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

                                              DILEMMA AND DESPAIR

1962

     Driving the eight miles home from the Cerritos athletic complex through the flat, featureless boulevards wedged in between housing tracts and strip malls and the dwindling dairy farms, everything looked different and seemed suffused in a grey pall. Slowly dawning on me and infiltrating me like a clammy fever was the bludgeoning reality that not only for the first time in my life I was officially extricated from the love of my life, baseball, but that there was a change going on in me that was not good; I did not understand it but it was verified by the looks of my ex teammates as I left the clubhouse—this kid is a fuck-up and there is something very, very wrong with him. I was isolated and exposed as a psycho, trapped in the shell-shocked ruins of my surroundings like the last man on earth.

     When I got home, mother had just returned from her job as school nurse at Bolsa Grande high school in Garden Grove and was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I didn’t want to face her in this state, but she took one brief look at me and dropped everything to ask what was wrong, and when I explained what had transpired her eyes filled with far less sympathy than I expected.

     She calmly told me to sit down. I sat down. She sat down. “Sometimes,” said my mother. “Certain things are meant to be. Nature must take its natural course, and for whatever reason it ultimately works out for the best. Sometimes an experience you feel is terrible turns out to be a blessing in disguise, despite the pain I know you’re feeling right this minute and will feel for a while.”

     “I don’t see any blessing in disguise, mother. I should’ve signed. I could be off with Angus, beating the bushes, instead of wallowing in this…goddam suburb. I hate it.”

     She reached over and took my hand, making me feel squeamish. “Dell, I know it seems hopeless right now, but whether you come to realize it or not, you are the kind of person who is going to have to bear up to some very tough periods in your life, a lot of pain and disappointment, because you are not like other people. You don’t accept things as they are. You have always been independent, and rebellious, and people who are like that pay, always. In the end, this will make you a stronger person who sees more, and feels more.” She actually smiled at me. There had never been a time when she didn’t make things feel better for me at my lowest moments. “How lucky you are, believe it or not, to be more perceptive and sensitive, to suffer more, because there will be that much more to experience, so many more horizons to cross! You’re never going to be dull, and the world is full of dull people. Who you are and what you’re going to be are as opposite from the limited world of baseball as you could possibly imagine, and believe me, I was in baseball, with your father, for a good many years, and I know what you’d be up against. Your father, in case you didn’t know, knocked heads with coaches and managers and the front offices all his career, and he paid for it, and I’m not sure HE was cut out for that life, but he was such a brilliant athlete, and loved baseball so much, he didn’t seem to have any choice. In an era when men ended up doing what their parents wanted them to do, or took what was available, your father did what HE wanted to do, and so will you.”

     Later, at the dinner table, Dad said, “Well, a blind man could see the writing on the wall.”  He gazed at me, not happy. “What about school? You staying in school?”

     I was thinking, it was shameful to be eating my Dad’s food under his roof like a freeloader while my friends were either away at college or playing pro ball or working. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do, Dad.”

     “Well, if you’re not going to school, you can work for me.”

     “Maybe I’ll join the marines.”

     “Don’t go off half-cocked for Chrissake! You’ve already screwed up one part of your life—don’t ruin everything.”

     “He is NOT going in the marines,” stated mother. “Not over my dead body.”

     Later, mother came into my room, where I lay on my back staring at the ceiling. She sat on the side of my bed. “I think you should seriously consider writing. That English teacher at Western thought highly of your talent and felt there was something inside you that was a writer. And I think as long as you’re living here you should find a job other than working for your father. I think you need a change. You need to think about things. It’s been baseball baseball baseball since you were a little boy. Maybe down the line you can play again, honey, but right now you need a break from it.”

     She kissed me on the head, smiled at me in a manner that said things would be okay, and left the room.

     (Next Sunday installment: My own Private Disneyland.)                          

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

BIG MOE

     Almost everybody in baseball who was young enough and able-bodied (hell, we were professional athletes, in our prime, cream of the crop of American manhood) went off to war, or at least joined some branch of the military. It wasn’t a time to think about yourself, or your career. Joining up was the decent and honorable thing to do. You didn’t want anybody patting you on the back for it, even though you were giving up everything you’d worked for all your life. A pro ball player only has so many years, and here I was, 28, just finding my niche, in my prime, and I had to go, knowing I was going to lose my best years, years I could finally make some decent money and establish myself, knowing the guys taking my place were either too old to go, or young guys who found a way to get out of it for their own good.

     We had this young kid, about 21, 22, a big left-handed pitcher, a real horse, had just about the best stuff in the league next to Feller, and he said he wasn’t going, and his mother supported him. He was a Momma’s boy, spoiled, arrogant, a bratty kid, couldn’t stand to lose or not get his way…I remember him tossing a card table over when he lost in cards…and then the big dummy went on radio in Detroit and popped off about why he wasn’t going, something about fighting his own people, and ended up getting some kind of medical deferment on some kind of heart condition.

     A couple of our players were cleaning out their lockers and getting ready to check out and go into the service, and they bounced him around pretty good. Tebbetts really went after him, boxed him around, called him yellow, and believe me, there were a bunch of us who wanted a piece of him.

     I thought about guys like him when I was over seas in the South Pacific, living the dogs life, the heat so bad the ground cracked and you went a little crazy, and the malaria, the crotch-rot, and wondering if you were ever going to get out of this hell-hole alive or in one piece; and you wondered about some of those poor kids storming those beach heads, little guys from the end of the line, taking it on the nose for the rest of us, doing the right thing, and you think about this big strapping kid back in the states, with his heart condition, having his biggest, best years, winning over 20 games, throwing more innings than anybody in the big leagues, making a reputation for himself, getting famous, a hero to kids, an all star, making good money, and you wanted to puke.

     The fans, they forget, because they’re fickle, and later on all you hear about is a guy’s great years and great records, and he WAS a hell of a pitcher, I admit, but as a man everybody on Detroit knew he was a horse’s ass, selfish, no guts, put himself before his country while the rest of us did the dirty work while he took the easy way out.

     Sometimes in life it’s the things you don’t do that haunt you, but then sometimes you have guys who don’t know any better, or do know better but don’t give a damn, and guys like that, well, you wouldn’t change places with them for anything in the world, because at least you wake get up in the morning and look at yourself in the mirror and know your team mates see the same guy you do

     (Next Sunday installment: “Dilemma and Despair.”)

    

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

                                                    THE INVISIBLE KID

1962

     I was hanging out in no-man’s land in the outfield during BP when I noticed my Dad confronting Kincaid near the first base dugout. All activity on the diamond ceased. My heart thumped deeply in my chest as Kincaid lowered his head and looked to the side as Dad, arms-folded, gave him the “look” as he talked to him. When Kincaid finally spoke, he lifted his head slightly, at one point spreading his arms in a gesture of futility. Then Dad strode off in an angry gait and I steered clear of Kincaid, showered quickly and drove home, where Dad fixed me with his hard, angry eyes.

     “I can’t stand a man who wears sunglasses when you talk to him. I can’t stand a man who chews a goddam toothpick and mumbles and won’t look at you. That man doesn’t have a hair on his ass.”

     “I told you to stay out of my business, Dad!”

     “I watched his team. I’m not saying this because you’re my son, but nobody out there is any better than you and none of them can carry your bat. I don’t know what you did to piss this guy off, but he’s not the kind of guy you should be playing for.” He sighed, bit at his lower lip. “You really screwed yourself.” He shook his head slowly, in disgust. “I know how you’re feeling, Dell, believe me. There’s nothing tougher than sitting on the bench and watching somebody who can’t carry your jockstrap. I watched guys like Bloodsworth and Hitchcock and Mayo and Webb, guys who couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a base fiddle, playing my position, and it’s an organizational thing, and it drives you crazy, you feel like your losing time, it beats you down, but you can’t let it, you’ve got to keep your dauber up, and we’ll see if we can get you signed.”

      But the looked we exchanged said something different.

                                                                *******

     On a road trip to Visalia for a JC tournament, we took a caravan of mini buses. Team managers and Kincaid’s assistant coach, Howie, did the driving. Howie, a muscular, burr-headed ex marine and former Kincaid catcher at Cerritos, drove our van, Kincaid sitting shotgun. I sat in back. Harmon and a few infielders sat in seats up front. Unlike the riotous banter and nonstop chatter of my high school team, these guys were cautious clams, treating conversation as a disease and clubhouse cut-ups and kidders like myself as possible heathens.

     At one point Kincaid nudged Howie, and cracked, “Franklin’s pretty quiet. Must be going crazy back there with nobody to talk to.”

     Visalia had a cozy minor league park. We stayed four to a room in an old hotel with fire-escapes on the main drag. That evening Howie assembled us in his room and told funny stories of past Cerritos teams and his days in the Marines, which “shaped him up when he was a cocky lost soul with no direction.” Rock solid and brutally honest, he kept his eyes glued on me when mentioning a certain person on the team who would “benefit by going into the military, where they’d force him to grow up.” There were lots of glances and nods.

     After he excused us I managed to corral Dyer and a big, amiable second year outfielder named Charlie Neal, who I recognized immediately as minimally corruptible and not quite a Kincaid clone, down to the Dairy Queen on the main drag where we tried to pick up girls but ended up paying a wino to get us a bottle and a 6 pack. We watched the locals drive up and down the boulevard and struck out with the girls and eventually showed up slightly tipsy in the lobby an hour after curfew to discover Kincaid sitting in a chair and peering up at us from a magazine as we tip-toed sheepishly past him to our rooms.

     Kincaid never said a word. The tournament was rained out and on the bus ride home he never said a word, the entire trip grim and silent. The next couple games I did not pinch hit or pinch run, not even when the situation glaringly called for it. In a rout, Kincaid used everybody on the roster but me. We were all anticipating a prestigious JC tourney in Fresno, another road trip as defending champions. When I walked into the clubhouse to read the traveling roster, my name was missing. Everybody else was on it. I gazed at Dyer and he shook his head and then his eyes widened with extreme alarm at the sight of me as I made a beeline across the clubhouse toward Kincaid’s office. Two pitchers, Bailes and Raines, tried to waylay me but I shrugged them off, pounded on Kincaid’s door, ripped it open and burst inside to find myself facing Kincaid as he sat in his swivel chair behind his desk, toothpick drooping in his mouth.

     I felt myself the maniacal version of Murray Franklin as I started toward his desk. He stood facing me, no longer the phlegmatic stoic. Howie was behind me. I was breathing too hard to talk. Kincaid glanced at Howie and nodded toward the door, and he left, closing the door while I stood snorting fire at Kincaid.

     I said something like, “What the fuck are you trying to DO to me? Why the fuck am I not on your goddam chickenshit traveling roster?”

     Very evenly, toothpick out, he said, “You fell asleep on the bench. That’s inexcusable.”

     “What?” I was aghast. “Bullshit. You can’t be serious.”

     “I asked you twice to grab a bat, and you ignored me. Your cap was pulled low over your eyes. I figured you were sleeping, or else your mind was on anything but baseball.”

     “That’s bullshit, too, and you know it. Goddam lying bullshit.”

     “And you’re off the team. Get out of here. I’ve had enough of you. I never asked you to come play for me. You’re a disruption. I’ve got 25 kids here. I’m running a program. You don’t have the first clue how to be a teammate.”

     I began trembling. Maybe thirty seconds passed. Kincaid stood leaning forward in his sweat jersey, hands balanced on his desk. He shook his slowly, wearily, revealing deep creases in his face. “Look, I don’t dislike you, Dell. I think you’re a good ball player, but you’ll be better off playing on another team, for another coach, but not here, not for me.”

     I felt utterly depleted. I was speechless. Kincaid sat on the corner of his desk. He seemed to be studying me, his first display of some shred of personal interest. “Have you ever considered doing something else, besides playing baseball?” Suddenly he seemed sympathetic.

     “No.”

     “Look, baseball isn’t everything in life, especially if it drives you crazy. Be a painter, a lawyer, a doctor, a carpenter, a teacher, try something else. Maybe you’re really good at something you don’t even know about.”

     I couldn’t look at him. “I was out of line busting in here. I know better. I’m sorry.”

     He looked troubled, but at the same time I realized he was relieved to have me out of his hair. “You know, I had battles as a kid,” he said. “So I joined the military. It gave me direction and purpose. I saw how the other half lived, got a bigger picture of the world, and where I might belong. I thought about what I wanted.” He looked straight at me, sans shades. “I’m not telling you to do the same, but it’s an idea.”

     By this time my legs were noodles. I was about to collapse.

     “Listen,” Kincaid said. “I’m truly sorry the way things turned out. If you intend to play somewhere else, I’ll try and help you. I would never do anything to hurt the career of you or any kid.”

     I walked out of his office realizing I didn’t give one iota about his team, or any team. It was dog-eat-dog and we were all obsessed with getting ahead in our own baseball careers, using every level as a stepping stone—Little League, high school, Legion, college. Team spirit? Bullshit. I hated the whole concept. In the stock still clubhouse, none of my former teammates said a word as I cleaned out my locker. Steve Wright flashed me a look of commiseration. Only Dyer came over to say tough luck and we’d hook up soon.

     (Next Sunday installment: Big Moe: “A Time to Serve.”)

 

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

                                                         BASEBALL 102

1962

     In early spring Kincaid gave me the second base position and in preseason games I hammered the ball and played air-tight defense. I felt I was set. Kincaid seemed to have accepted me despite his initial misgivings. Then he brought in a highly regarded second baseman named Jerry Harmon, who’d gone to the University of Arizona and been disenchanted with the program and transferred to Cerritos. Harmon was a speedster, built like a whippet, appearing streamlined when he ran, but he was nowhere as explosive at the start or as fast around the bases as I was. He was a good ball player with an average arm and an awkward-looking slinging sidearm motion. Quietly intense, serious, private, Kincaid immediately gave him second base and moved me to the outfield as a platoon player. He liked me in center but said he had a kid coming out from the football team who had played that position.

     I felt he had to play me somewhere to get my bat in the line-up, but he had his outfield set and sat me down when we played Fullerton. I watched some of my ex teammates and kids from Fullerton and La Habra who’d witnessed me tearing up the Sunset league and Legion and Connie Mack ball. I felt ashamed and could not look at Skoba or any of them. They played us tight, and in the bottom of the ninth, down a run, men on base, Kincaid pinch hit me. My teammate and friend at Western, Gary Martin, was catching. “What the fuck are you doing pinch hitting?” he asked from his squat. “Skoba can’t believe you’re on the bench. I haven’t seen one guy in their line up who can hit or play like you.”

     “Gary, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. Christ, I’m hitting around .400.”

     “Why are you playing for a guy like Kincaid? You should be with us. You know all our guys, and they know how crazy you are. You’d be our best player. You’re getting the royal shaft, man. This makes me sick, Dell. I ran into Angus and he says you’ve lost your fucking mind.”

     I ended up anxiously hacking away at every pitch and then took a half-assed curve on the outside corner from a pitcher I hit .700 against in high school. As I walked off the field, Skoba stood staring at me, shaking his head slowly. Kincaid was silently furious, as if we’d lost the final game of the college world series, which detracted from our reputation of invincibility, like the Yankees. He would not look at me or say a word, and I felt a cold draft from his coaches and second year players. I’d let everybody down.

      From this point on I was relegated to pinch runner. No matter how hard or well I played in intra squad games, I didn’t play in games. I was ignored, a scrub, and began to feel estranged from my teammates, except for Dyer, who had injured his elbow and expressed a desire to leave Cerritos, which he felt was a bit of a “meat factory.”

     “Franklin,” he said. “I hate to say it, but Kincaid’s not gonna play you.”

     Dad wanted to know “what I’d done to get benched.” He wanted to confront Kincaid. I told him to stay out of my business and let me handle it, not wanting a scene. On a Saturday afternoon I pinch ran and Kincaid gave me the steal sign in a tight game and I stole second and scored a big run on a single to left, thundering across the plate. Kincaid clapped his hands and smacked my ass and exclaimed “thattaway, Peanuts” as his coaches and veterans got in on the adulation.

     I hated the nickname, resented his attempts to “blend me in” with his chosen recruits, and it became more and more evident I didn’t fit. I was an oddball, a contrary kid incapable of conforming to a certain brand of college uniformity and rah rah bullshit. I didn’t hang out with any of my teammates. I began haunting a pool hall with Dyer between classes. I warmed the bench for several games, watching Cerritos roll over mediocre teams and licking my lips at mediocre JC pitchers. Everybody was happy but me. I was slowly becoming unhinged on the bench, could not sit still, having never warmed a bench and in the past found it intolerable coming out for one inning! I began secretly rooting against every teammates; hoping they’d fuck up so I could get into the line-up and impress Kincaid, but it was beginning to dawn on me that he was not going to play me, that he flat out did not want to play me, and I wondered was he trying to deliver me a message he felt I needed as a person and a ball player.

     When I peered up in the stands to spot some of the same scouts I’d seen over the years, one of whom offered me a contract, I felt like crawling into a hole and dying.

     Dyer felt I should be playing. My average was still around .400. One of our tall, right-handed pitchers, Steve Wright, who had already been offered contracts, whispered to me before an intra squad game that he was going to “pipe” me every pitch. He did and I whistled two ropes for singles into left field. It did no good. Dyer was right—he was not going to play me. Angus, Skoba, my Dad, they were all right.

     I said nothing to Kincaid, who treated me in a manner indicating there was no problem between us. Dad and Mom sensed my despondent mood and tried to talk to me, but I locked myself into my room. I had no idea what to do. I had no idea what I was doing. Somehow I was averaging close to a B carrying 15 units. I didn’t want to talk to anybody, and especially Angus, who was headed to spring training with the White Sox and scheduled to play in Harlan, Kentucky. I could have been with him if I’d stuck with Bill Lentini, whom I could not bear to face.

    (Next Sunday installment: The Invisible Kid)