Sunday, March 22, 2015

The Ball Player's Son

     (The beginning of this memoir goes back to 1949 for those scrolling back)


                                                    BASEBALL 101

 1962

     When I showed up at our first practice, Kincaid checked out my John F. Kennedy-like haircut, wriggled the toothpick around in his mouth, and mentioned I might be showing off for the girl he saw me with in the student union—Dawn Meadows, who’d somehow become my girl friend and fellow student at Cerritos. She was planning our future and believed in my greatness as a ball player and as a potential serious and successful grown-up family man and provider.

     During batting practice, Kincaid tinkered with my method of bunting, which I learned from Dad and Gene Handley, a master of bunting. No coach had ever tried to teach me anything, and didn’t dare tinker with what Dad had taught me. Kincaid wanted me to keep my right foot back in the hitting stance and twist my hips forward to bunt in the usual crouch. I told him I was used to bringing my back foot up even with my front, which gave me a better look. Only time I kept my back foot in place was when I dragged a bunt for a hit.

     Kincaid sighed. “Let’s try it my way and see how it goes. The game is constantly evolving, and sometimes a new, innovative way to do things improves your game and helps the team. I understand you have sound fundamentals. I know who your father is. I’m not trying to undo what he’s taught you. But I want everybody on this ball club doing it my way. So far we’ve been pretty successful.”

     I tried it his way, laying down several bunts. Kincaid nodded his approval. He was right. While hitting, he observed my propensity to pull every pitch. He asked me to go to right, and when I did, he nodded his approval. Then he suggested I didn’t need to choke up the bat too much with my kind of strength and felt I should cock it a little lower on my shoulder. He felt what I was doing was too exaggerated. I told him I’d hit this way all my life and had good success.

     “Try it my way, just to see what happens. You’ve got a good level swing. I’m not messing with your swing. I’m trying to make you better.”

     I stubbornly conceded, realizing I’d considered doing exactly what he suggested in the past. Kincaid was a sound, studious baseball man who’d dedicated his life to the game, his players; the program. But he seemed strictly by the book  He was a general, holding himself aloof from his players, occasionally showing his personal side by initiating traditional baseball pranks, like having one of his veterans put itching powder in my jock. It was Kincaid who did the kidding, the bantering, orchestrating everything that took place on the field and in the clubhouse, and it was Kincaid who nicknamed us, referring to me as “Peanuts” after the comic strip character. Dyer felt Peanuts was all wrong.

     “Kincaid knows you, Franklin,” Dyer said. “But in some ways he doesn’t. He’s trying to get through to you. You’re not easy.”

     Kincaid had played semi-pro/barnstorming ball, but not pro ball. He was a bright man. He worked with his players, getting out on the field, going over technical points, but he never, like my Dad, fielded or stood at the plate or took a hummer on the backside. He was never excited. He was low-key, seldom smiling or raising his voice. There was a certain imperious aura about him that I felt served him well. I actually liked him.

     “What’s this guy like?” Dad asked.

     “He knows his baseball.”

     “I asked you what he’s like. What’s his make-up? What kind of man is he?”

     “I’m not sure yet, but I think he’s a pretty solid guy.”

     “Well, you don’t seem too crazy about him. You should’ve found out something about him before you went and played for him. That fella from Fullerton, Skoba, he’s a helluva good guy and a pretty fair baseball man, and he raves about you, thinks you’re a great kid. He believes in you. He’s the kind’ll go to bat for you, Dell, and you don’t find many of those in this business, trust me.”  His eyes penetrated me, the hard eyes that flared with disappointment at his son. “Where did Kincaid ever play? I’ll bet your ass he couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a base fiddle. Well, what can I say? You made your bed, so you sleep in it, make the best of it. Keep your mouth shut and go along with him and play ball. What bothers me is I know a lot of good college coaches, like Dedeaux at USC and Winkles at Arizona State, and I could’ve gotten you in there despite your rotten grades and horseshit attitude toward school. But you never consulted me, your father, who if anything has your best interests at heart more than anybody else on this earth.”

     “I realize that, Dad. I wanted to do things on my own, my way.”

     He was baffled. “Okay, let me ask you this: how do you stack up against the kids Kincaid recruited?”

     Most of Kincaid’s kids had been all leaguers from local area high schools. I’d played against most of them and felt I was better because I was faster and I could hit with anyone and play anywhere. But Kincaid wanted a certain kind of player and person and had a plan, a mission, something he’d spent his life researching and working at. And this mission was not to be fucked with.

     “None of Kincaid’s players are better than me, Dad, but they’re different than me.”

     “Different? How so?”

      “They’re like a fraternity of squeaky clean boy scouts who feel it’s an honor to play for Kincaid. They are the model of the image Kincaid wants his team to project. They are a bunch of really good kids who study hard, and they’re smart, but they’re quiet, too quiet for me, and they ain’t Angus, and they ain’t me.” I gave my Dad a look he didn’t like. “Maybe I should’ve signed, huh?”

     “Jesus Fucking Christ,” he fumed, flailing his hand at me in disgust and walking off.

                                                           ********


     (Next Sunday installment: Hammerin’ Hank Greenberg)

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