COACH MAKES ME RESPONSIBLE

1961

     Coach Merk pulled Angus and me into his office before our first practice, and sitting at his desk, feet propped up, said, “I know you two don’t give a hoot and hell about school and I know you’re running amuck. Well, here’s my advice: If you’re going to skip class, don’t get caught, and make sure you do enough to stay eligible. We’re going to have a great team this year if we get any kind of pitching and you two knuckleheads stay out of trouble.” We promised in unison to stay out of trouble. Then coach looked me in the eye. “I’m moving you to second base, so you’ll be more relaxed. At second, you can become the best ball player in the league, in any league anywhere. Dell, you have unique insights into the game, a second sense, so I’m giving you the green light at the plate and on the bases. I’m also making you, along with our catcher, Gary Martin, co-captain. I expect you to lead this team and set an example. You know what to do. I believe in you.”

     All business, I began running practices for coach. No more clowning. Angus, Martin and I were the first ones on the field, hauling out the equipment, playing pepper while the rest of the team straggled out. I pitched batting practice until coach had his pitchers prepared. Some of the JV’s who played Legion ball were improved, and we had some decent arms on the mound, though nobody special. When the pre-league schedule began, we pounded good teams from large schools. I hit third and Angus clean-up. I held my temper at all costs but still cussed and drew complaints from a couple religious members who recoiled with distaste when I wrathfully informed them cussing and talking about pussy and insulting team mates was a vital part of the game.

     Coach remained mum when I blistered team mates for dogging it or playing stupid. I began to execute with discipline and key into every situation, every hitter. I crowded the plate with belligerence. Our flashy new shortstop, Roy Nash, who had good hands and a cannon for an arm, grudgingly accepted my harsh goading as we worked for hours on the doubleplay. I encouraged and chastised him. A finicky switch-hitter with a picture-book swing but a hole in it inside, he took too many good pitches, and I knocked him down in BP when he took a strike and nagged him constantly to be a “fucking hitter and swing the bat, stop being a goddam beggar!”

     In games, I took gigantic leads and either bluffed a steal or stole. My speed had improved, allowing me to challenge and outrun all the top sprinters on the track team in spikes. The game was mine again. I was on a mission, riding the crest, capable of doing magical things. I was a frothing animal on the field, wishing to cut the guts out of my opponents, bonding with my team mates like a fanatical Marine. Coach nodded at me, winking. He knew me inside out, knew the best way to handle me was to leave me alone.

     Dad said, “Looks like you’re finally maturing.”

     Our league was one of the strongest in Southern California. Every team had prospects drawing scouts—Stephenson, Peters and a pitcher named Ron Yett at Anaheim; pitcher/shortstop Ed Sukla at Huntington Beach; Rich Rison at Newport Beach; Jim Campanis and a catcher named McCauly at Fullerton; hulking pitcher/outfielder Roy Gleason at Garden Grove; Angus, Nash, myself and a tall, goose-necked outfielder named Tom Quick who had blossomed at Western.

     We started out winning in league and ran neck-and-neck with Anaheim, a team on a crusade as Stephenson dominated like a colossus. Before our first game against them at LaPalma, Peters sidled up to me, unaware I’d made it my personal agenda to hate all opponents, and said, “Guess you’re doing it all this year. Must be less pressure at second, huh? Maybe short was too much responsibility.”

     I walked away. We battled Stephenson and beat him in a tight game. I walked and reached first on an error and unnerved him on the bases, causing a wild pick-off throw, though I still hadn’t got a solid hit off him. After the game, I went out of my way to avoid Jerry and Peters. I was one hard-bitten motherfucker.

     I was choking up on one of 6 of my Dad’s model bats from Hillrich & Bradsby in Louisville that he’d ordered straight from the manufacturing plant and pounding out a plus .400 average, balls exploding off the major league grain and finding gaps in the outfield, my level top-hand swing creating topspin on hard grounders that ate up infielders. I was on a tear. Guys pitched around me, and the Big A feasted—a one-two punch.

     I had not forgotten the day I lost my guts on the doubleplay against Centennial as a sophomore at Compton, a bad dream that still haunted me in the middle of nights. Late in the game against Huntington Beach at La Palma Park in which I’d already pivoted on two doubleplays, a burly football player named Tom Parker—a notorious hard slider—was on first base. Sure enough, our crack thirdbaseman, Mike Mathias, fielded a bouncer and flipped me a strike at second. Parker was on top of me with a big jump, yelling like a Kamikaze and neglecting to slide in an attempt to run me over. I straddled the bag and in one motion turned and released the ball at his face, causing him to dive just short of the bag as the ball carried to first to complete the DP. Parker lay on his side. I stepped over him and jogged off the field as Angus, on the run, slapped me hard on the ass.

     “Fuckin’ A!” he shouted.

     The following day the Orange County Register had a front page photo in the sports section of Parker hurling his body at me while ducking at the last minute as the ball flew an inch from his ear. Under the photo was the caption: “Tom Parker’s rough tactics go for naught as Dell Franklin completes his third doubleplay of the game.”  An accompanying article went on to report I led the league in DP’s, doubles, stolen bases, had made only one error, and struck out once this season. The same game of the three DP’s I roped two doubles. Dad was at the game, sitting with Baltimore and Milwaukee scouts. When I got home that night, he said, “You’re really wracking that pea, but you’re not getting enough steam on your doubleplay relay. You can nail these high school kids, but in the big leagues you need more carry on your peg.”

     “I thought I hung in there pretty good.”

     “You’re supposed to.”

     (Next Sunday installment: “Angus Steers me through the Female Labyrinth”)