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

                                                          BASEBALL 103

1963

    

      Bill Lentini, who had been talking to Angus, contacted me. He said he’d sign me right now if he could, and mentioned a few teams that were still interested in me, though nobody was going to give me any money after getting kicked off a college baseball team—unless I was King Kong. He felt I made a mistake not signing out of high school while I had a chance to, but what was “done was done” and now it was time for me to “get back on track.”

     I visited him at his tire store and the diminutive Lentini put me in a bear hug. His big brown eyes were soft and melting. “How’s my guy? Why haven’t you called or come see me? I miss watching you play. You know I’m your biggest fan, Dell. You’re like my kid.”

     “Awh, Bill, cut it out. You’re killing me.” But it was good to see him and receive his always sunny support.

     He laughed, poked me in the chest, kept his finger there firmly. “I know what’s inside you, Dell. Going to play for that cold fish at Cerritos, you broke Bill Lentini’s heart.” He withdrew his finger. “I talked to Doc Bennett. I’m his right hand man, his bird-dog. I told him I wanted you to come out and play for the White Sox winter league team. They play next Saturday.’

                    

     Bill was the most impressive and relentless salesman and schmoozer this side of my Dad. He convinced me to get myself in some sort of shape while Angus went under the knife. I quit Disneyland and decided to re-enter Cerritos and change my major from physical education to English Literature. When I informed Dad that Lentini had gotten me a try out, he grumbled, “I don’t trust that guy. I’ve seen a thousand like him. They never played ball but they want to hang on and butter up the front office stooges.”

     “He’s a good guy, Dad. He’s intimidated by you. Everybody is.”

     My first game was to be played almost 40 miles away, out in the San Fernando Valley. When I got to the ball park in my new heap, a dented VW, the White Sox were playing a team similar to those I’d played against with the Red Sox, who no longer had any interest in me, though I wore the same uniform Marco had given me. My hair stuck out from under the back of my cap. I saw a lot of decent prospects playing catch and partaking in exuberant chatter and kidding. I had not worked out or picked up a ball. Doc Bennett spotted me and barely nodded, a small, blunt-faced man with a fringe of white hair under a brimmed, light-weight hat of the like scouts wore. I felt he was not originally impressed with me and had been coerced by Lentini to give me a shot. When I reported to him he dismissively told me to report to Don Buford, who was running the team and riding herd on the players in a no-nonsense authoritative manner. I felt Bennett’s attitude a calculated treatment of me, a time-tested test old-timers employed with new prospects.

     Buford was a small, muscular black man with the legs of a whippet. His uniform fit him perfectly, as if tailored. I remembered him as a terrific gutsy football player at USC, and as a baseball player he was an over-achiever, a Nellie Fox-like self-made holler guy. Currently he was a highly regarded AAA player soon to be a big leaguer who’d paid his dues. Upon observing him this first time, his persona seemed fearsome, the kind of guy who had scrapped for everything and demanded nothing less from the kids now playing for him.

     When I reported to him he sized me up from top to bottom. “Who the hell sent you?”

     “Doc Bennett.”

     “He never said anything to me. Go warm up.”

     I got loose and fielded some grounders at second. I was rusty but strong. In the cage I dropped two perfect bunts down each line, and after fouling off a couple pitches I began lacing line drives to left, wanting to put on a show, for this was my showcase. Buford did not look at or talk to me or start me and I sat on the bench at the far end of the dugout with my cap low over my eyes, bored, not knowing anybody or wanting anything to do with anybody, listening to the little rooster talk baseball and display his keen knowledge of the game, which was exactly like mine. He was all business, treating this meaningless game as if it were the final of a World Series. In the 8^th inning he told me to grab a bat, pulled me aside at the bat rack. “I want you to lay down a bunt.”

     “I didn’t drive forty miles to lay down a goddam bunt.”

     “Either you bunt or sit down. We’re trying to win a ball game.”

     I thought of flubbing two bunts so I could hit away, but a guy like Buford would see right through that ploy. Up at the plate, the first pitch was in my wheelhouse and I drilled it on a line into left field for a single. I hadn’t returned from rounding first hard when Buford sent down a pinch runner. I hustled off the field into the dugout, found my bat and glove.

     “You’ll never be a ball player,” Buford barked at me. “Get the hell out of here.”

      I was happy to leave on these terms and didn’t bother to check out Doc Bennett in the stands. When Dad asked how it went, and I told him, he grimaced, told me he didn’t care how goddam far I drove, I should have bunted. Dad once said, “The game I love is not run by people I like, but if you want to play, you have to deal with it.”

     (Next Sunday installment: Creative Writing 101)