catch.”

  He snatches the golden glove without any difficulty. I had been wearing it on a necklace, but the chain broke during game three.

  I point to our good luck charm. “You might be known to the media as the luckiest player alive, but not even that thing can stop us tonight.”

  Woodie smirks and chuckles. The time for small talk over, we dance our dance and let the world know that the game is on. One of Woodie’s teammates ushers us to a crack in the pavement. He raises his right hand, winks, and then without warning starts the race by dropping a batting glove and yelling, “Go.”

  For a long time, I’ve dreamed of being the closing pitcher for the deciding game seven of a championship series. Tonight, I’m sending the fans sporting that Conan look-a-like riding a charging Buffalo logo home disappointed. I’m going to split the baseball right between the Buffalo’s angry eyes, stopping the stampede right in its tracks.

  Chapter Nine

  Top of the 9th

  “HF just called, Ryan, he wants to make sure you’re loose,” announces Dave “Trio” Trepanning, one of the other relief pitchers. We’re up by two runs, with the bases loaded and two outs.

  I’m convinced filming us players holed up in the bullpen could produce a hit reality television show. Each inning that passes the pressure builds, so sometimes we have to cut the tension by having a little fun. Couple multiple games of cards, bizarre trivia, exaggerated storytelling, endless bags of sunflower seeds, and some juvenile pranks and you’d have a brief glimpse into the day-to-day dealings of us relief pitchers.

  Today, however, the normally rambunctious bullpen has fallen into total silence. We’re all on the edge of our seats. Most of us have a wad of gum, a towel, or, like Trio, a harmonica, to jaw on while the stress eats away at our insides.

  Cameras flash at every pitch, lighting up the night sky. The crowd tops 18,000 at Pilot Field here in Buffalo. I’ve been to Tribe games with less people.

  Throwing on my mitt, I see our cleanup hitter marching to the plate. I lob three pitches to Speedy to get loose, keeping one eye fixed on the field to watch the action.

  “Come on. Throw me something stupid-fast. Let’s see if that shoulder can take it before you head out in front of everyone.” Speedy is only half-kidding.

  I told Speedy and Ho earlier that my shoulder felt more sore than usual, but in reality, this late in the season, no player, coach, or ump remains pain free.

  As I gun a few fastballs, a lazy pop fly descends into an open glove to end our half of the inning.

  Just as the gate to the field opens, Speedy clears his throat. “Make me proud, you hear?”

  We lock eyes and I nod, unsmiling.

  As my entrance song blasts over the loudspeakers, my confidence swells. I know I’m ready.

  Speedy pats me on the back, looks out at the crowd, and says, “Well, it’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.”

  I step out onto the field feeling good. Really good.

  ***

  Ten minutes and three seconds later, however, I’m no longer in a happy mood.

  Our starting catcher barks in my ear, “Look, man, just forget about what’s happened so far and concentrate on this next guy. All right?”

  The first batter was no problem. I easily overpowered him with my fastball and struck him out. The next, however, got lucky and found a hole for his broken-bat hit to sneak through.

  The third batter was the beneficiary of an error by the first baseman, who couldn’t hold on to the softest lob I could give him. Now, we have runners at first and third with one out.

  The catcher points toward the plate. “This next guy—”

  “Don’t worry about Woodie. I know him inside and out. Just be ready for a steady diet of high heat. He’s going to try to hit this ball to New York City and win it right here.”

  The catcher nods, but rolls his eyes as he turns away, clearly not in agreement with me. It’s good to see Woodie no matter the circumstance. Right now, though, it’s time to end this game. We share a tight-lipped smirk as he circles home plate and makes himself comfortable.

  The catcher wants a slow curve, down and away. I shake him off several times until I see the signal I want. High heat. Perfect choice. Maybe this catcher has a brain after all.

  I wind up and let the ball fly. Once again the cameras flash and pop.

  As I expected, Woodie swings hard enough even his toe muscles are strained.

  “Strike one.”

  The ump’s deep, scratchy voice booms urgently, as if his life depends on everyone in the galaxy knowing what he’s saying. To me it sounds beautiful, and I hope to hear it twice more.

  Hope Woodie got a good look, because this next pitch will arrive a little higher and a lot hotter. I wind up and once again throw the ball toward the plate at the highest velocity possible.

  “Steeeeee-rike two.”

  Although I’d love for Woodie to ground into a double play, I do wonder how loud the ump yells for strike three. Sure, my mother stayed at home in Cleveland, but I think this guy can yell loud enough for her to hear.

  This next pitch needs to start low and sink even lower so that he swings over top of it. If Woodie takes the same approach as he has the last two pitches, he’ll bash the ball into the ground. I grip along the two red seams on the ball and stand straight.

  I freeze the runner at first with a glance and begin my delivery.

  Over ten thousand amateur photographers memorialize each millisecond of my wind-up, and through the distraction of the flashes, I release the ball.

  My shoulder emanates a popping noise, as loud as all of those cameras. Through the sudden burst of pain, I watch my sinker float on a straight course right over the meat of the plate, a lame duck limping toward Woodie’s massive bat.

  He crushes the ball.

  Everyone watching, including me, tracks the baseball screaming high over the right field wall. As far as I can tell, it carries all the way to the HSBC Arena, where the Buffalo hockey team plays.

  The crowd erupts. Game over. I walk off the field, holding my arm to my chest, knowing I just blew my shoulder and my chances of heading to the Majors this year.

  Chapter Ten

  September 14, 1999

  “Thanks, Omar,” I exclaim into the phone. “I’m looking forward to continuing my rehab. It’s awesome to be home, but I miss baseball like I never thought possible.”

  Omar De Leon chuckles, and says, “Got the itch? Good, I’d be worried if you didn’t. How did your workout go today?”

  “Eh, it was fine, but Mitch was a no show again.”

  “Sorry, Ryan, I didn’t think he’d flake on you.”

  I grab my wallet and dig around in a drawer that I’ve apparently filled with everything but the keys I’m searching for. “No biggie. The guy owns half of the gyms in town, I’m sure that keeps him busy, and I know he has higher profile clients than me. I appreciate you putting in a call to him.”

  “No, it’s not that at all. I’ve known him for decades and it’s not like him to duck my calls like this.” He pauses, and then asks, “And how are things are on the Molly front?”

  When Omar and I first started to discuss his daughter I was beyond uncomfortable, but over the past few years, he has been very supportive and helpful in my mission to woo her. “Funny you should ask. As soon as I hang up, I’m meeting up with her to await Woodie’s call. His agent is convinced Woodie’s getting t
raded now that the Sox resigned their everyday centerfielder to big money.”

  “So, he’s finally going to get a real shot at the majors?”

  I nod, though Omar can’t see me. “Just a shame they didn’t pull the trigger earlier so he could be added to a postseason roster. His agent seems to think he’s headed out to a west coast team.”

  “Good. Keep him away from Molly.”

  Omar admitted he got bad vibes from Woodie, but was as hesitant to explain as I was to hear anything negative about my friend.

  My phone alerts me to another call coming in. “Mr. De Leon, this is my trainer calling, I’ll talk to you before I leave town.”

  He offers a goodbye and I click over. “Ho, I’m getting amped for my trip to your facility. I did my lower body stuff today and felt strong.”

  Ho says, “When you arrive, we’ll do some testing to see just what the latest damage is. Then we’ll devise a plan to get you back on the mound by next spring.”

  He doesn’t bother to mention what will happen if the tests don’t look good, like last time. In spring training I was shut down for the whole year, after aggravating my shoulder. Ho has a state of the art training facility in Washington, where he’s invited me to complete my rehab under his close watch. I know I’m facing a long uphill battle, and more surgery might be needed before I’m right again.

  In the background on Ho’s end of the phone, it sounds like a bar brawl has broken out. “Ho, I’d ask how your kids are getting along, but from the sound of things, life at the Ban house hasn’t mellowed even a little bit.”

  He chuckles, and asks, “Did you ask Molly if she’d visit you?”

  Damn, I’m starting to think I’ve confided in too many of my guy friends. “Well, I plan on reminding Molly what she means to me, especially since I’m going to be gone all winter rehabbing. I don’t want her second-guessing my feelings. Given the amount of successful political campaigns she’s helped recently, I may come back to find her in D.C.”