ONE CUP (Part 13)

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44

Ian McGregor

As I walked into the locker room, I saw Notso trying to get away from Ray’s family. What had the kid been thinking, introducing them to Notso? I mean, some managers were cordial, and would have been glad to meet the family of a new player. Not so with Notso. Although his nickname was in reference to his last name, Bright, it could also be applied to his demeanor—Notso nice.

It was obvious to me the conversation was making Ray uncomfortable, yet he was nonetheless puffing up a bit. And why not? He was, after all, now a major league baseball player. Making more money now—even at the minimum—than he’d ever seen in his life thus far.

Ray’s mother said, “I wonder what he wants to talk to you about.”

I knew, but I wasn’t about to tell her. “Most likely wants to get Ray’s seating and meal preferences for the charter flight to the west coast,” I said. We all laughed, as much as a corny remark like that was deserving of a laugh.

I approached them and extended my right hand. “Ian McGregor.

“Dick and Judy Smith,” the husband said. “Ray’s parents.” I pretended not to notice the expression on Ray’s face.

“I’m “Kristen, Ray’s sister,” the young woman in the tank top said, “and this is my husband, Ronnie.”

“Are you free for lunch, Mr. McGregor?” Ray’s mother asked. “We were just about to go grab a bite.”

Without hesitation, I hooked my arm and offered it to her. “Come along now, luv,” I said, “we must shake a leg, if Ray and I are to make it back to the ballpark in time. I’d hate for them to delay the game on our behalf.” Judy tossed her head back and laughed, just the way my own mum always did. It made me feel warm inside. I have to say, I loved Judy from the moment we met.

45

Ray Garrett

I was glad to be in the bullpen rather than the dugout. Notso chewed my ass out before the game about bringing my family into the clubhouse and taking up his valuable time, so it was good not being around him for the time being. I prefer working with our pitchers in the bullpen to riding the bench, anyway. It gives me something to do, and it’s closer to the fans, some of whom actually want my autograph. I got to know a few of the pitchers. Ian McGregor I liked best. A couple of others, like Damon Blue and Jose Yakamoto—don’t ask me how he got that name—were pretty friendly. Most were tolerable, but there were a couple of jerks. Lou Brannigan, in particular. Those individuals I ignored for the most part.

Late in the game, Ian was called upon to close.

I watched as he methodically went about his business. His first offering was his specialty pitch, the southpaw submarine knuckleball. No one could hit it. Nor could they lay off it. That was what made the pitch so successful for him. Only about one third of the time would it actually cross the plate in the strike zone. A disciplined hitter could work the count in his favor if he could just keep the bat on his shoulder. The first batter waved at it, missing badly. No balls, one strike.

The knuckle ball also served another purpose. It made Ian’s fastball seem faster, and more inviting, regardless of placement. The batter swung, popping up behind home plate. Spencer caught it easily for the first out.

Next batter up was a left hander who jumped on the first pitch, a sinker that dropped sharply just in front of the plate. He got enough of it to send a slow roller to the mound. Ian fielded it cleanly and tossed it over to first to record the second out.

Ian worked the third batter to a full count. The other pitchers in the bullpen were making bets on what he would throw now. “Fastball,” one said. “No way,” said another. “He’ll throw the cutter.”

Ian surprised them, along with everyone else in the stadium by going with the knuckleball. The batter swung, missing badly. Would have been ball four if he could have checked his swing. The ball got away from the catcher, and the batter bolted toward first base. The catcher retrieved the ball and fired to first. It was a bang-bang play. Initially called safe.

Fans are divided with regard for the relatively new instant replay review of close plays. In the old days, such a play would have generated a heated argument with the umpire regardless of which way it went. It was kind of fun. Nowadays, the manager challenges the call. The officials in New York view the play from all different angles, then render a verdict. No mistakes. And no arguments.

The call on the field was reversed by the officials in New York. Ian had done his job, and we were on to the bottom of the ninth.

46

The bullpen phone rang. “Garrett!” I looked up. “Notso wants you in the dugout.” I gathered up my gear, tossed it into a duffel, and hustled from the bullpen to the dugout as the opposing team took the field.

I couldn’t blame Harvey Bright for the fact I still hadn’t played. Despite his reaction to my blunder of introducing my family to him, he did start me in the rained-out second game of the double header back in Atlanta.

A couple nights later, in New York, I was going up to the plate to pinch-hit for Carson Black, our middle-relief pitcher. The Red Sox manager decided he wanted to make a pitching change, and brought in Dave Sturgis, a left-hander to pitch to me. Harvey countered the move by pulling me in favor of a right-handed hitter, Wade Maxwell, who proceeded to take three consecutive called strikes without so much as waving his bat at any of them.

As I descended the steps into the dugout, Bright said, “Get a bat and get out there on deck. Mike gets on, I want you to bunt him over.”

I nodded, trying my best to conceal my excitement. Here was my chance, provided Mike Prescott reached base. I had no idea what Harvey Bright had planned if that didn’t happen.

47

They weren’t giving Mike Prescott an intentional walk, but they weren’t giving him anything good to hit, either. The first three pitches were low and inside, and he took them all, working the count to 3-0. I don’t think I can accurately describe the way I felt at that moment, seconds away from hearing my name announced as a pinch-hitter. It was like a mild adrenalin rush, if there is such a thing. I was aware of and in control of my breathing. My heartrate was faster than normal, but not like it was pounding its way out of my chest. Excited yet calm. That’s what I’d call it. Excited yet calm. And happy. I could feel the corners of my mouth lifting upward, forming a smile. I might actually make a contribution to the success of the team. If I could move Mike Prescott over to second base and someone else could bring him home, then I would be a part of whatever success came later, even if I wasn’t on the post season roster. For the rest of my life, I could look back on this day and—

Mike Prescott swung at what would have clearly been Ball Four, and connected solidly with the sweet spot on his bat. I watched along with forty-thousand-plus others as the ball rose into the air, headed for the right field foul pole. “Go foul,” I urged under my breath. “Go foul!”

The ball had a mind of its own. It hit the foul pole and bounced back onto the field. The first base umpire indicated it was a home run. Mike Prescott circled the bases to the deafening cheers of the hometown crowd, and was greeted at home plate by his jubilant teammates. All but one. I sighed heavily, and shuffled back to the dugout. Mike Prescott clinched the division championship on the next-to-last game of the season.

48

We’d clinched our division on the next to the last game of the season. We had tomorrow off, then the Red Sox would be coming into town for one game only. There was a rainout earlier in the season, well before I joined the team, which needed to be made up because it would, depending upon its outcome, determine if Boston would be a wild card team. In another 48 hours, it would all be over for me. The team roster would be trimmed back to 25 players for the post-season, and I entertained no delusions of grandeur. I would not be among those chosen to stay.

I arrived at the celebration party in a Zen-like state of mind. Although my contribution to the team’s success was limited to warming up pitchers in the bullpen, I told myself I should be grateful to have been a small part of it. I was looking forward to an enjoyable evening that included a first-class buffet and some free beer. Tomorrow, after the game, I would wish my teammates well and be on my way. I, along with fourteen other players on the forty-man roster, would be cut. Some of my teammates would forget me before the first game of the playoffs. As it was, there were already more than a few who never bothered to learn my name.

I’d been there a while, standing alone in a corner, nursing a beer and listening to Rowdy and the Renegades, the same group who played at the Prescott cookout a few days ago. They were setting up the buffet when Harvey Bright came up to me, smelling of booze. He put his arm around me and leaned in a bit too close. “DammitRay, I wunshaknow . . . I preesha . . . hic . . . preesha, hic … I preshyasha, son!” he bellowed, then burped in my face.

“Thanks, Skipper,” I said, pulling back slightly in a futile effort to find fresher air to breathe. I hadn’t known our manager for very long, and wasn’t prepared for this side of him.

“Call me Notso!” he grinned and smacked me on the back. “Hell, everwon elsh does!” He laughed heartily, and burped again.

I nodded.

“Go on,” he nudged me, grinning. “Shay it!”

“Okay . . . Notso,” I relented. “Thanks for calling me up. It’s been great. Something I can tell my grandkids about someday.”

“Well, you’ll have even more to tell ’em come day affer tamarra, Ray.” Notso paused, swaying on unsteady legs, his eyes crossed as if he was studying the tip of his nose. After a few seconds, he refocused and said, “I’m startin’ you behind the plate. Lash game o’ the sheason. I wanna give Spensh a day off ’fore the playoffs. You’ll bat firsht in the lineup. Nobody’ll get more at batsh than you.”

A warm wave consumed me. Finally, I would get in a major league game. Hopefully, this time, there would be no rain, and it would be official. I grinned. “Thanks!” I said, “Notso.”

“By God, you earned it! Workin’ yer ash off in the bullpen an . . . hic . . .  never wunsh complainin’!” Notso’s eyes were tearing up. He swayed back and forth a couple more times, then said, “S’cuse me, I’m gonna go throw up now.” I watched our manager pushing people out of the way as he weaved his way on rubbery legs through the small crowd, toward the restroom.