(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)