(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.”)