ONE CUP (Part 7)

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25

Ian McGregor

It was the bottom of the eighth inning. We were one run up on the Braves. A couple of the blokes in the bullpen were talking about sports cars. A couple others about their kids. The rest of us were quiet. Being a relief pitcher, you have a lot of time to think. You’re not completely isolated, you have a few teammates, pitchers, catchers, and coaches with you in the bullpen. But, there are moments when your mind drifts.

You meet all kinds in professional sports. For some reason, that was on my mind today. You have the guys like Mike Prescott, who were seemingly born blessed with talent. And, you have those such as myself, who discipline themselves and develop what talent they have into something more. There are those like the new guy, Ray Garrett, who probably have the skills to play at the highest level, but don’t stand out. The minor leagues are overflowing with them. Some get the breaks. Some don’t. It’s not always about deserving it. As for personalities, well, just take a look at the sports section of any newspaper on any given day and you are sure to find a player whose bad behavior has made headlines. Those guys, the ones you are always reading about, comprise maybe ten per cent of professional athletes.

Bobby Ogden was a damn good ballplayer, who, like Ray Garrett, had a reasonably good chance of making it in the majors – if not as a superstar, at least as a player who could make a contribution, maybe even manage to stay around for a few years. He was one of the ninety per cent – the ones who stayed out of trouble, paid their dues, honed their skills, and waited, hoping the breaks would come their way before it was too late. Bobby was ready. He didn’t have a blazing fastball. Bobby was more of a control pitcher. He was twenty-six or twenty-seven, give or take, and still in the minor leagues.

I don’t know if there is an age where a ballplayer becomes too old to be considered as a prospect. I mean, there was that one guy, Jim Morris – the one they made the movie, “The Rookie” about – he was well into his thirties when he was called up. But he could sling it at 98 miles per hour, so that made him the exception.

It’s what every ballplayer thinks about. Will I ever get my shot? Am I ever going to make any money? How much time do I have before it’s all over? When will it be too late? What will I do then? I know that had to be on Bobby Ogden’s mind.

We were cruising in the right lane, looking for a place to grab a bite to eat. The delivery truck in front of us stopped. Bobby braked hard to avoid a collision. The driver of a black Dodge Ram truck behind us laid on his horn, expressing his disapproval, as if Bobby had any other option but to stop suddenly. We sat there for maybe half a minute, expecting to resume forward progress at any moment, but then the truck’s flashers came on. Whatever the bloke was doing, it was going to take a while. Bobby checked the rearview mirror and pulled into the left lane.

Our starting pitcher, Cruz, worked the count to two and two on Justin Parker, the number three hitter. Parker guessed fastball, and fouled off a curve to stay alive. Cruz’s next pitch had HIT ME written all over it—a waist-high fastball on the outside edge of the plate. Parker hit it hard to straight-away center field. Skid Marks ran full steam, leaped and slammed into the wall to make a circus catch to rob Parker of a grand slam, and then hit the ground hard. The ball stayed in his glove. Parker was out. Runners were tagging up and running. Marks couldn’t get to his feet. He shovel-passed the ball to the right fielder, Quinones, who caught it barehanded and threw a bullet to the cutoff man, Sherman, who then wheeled and threw to home. The throw was wide on the first base side, but Spencer nabbed it and made a diving tag for the third out. Close play, and no one was sure it would hold up under review, but fortunately for us, it did. Enough damage was done. One run came in, and the score was now tied.

The bullpen phone rang. The pitching coach, “McGregor and Pearson. Get loose.”

I grabbed my glove, walked to the bullpen mound. Ray Garrett took position behind the plate. Pearson and his catcher did likewise next to us. “I hope Skid’s okay,” Pearson said as Marks was being taken off the field on a stretcher.

“How’d he get that name?” Ray asked.

Pearson looked at me and grinned as he went into the stretch. “Story goes, back in A-ball, he had an accident.” Pearson delivered a pitch, half-speed. “He was on a health food kick. Made up his own trail mix snack using his favorite cereals and nuts, that sort of thing. Decided to add coconut. Lots of coconut. Not knowing coconut is a natural laxative.” The catcher tossed the ball back to Pearson as I made my first toss to Ray.

Pearson threw again. “Ken—that’s his real name—Ken gets a base hit, tries to stretch it into a double.”

“I heard he hit a double and was trying for third,” I said as I threw again.

“Whatever,” Pearson said. “Anyway, halfway to whichever base he’s trying for, he goes from a full-out run to a little old-man shuffle, holding his stomach with both hands.”

Ray was standing, holding the ball as he listened to the story. “Ray!” I said. “I’m s’posed to be warming up, mate.”

Ray jerked back into the moment, threw the ball back to me. “Sorry.”

Pearson was throwing full speed now. I wasn’t quite ready, so I continued pitching at three-quarter speed.

“So the second baseman—”

“Third baseman,” I interrupted.

“Okay,” Pearson conceded. “The third baseman takes the throw from the center fielder and puts a hard tag on him, right in the gut. Ken shits himself, right there on the base path. The back of his uniform pants are soiled. Ever since, no one calls him Ken. He’s Skid. Skid Marks.”

The bullpen phone rang again. “Pearson. You’re in.”

Ray and I stopped what we were doing and reclaimed our seats in the bullpen. My mind went from Skid Marks back to Bobby Ogden.

The driver behind us apparently had the same idea, but was not willing to allow us the courtesy of going ahead of him. He accelerated, nearly slamming the big Ram into us. Probably would have, had Bobby not seen what was happening and accelerated to avoid the imminent impact. The other fellow hit his brakes and laid on his horn. Bobby looked into the mirror, shrugged and waved as if to say “Sorry”, even though it was clearly no fault of his own.

Once we were past the delivery truck, Bobby switched back to the right lane, pointing ahead. “There’s a Tony Roma’s over there. How’s that sound to you guys?”

I remember thinking a rack of ribs would do right by me, but before Mike or I could either one respond, the Ram pulled up alongside us, and the bloke in the passenger side leaned out the window, cursing at us. I couldn’t speak for Bobby or Mike, but by now I was pissed, and I gave him the finger. The driver shouted something, then accelerated, leaving us behind.

“What’s his problem?” Mike Prescott said.

“He’s a bloody arsehole,” I ventured.

“Guess he didn’t want to wait,” Bobby said with a shrug, braking for the red light at the intersection ahead. The Dodge was sitting behind a Ford Taurus, and Bobby stopped alongside him.

I remember looking over, knowing he was going to have more to say to us. “Cut me off, asshole!” he shouted. Again, I gave him the finger, but he didn’t seem to notice me. His focus was on Bobby. “I’ll kick your ass, prick!”

“You gonna let him get away with talkin’ to you like that, are you?” I shouted at Bobby. “Tell ’im to pull over and we’ll ’ave a go at it, if that’s what he thinks he wants.”

Looking straight ahead, Bobby pursed his lips, shook his head. “He’s just blowing off steam. He’ll forget about it by the time he gets home.”

“Unbelievable!” Mike Prescott exclaimed.

“There’s your problem, mate!” I said.

Bobby glared at me. “Whattaya mean?”

“That’s why you’re still in the bloody minors,” I said. You don’t have the killer instinct. You got no balls!” I will never forget those words, and I will never forgive myself for having said them.

26

Ray Garrett

I needed to figure out what to do about my car. I could abandon it where it sat in the parking lot of Turner Field, but that could cause problems, I figured. Fines maybe, I don’t know.

Maybe I could find a church or some other organization I could donate it to, but that would take time. The team plane would be leaving right after the game. I couldn’t possibly get it accomplished by then, plus I was at the ballgame, and needed to focus on my job.

I could hire somebody else to drive the car, but I didn’t know anyone here in Atlanta, and didn’t have the cash to pay at the moment.

I could drive from Atlanta to Indianapolis. The thought of it made me a bit nervous, though. What if the car broke down in Chattanooga or somewhere in the middle of nowhere?

I remembered Dad once telling me ninety percent of the things you worry about never happen, so I decided to believe it would work out just fine.

We won, 2-1. In the locker room, I approached Spence, he being the one I knew best. Or longest, anyway.
“Hey, Spence. Good game.” He’d gone two for four with a single and a double, driving in both our runs.

“Thanks, man.”

“I have a bit of a problem,” I said. “I have to drive my car to Indianapolis.”

“It’s not far. You should be able to get there in plenty of time.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just I’m a little short on cash. I wonder if you could help me out. I’ll pay you back soon as I get my first check.”

Spence sighed. “I don’t know, Ray,” he said. “I’ve lent money to friends before, and it always becomes an issue, you know?”

“What’s that mean?”

“I’m just not comfortable with it. No offense.”

I turned away. Someone grabbed my arm before I’d taken three steps. I turned to see Ian McGregor, dressed in street clothes. “I’ll spot you, Ray,” he said. “How much you reckon you need?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Fifty, maybe a little more. Just enough for gas.”

Ian pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off a few and handed them to me. I looked, dumbfounded, at a thousand dollars in hundreds and fifties. “Ian, I don’t need this much,” I said.

“Take it mate. I know you’re good for it.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks so much.”