ONE CUP (Part 5)

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21

Ray Garrett

TRUIST PARK

Atlanta, Georgia

The playoff race was heating up, and the Bobcats were in the thick of it, locked in a three-way tie with Detroit and Chicago for first place in our division. Every year, during the final weeks of the regular season, major league teams can expand their rosters from the normal limit of twenty-five players to a maximum of forty. The Bobcats needed someone who could serve as a utility fielder and backup catcher to finish out the regular season. For some reason known only to God and Bobcats manager, Harvey “Not-So” Bright, they wanted me.

That, in a nutshell, is why the Georgia state trooper stopped me on the interstate. I had been speeding, but he didn’t write me a ticket—on the provision I sign an autograph for his girlfriend’s son. I found it hard to believe anyone would want my autograph. I found it even harder to believe someone from within the Bobcats organization actually contacted someone, who then in turn managed to put law enforcement on the lookout for my LeSabre. So, the officer was right. I was wanted in Atlanta, after all. Not by law enforcement, but by the Bobcats, who were coming into town to play the Braves. Fact truly is stranger than fiction.

By the time I’d arrived at the stadium, most of the team was already dressed and on the field for pre-game batting practice and warm-ups. Of the handful were still in the locker room, only one, Barry Spencer, acknowledged me. “Ray!” The look on his face showed his astonishment. “What are you doing here, dude?”

I said, “I’m here to take your job, Spence.”

For a second, Spence’s face turned grim, as if I’d challenged him. Then, he grinned. “Long time, no see,” he said as he stepped in for a brief handshake and shoulder bump. Sort of like a hug, but not really. “Welcome to the show. It’s long overdue.”

“Thanks,” I said, looking around, taking it all in. There were leather armchairs on wheels, like you’d find behind a desk in an executive’s office, open, woodgrain closets and private lockers. Leather couches, and televisions, trash cans, carpeted floors. This was a far cry from what I’d left behind in Cocoa Beach.

Spence gave me a light punch on the shoulder. “I gotta get out there. Good to see you again, Ray.”

“Hey Spence,” I said. “I just now got here. What do I do now?”

“Look for Willy,” Spence said. “He’s the equipment manager. He’ll get you a uniform.”

I looked around a while, but couldn’t find Willy. I asked a couple of other players in the clubhouse, guys I didn’t know, where I could find him, but they ignored me. Finally, I took a seat on one of the couches, and resigned myself to watch the evening news.

I sat there for ten, maybe twelve minutes, by which time I was the only one remaining in the locker room. I’d been called up, and the team expected me to be ready to play. I had to do something. I would prefer not to be a nuisance on my first day, but I had no choice. I left the locker room, walked down the tunnel toward the dugout.

“WHERE THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?” someone shouted from behind. I stopped, turned to face a security guard rushing me. I swear, the guy looked like he could bench press my Buick.

“I’m Ray Ga—”

“STAY RIGHT THERE!” he commanded, then reached for his radio. “Seventeen to base,” he said.

“Go ahead, seventeen.”

“Look,” I said, taking a step toward him, “I’m one of the players. I’m looking for Wil—”

The security officer held his hand out, gave me a look that told me this would be my one and only warning. “We have an intruder in the visitors’ tunnel,” he said into the radio. “Requesting backup.”

“Roger,” the dispatcher replied. “Backup’s enroute.”

So went my introduction to life in the big leagues. Fortunately, it didn’t last long. I was encircled by a half-dozen or so security officers, eventually joined by a couple of officers from Atlanta P.D. It took a few minutes, but eventually it was all straightened out when Max Lewis, the bench coach, vouched for me.

“Why the hell aren’t you in uniform?” he growled as he escorted me back to the locker room.

“I was told to look for Willy,” I said. “Couldn’t find him.”

“Willy’s not in the clubhouse?” Lewis said, “That’s a first. Well, shit, let’s go find him.”

“WILLY!” Lewis shouted as we entered the clubhouse. “Get your ass out here! Got a new guy here needs a uniform!” We stood there, waiting. I felt stupid, but none of this was my fault.

“You know it’s a fluke, you being called up,” Lewis said. “The Smith kid in Triple-A was our top catching prospect. He’s the one got the call first ... WILLY!” Lewis was clearly pissed. “I ain’t got time for this,” he said. “I got shit to do. Come on, kid. What’s your name again?”

“Garrett,” I said. “Ray Garrett.”

“Come on, Garrett,” he said. “I’ll find you something to wear.”

And so we scrounged through the clubhouse supply closet, but found nothing. .

“Well, hell, I don’t know what to tell you Garvey,” Lewis said after ten minutes of searching.

“Garrett.”

“Whatever. I guess you’ll have to wait until—”

“Max, have you seen anything of the new guy, Garrett?” a raspy voice said, and we both turned.

“Willy,” Lewis said, “We’ve been looking all over for you. Where you been?”

“I been busy, takin’ off the other name, puttin’ the new one on the uniform.”

“He’s right here, Willy,” Lewis said, then turned back to me. “Like I said, Smith got the call. Then, being a dumbass, he decided it would be a good idea to go out with a few of his teammates to celebrate. The kid got drunk, got behind the wheel, and wrecked his car trying to outrun the cops when they attempted to pull him over. So, he ain’t going to be joining the club after all. And, we called you instead.”

Dumbass kid, I thought. It would be a shame for him to have to go through life knowing he’d trashed his career in a moment of stupidity, like I had. I’m not particularly religious, meaning I’m not sure what I believe, but I said a prayer for him anyway and figured it was out of my hands.

His loss, my gain. At least for now. But, not for long.

Willy got me all squared away with uniform, and just as they were about to sing the national anthem, I stepped into the dugout. A major league stadium is huge. More so the first time you come out of the tunnel from the locker room into the dugout as a rookie just called up. I couldn’t believe it. I was here. I had made it.

But I knew it wouldn’t last long. I was here because they didn’t have anyone else to fill the role. This was what they call being called up for a cup of coffee. Just a brief time in the majors and then “poof” you vanish into obscurity. I should probably give more thought to flying for a living. But that could wait. Right now all I wanted to do was enjoy being a major-leaguer.

22

Ray Garrett

They sent me to the bullpen to work with the pitchers whenever they would get up to throw. I didn’t get into the game. We lost. That pretty much sums up my first day in the majors.

Shortly after arriving at the team hotel following the game, a squall line marched through central Georgia ahead of a fast moving cold front. It wasn’t fit for man nor beast to be outside, so I rode it out in my room. I was hungry, with nothing to eat in my room, so I ventured downstairs. The restaurant was closed, but the bar was open.

“What’ll it be, friend?” the bartender asked.

“Is your grill still open?”

“It is for just a few more minutes. Can I get you a menu?”

“No need,” I said. “Just a burger will be fine.”

“Comin’ right up.”

A loud thunderclap made us all jump, and the power went out. “Must’ve hit a transformer,” the bartender said. “Reserve power should kick on shortly.”

Moments later, emergency lights came on, partially lighting the lobby and bar. “Sorry,” the bartender said to me. “The kitchen power didn’t come on line. Looks like you sandwich isn’t going to be coming out tonight.”

I nodded, said, “Thanks anyway,” and made my way back to my room. With the elevator out, I had to climb the stairs.

Back in the room, I plopped down on the bed, and fell asleep.

The storms eventually moved on, and I woke up a while later, sometime around midnight. I was hungry and I felt like a caged animal in my hotel room, so I went out on my own to get something to eat. I found a place called Flapjack Suzie’s just a few blocks from our hotel. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I was in the big leagues, finally making good money. What was I doing in a place like that? Truth is, I was in the mood for pancakes and bacon. I wasn’t making huge bucks, just the minimum. Okay, so in the big leagues, even the minimum, just shy of a half-million a year, is in reality huge bucks. But, doing the math, I was only going to be paid for one month at that rate. My agent and the IRS would each be sure to take their part of it. And, more to the point, I still hadn’t collected my first big league check, so all I had was about sixty bucks left on me, and I had to make it last. Plus, I wasn’t exactly famous. I could go out in public to mingle with the masses, secure in the knowledge that nobody was going to bother me for an autograph. And, hey, I’ve never been one for eating in fancy restaurants anyway, especially alone. Flapjack Suzie’s suits me fine.

I found a booth, took a quick look at the menu and asked the waitress for a large stack with crispy bacon on the side, and a glass of milk to wash it down. I knew from experience I would sleep like a baby afterward. She was just about to go when Ian McGregor came in and spotted me. “Mind if I join you, mate?”

I gestured to the opposite side of the booth. “Please do.” I had taken an immediate liking to Ian. He was friendly, easy-going. One of the few on the team who’d gone out of their way to make me, the thirty year-old rookie, feel welcome. And, he had a great sense of humor. I enjoyed his Australian accent. I particularly liked the slang.

“So, ‘ow’s it goin’, topper?”

“Good, good,” I said. “Would’ve liked to have gotten my first game under my belt today, though.”

“No worries. It’ll happen when it’s time,” Ian said. “The eagle shits in a couple days. That’ll soothe your wounds.”

I nodded, like I knew what he meant. Then, curiosity got the better of me. “Say again?” I said. “What’s that mean?”

“The eagle shits come Friday. Payday, mate!” he said. “You’ll get your first big league check!”

“Oh, yeah.” I nodded. A conversation with Ian McGregor was like learning a second language.

The waitress approached, stifled a yawn, then asked Ian, “You need a minute to look over the menu, hon’?”

“What’s me mate ‘avin’?”

“Large stack of buttermilk pancakes. Bacon. Milk.”

He gave her a quick nod and a wink, and said, “Reckon that’ll do me right. Same for me, luv, only make mine sausage instead, and waffles. No milk. Coffee.”

I sat there, silently appraising Ian.

“What?” he said.

I shook my head. “Nothing.” I leaned forward, pointed to a photo on one of the menus, and asked, “What do you call them?”

“How’s that?”

“Pancakes,” I said, “what do you call pancakes in Australia?”

Ian grinned, leaned toward me and whispered, “We call ’em pancakes.”

“Oh,” I said, somewhat disappointed, although I didn’t know quite why. I suppose I expected there would be a different name for everything down under. They did speak English there, after all. If everything had a different name, it wouldn’t be English. It would be, I don’t know . . . Australian.

“We do ‘ave a thing called a pikelet,” Ian offered, a consolation prize of sorts. “It’s quite like a small pancake. Me mother made the best, but most folks buy ’em ready made at the milk bar.” He saw my puzzled look, and said, “grocery store.”

Satisfied now, having added a new word and a new phrase to my Aussie vocabulary, I nodded. “Hard to beat Mom’s cooking, no matter who you are, or where you’re from.” I said.

Ian nodded thoughtfully. “Your parents both still living?”

“My mother is. We buried Dad last January.”

“Sorry to hear that, Mate,” he said. “How’s yer mum ’oldin’ up?”

“I suppose she’s doing okay,” I said. “She remarried in June. I didn’t make it back for the wedding. Actually, I wasn’t even invited. They tied the knot in Las Vegas.”

Ian nodded, wisely saying nothing and letting the moment pass.