ONE CUP (Part 11)

38

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Ian McGregor

Ray Garrett and I started out playing long toss to loosen up my arm. I always begin throwing overhanded, maybe a couple dozen tosses, before going to my submarine delivery. After another couple dozen long tosses and I moved to the pitching rubber and Ray took position behind the plate. I always work from the stretch, even when there are no runners on base. It’s just more comfortable for me. As always, I began throwing at three-quarter speed, working on my control.

Overhead, a small airplane circled the stadium towing a banner advertising a cellular provider. I noticed Ray was somewhat distracted by it. “It’s just an airplane, mate,” I said. “A puddle-jumper.”

“Sorry,” Ray said. “I’m a pilot, and it’s a habit of mine when I hear an airplane to look up at it.”

“No worries,” I said. I threw a couple more pitches. Then, satisfied I could get the ball over the plate, I increased the velocity. My top speed averages in the mid to upper 80’s. Not particularly fast by major league standards, but my left-handed submarine delivery helped. And I throw a knuckleball every now and again just to keep the batters guessing, so I make sure to include it in my warmup routine. I have to give Ray credit, he didn’t let many of them get away from him. “That’s enough for now, Ray,” I said after a couple dozen pitches.

We took our seats to watch the game.

I was never the same pitcher after the incident with Bobby Ogden. I should probably clarify that statement. I never possessed the competitive edge I owned before. Oddly enough, it worked in my favor. Along with my competitive fire had come the absolute hatred – maybe even fear – of losing, of failure. I was more afraid of failing than the death threats I was receiving on a regular basis. Now, I was numb. It just didn’t matter anymore. I was unemotional, mechanical.

If anyone in the front office or on the coaching staff felt any trepidation about what I was going through emotionally, they didn’t express it. My mental health, my emotional state, was no concern of theirs, for I was the one they could turn to when the game was on the line. I was the one who didn’t blink, didn’t get all caught up in the moment. I was the one who could get the job done when it mattered most. The one who was cool under pressure. Simply because I didn’t give a shit.

Little of note occurred in either the seventh or the top of the eighth innings. Without speaking, Ray and I got up and began the warmup routine again, each keeping one eye on the field.

Our first batter singled to left field. The crowd responded with ear-piercing noise. Short-lived, though. Next man up hit into a 6-4-3 double play. By which time, I had proceeded through my routine to the point of throwing three-quarter speed.

Next batter hit a line drive down the left field line that caromed off the wall, foul by only a matter of inches. Two pitches later, he popped up to the first baseman. Top of the ninth coming up.

The bullpen phone rang. “You’re in, Ian.”

I nodded, threw a couple more pitches, and trotted out onto the field to the “Coo-eeeeeees” of forty thousand fans.

39

Ray Garrett

After spending my first days in the majors warming up relief pitchers in the bullpen, and after having being called out of bed for an early morning prank, I finally did get into the second game of the Sunday double header. The temperature was in the mid to upper 90’s, which meant down on the field it was probably more like about 110, I suppose, and the humidity made it downright unbearable. Why anyone would shell out hard-earned money to sit in the hot sun and watch a baseball game on a day like this was beyond me. Yet, the stadium was packed.

The first game went 13 innings, and our regular catcher, Barry Spencer, who was, years ago, my backup, could not be expected to squat behind the plate for a second game. Darnell Grubb, the second string catcher, was in the clubhouse, puking. The extreme heat got to him, I suppose. Or he was hung over again. I knew of Darnell’s reputation as an extreme partier from his days in the minors.

I was in the bullpen warming up the starting pitcher, Lou Brannigan, when the phone rang. Felipe Cabrillo, the pitching coach, took the call and then shouted over his shoulder to me. “You startin’ the second game, Garrett.” And, just like that, I was a player in the major leagues. No exclamation point there, and you’ll understand why if you will just keep reading.

Lou Brannigan, went to the showers in the first inning. Brannigan was in the twilight of his career, as they say, and was not having his best year. After giving up a double and three walks, then hitting one batter. He shook off my sign for a curve ball to Manny Martinez, who I’d played against in AA. I knew Manny couldn’t hit a curve. But Brannigan opted for a fastball, which Manny parked in the right field bleachers for a grand slam.

Brannigan couldn’t get anybody out. His relief, Duane “Night Train” McClain, allowed just one more run to cross the plate in the process of getting us out of the first inning. Finally. By then, the combination of heat and humidity fueled massive buildups of cumulous, accompanied by ominous, rumbling thunder. I was on deck in the top of the second inning when the storms began dropping hailstones the size of horse turds on the playing field. The game came to a halt and everyone in the stadium ran for cover.

The next hour or so was spent in the clubhouse, enjoying the air conditioning, waiting for the storms to pass through. It would let up for a few minutes and then start coming down in buckets again, accompanied by flashes of lightning and loud thunderclaps. The drainage system couldn’t keep up with the downpour, so there was standing water on the field. Eventually the game was called, and the few remaining fans went home. I stayed in the dugout, sitting alone, envisioning how my major league debut might have gone.

When a game is called prior to the completion of 5 complete innings, or if the if the home team is leading, 4 _ innings, it is officially considered No Game. Much to the relief of Lou Brannigan, none of the statistics are counted, and the whole thing is erased as if it never happened. So, I played in a major league game, but . . . I didn’t. Not officially. There were still plenty of opportunities ahead, I told myself.

40

We had an off day before the Pirates came to town. I hadn’t been up with the club long enough to forge many friendships, certainly none I expected would be long-lasting. Nonetheless, I was included on the guest list for a cookout hosted by Mike and Kayla Prescott at the home they were renting in a well to do, gated community on the north side of town. The Maps app on my cell phone took me there without a hitch. I did have to wait a while, though, for the security guard at the gatehouse to call the Prescott house in order to get confirmation I was an invited guest.

The cookout was kind of fun, although I admit I did feel a bit awkward, arriving without a date. I did my best to meet and greet as many people as possible. I’ve never rubbed elbows with the rich and famous—unless you count the ones I knew in the minors before they were rich and famous—and found myself more comfortable talking with the fellow cooking the meat on the grill. His name was Lenny, and he told me he was a full-time cook at a local barbecue joint. “Mr. and Mrs. Prescott always call me whenever they host a cookout,” he told me with more than a hint of pride.

“That’s good,” I said. “If those ribs taste half as good as they look and smell, I can understand why.”

Lenny puffed up a bit. “I don’t like to brag, my friend,” he said, “but nobody does barbecue like me.” He smiled and held out his arms as our hostess joined us. “Mrs. P,” he said, “You are a vision of loveliness, as always.” Kayla Prescott wore a floral sundress and stylish sandals, the casual look completed by the sunglasses resting on top of her head. Lenny was right. She was quite lovely.

Kayla Prescott hugged Lenny. “You sweet talker, Lenny. If I wasn’t a married woman, I’d never let you get away from me.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Mmm. This smells great. I can’t wait to sink my teeth into your meat,” she said.

Lenny blushed. “Mrs. P!”

She laughed and smacked him on the arm. “Oh you nasty boy! You know what I mean!” She then turned her attention toward me. “Ray!” she greeted me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, like we’d known one another for a long time. “I’m Kayla. Michael and I are so glad you could come!” There was something about her. Enticing, yet unnerving. I felt like I should put as much distance between us as I could for my own well-being, yet I was so charmed by her I couldn’t bear to leave her company. I’d gone goofy over women before, but this was different. It wasn’t love, nor even lust. It was just different, that’s the only way I can describe it.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I said.

Right about then the live music started. A group of middle-aged men, a couple of whom looked familiar to me, made up the group. “Rowdy and the Renegades,” Kayla said. “A couple of the clubhouse attendants and their friends. Michael insisted we use them.”

“I like both kinds of music, Mrs. Prescott,” I said. “Country and Western.”

“Oh. Okay.” She didn’t get the joke. “Come with me. And no more ‘Mrs. Prescott,’” she spoke up so as to be heard over the music. “You’re not the hired help. You call me Kayla.”

Kayla took me by the hand and led me around, showing me the place, pointing out the bathroom locations and introducing me to some people from her television station, a couple of neighbors, and a few players’ wives. Some of the women were tending to infants in those carriers that fit into car seats or strollers. A few others had small children clinging to them. Most of the kids were enjoying the pool and the jump house the Prescott’s hired for the day, but there were a few older ones in their early teens who sat alone, concentrating on their cell phones.

I was enjoying myself. The music was good, the food smelled like it was going to be delicious, and I have to confess, I was enjoying Kayla’s attention. “You’ve really gone to great lengths to make this a great day for everyone,” I said.

“Michael and I have been blessed,” she said. “We enjoy sharing what we have, doing things with our friends.” She stopped, turned to face me. “Do you believe in fate, Ray?”

“I’m not sure what you mean?”

“Oh, you know . . . Do you think maybe things happen for a reason? Like our lives are all planned out in advance, and we’re just along for the ride?”

“I believe in free will,” I said. “My dad always said the harder he worked, the luckier he got.”

Kayla nodded. “I can’t argue with that. Still, there are variables. You’re five minutes late for a meeting because you have to hunt for your keys. Ever wonder? How your life would be different, or if you’d even be alive, if you were running on time?”

“I guess I never gave it much thought.”

“I think about it all the time,” she said, nodding toward Ian McGregor, who was engrossed in a poolside conversation with a couple of young women. “Take Ian, for example. If he’d been driving one day a few years back, Michael and I wouldn’t have gotten together . . . oh, never mind,” she said. “I’m babbling on, getting philosophical. With a ballplayer, of all people!” We both laughed, and Kayla resumed the guided tour. Kayla must have spent half an hour with me, showing me the tennis court, the garage with some of Michael’s vintage car collection, and a dozen other things I knew I’d never be able to afford.

Eventually, they let her know the food was ready. I thought it was a nice touch when Kayla asked us all to gather in a circle, join hands and bow our heads, and then led us in a short prayer before we dug into the food. “Heavenly Father, we thank you for the opportunity to come together for fellowship today. We ask your blessings upon everyone here, and Go Bobcats!”

“Amen!” several guests shouted.