(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
“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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