TRYING TO BE THE MAN

1960

     The ball field at Western High was second rate and the school without athletic legacy, had been converted from a junior high. Our first practice coach Merk put me at shortstop. I felt quicker, faster, stronger, and watched my batting practice grounders eat infielders up. We started out the pre-league schedule winning four straight and because we had nowhere near the talent of Compton, I felt it was my responsibility to lead the team by example and production. I was an established prospect and played with swagger, knowing I made a difference. We were excited about being league contenders instead of perennial doormats. I was the “Big Dog,” perhaps to my new team mates a savior, seasoned by continuous winter league play with the Red Sox, with other prospects like Andy Etchebarren. I was almost “there.”

     We continued winning in league play and were to play undefeated Anaheim at La Palma Park—their home field—in a game highly publicized in the Orange County Register. Anaheim was strong, with a great tradition, led by Stephenson and a gifted shortstop, big, raw-boned Frank Peters, a kid with enormous hands and a cerebral application to the game. Frank, a power hitter, also played winter ball for Boston and alternately exchanged banter with me as we vied for playing time. He accused me of being a “punch hitter” and told me before the big game, “I got six homers to your one,” and then: “Jerry says he owns you—he knows your weakness.”

     “We’ll see about that,” I countered. “And by the way, how many stolen bases you got? I got twelve.”

      I was so pumped for Stephenson, with whom I’d been talking trash for two years, I could hardly breathe when I came up to hit, batting third. As expected, Jerry brushed me back on the first pitch with a ball that hissed by me like a freight train. I grinned and made a show of digging in. He threw me a bunch of sliders away, which I fouled off. He jammed me with a fastball, which I fouled back. Then he froze me with a perfect fastball on the low outside corner, the first pitcher to strike me out all year.

     I was furious, my brain roaring. Anaheim bombed our pitcher. Frank hit a homer into the stands, lumbered past me at short, head down. Stephenson shut us out, got me to hit two weak ground outs. Afterward, Peters paused as he headed toward their team bus as we racked up our equipment. I was smoldering. “Don’t feel bad, Franklin,” he said. “Nobody’s touched Stephenson all year, except me in intra-squad games. Someday I might give you my secret.”

     The Anaheim loss burst our bubble. We went on a losing streak. Our pitching fell to ruins. I tried to do too much, began pressing at the plate and went into a tailspin, feeling responsible for each loss. The more I pressed and fought myself, the worse I played. The stunned and disbelieving looks on my team mates faces gave me pause as to my own sanity when they watched me kick and throw things, fulminating, cursing savagely, losing control of myself and entering a mindless derangement I felt consuming me and which I was helpless to combat or escape. Coach Merk came over and told me to calm down. He seemed concerned, peering at me as if I was some new person he did not recognize. I found myself panting like a mad dog on the verge of frothing at the mouth. What the fuck was happening to me?

     I needed Loman Young to set me straight, as he always had, but now I was the “Man,” a supposed leader, and only Sturrock, whose batting helmet we shared, was furious when I kicked it so hard the bill tore off and he had to face a pitcher with a helmet looking like something a Nazi troop would wear. He let me have it, calling me a “goddam spoiled baby.” This stopped me. He also came over later as I sat seething quietly in the corner of the dugout, put a hand on my shoulder, and said, “I know it means everything to you, but it’s just a game, and I’m worried you’re going to seriously hurt yourself, the way you’re thrashing around.”

     Dad, not able to catch my games very often now that he was working 20 miles away, finally sat me down one night. “You’re so goddam herky-jerky and nervous, I’ve never seen anything like it. Since when do you start throwing things around like a half-cocked busher? You can’t throw your goddam bat every time you make an out. You’re gonna make out six or seven times every ten times at bat, even at this level, because that’s just the way it is. You’re up there fighting yourself after one pitch. You’ve got to stay on an even keel if you’re gonna play this game, Dell. You can’t let the highs and lows destroy you, or you’ll never snap out of a slump. You can’t go hangdog when you’re stinking it up, and you can’t think you invented the game when you’re going good. And goddammit, the worst thing about you acting like a fucking maniac is it’s selfish, you’re only thinking about yourself, and your team mates and your coach’ll end up hating you.” He put a hand on my shoulder. He was genuinely worried. “If the game’s gonna drive you crazy, don’t play, or take a little rest. I mean it.”

     To counter-act what was happening to me—I felt like a prisoner to my moods and emotions—I found myself clowning. In practice, I ran the bases backwards; I imitated a penguin and made crazed slides into bases and had my team mates laughing, though strangely. I realized I possessed a slapstick talent that had people rolling over, holding their bellies. This act seemed to relieve the pressure somewhat and turn my game around, even as my new team mates called me “Cut-up, Flake, Clown, Mad-dog, and Psycho.”

     When we played Anaheim the last game of the year, I no longer felt like the “Man.” I had become over the course of the season some other person. Peters launched another homer and Stephenson shut us down. I made three outs, none hit hard, but didn’t strike out. Anaheim won the league, and it was announced by the public address system after the game that they would enter the state playoffs, representing our Sunset League, and that Peters and Jerry made first team all league. They posed together for the photographer from the O.C. Register. I scooted quickly to the bus, avoiding them.

(Next Sunday installment: “Birdie Tebbetts—the Sniper.”)