Authors: Douglas Esper
June 16, 2010
Leaving the bar, the toughest decision to make revolves around whether I’m sober enough walk to the hotel or if I should call a cab. My watch reads only noon, but in my defense, baseball teams get very few days off during the season.
As the Indians remain mired in slump after slump of disappointment, my life seems to mirror their every move. While they are busy losing over a hundred games per season, I’ve been busy spending over a hundred bucks a day on my bad habits. Yes, habits, plural.
Whether it’s the pain pills for my body aches, alcohol for the numbness, or the coke to keep my edge, day in and day out, I’ve been doing it, and in large doses. It all started to go downhill after Molly left me. Or I left her, however you want to call it. I miss her and Woodie more than I ever thought possible. For now, I find solace in my drugs and my loneliness.
From an outsider’s point of view, my life couldn’t be better. Here I am, manager of the pinnacle of the Triple-A level, The Erie Express, one step away from the Big Leagues. Yet I’m too numb to appreciate good news.
I’m relevant in the baseball world for the first time in years, maybe the first time since my shoulder popped, and it feels damn good. But once I step off that diamond, it all comes crashing down. I am a mess.
Raising my hand and stepping toward the street, I call, “Taxi.”
“Where to, Mac?”
I wave my arm. “To the city.”
The dreadlocked cab driver looks at me in his rearview mirror. “You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific.”
“I’m staying at the Hotel Diablo.”
Half an hour later, I drop into a reclining chair, flip on the TV, and snuggle in for a nap when a very familiar voice invades my buzz.
“And that’s why I trust no other airline when I travel overseas.”
With my eyes still closed, and feeling the first strains of a headache begin to take root, I laugh as Woodie’s voice booms from the television. I’ve seen this commercial about three hundred times this season. I wish I was on better speaking terms with him just so I could make fun of him for it.
It’s a series of goofy commercials he filmed for Geneva Airlines years ago. The TV spots were supposed to air overseas only, but Geneva made a huge deal last year to purchase an American company to gain a foothold in the states.
He continues, “Fine dining, great entertainment, and first-class flight attendants throughout the whole plane. So, when you’re flying the team overseas for vacation home runs, think of Geneva Airlines: Enter Station Geneva.”
Now, with the commercial over and the realization that the TV is tuned to CNN, I know it’s the optimum moment to pass out. I desire nothing more than to let this waste of a day fly by while I recover. With luck, my buzz and subsequent hangover will dissipate enough to allow me to report to the ballpark before the rooster sounds.
Before I pass out, however, I see a cute reporter worth keeping my eyes open for. “We are going to go live to Columbus, where another major scandal story is breaking. It appears one of the most popular and powerful senators in the country will be answering questions at a press conference just announced a few moments ago.”
Politics. I ease back onto the scratchy couch cushion and reclose my eyes. Let the talking heads rip each other apart while I dream.
“We are getting mixed reports that...wait, here comes a woman to the podium now.”
The reporter’s voice fades as anticipation grows and the warmth of a thousand camera flashes burst into life.
“Thank you all for coming. My name is Molly De Leon. I’ll read a brief statement before answering questions.”
As she continues to speak, one of my hands reaches for my cell phone and the other for my flask. Sure, common sense says that even if she wanted to answer the phone in the middle of a press conference, she couldn’t, but right now I just need to hear her voice and make sure she hears mine.
The phone rings once, twice, three times. “Come on, come on.” I say, and take a pull from my flask.
When I hear a click, I assume the voicemail picked up, but when a different female voice says, “Hello” I sit up and stumble out a greeting.
A loud, annoyed groan communicates perfectly that the woman knows who I am. “Ryan, I presume.” I can hear the strain and exhaustion working in her vocal chords.
I grin, hoping my good-natured tone puts her at ease. “Claire, what a surprise.”
Over the past few years she and I have shared several phone conversations like this one.
“Yeah, wish I could say the same. Ryan, you can’t just call every time you see Molly on TV. Do you expect her to come off the podium so she can hear you slur your words and make empty promises? You do realize she’s involved in the biggest story of the year, right?”
I ask, “Listen, can’t I just talk to her when she’s done?”
The request seems reasonable to me.
“No, Ryan, no you can’t. You know you can’t. You know you don’t deserve to, and you know all the reasons why.”
With the added confidence awarded by the liquor, I press my luck. “Why?”
“Are you being serious?” Her voice cracks, exasperated. “How many times have you called just this month? How many times have you sent her e-mails, flowers, and, what was it last month, a bottle of some perfume? What is that even about?”
“It’s her favorite,” I answer, but to be honest I don’t even recall sending the perfume.
“Yes, she told me it was her favorite–when she was fifteen. That’s the only way we knew it was from you. Look, Molly loves you and she always will, but right now you have to back off. When the right time comes and things calm down, she’ll call you. Right now, though, she has a zillion things going on. You have said some awful things to her and that doesn’t just go away because you feel bad.”
I take it in stride, knowing I deserve to hear this. I’ve been an ass. My eyes drift toward the flask in my hand. I am an ass.
“Ryan?”
I let Claire wait in silence as I fight a losing battle against tears. This won’t be the first time Claire hears me cry over the phone, in fact, any hesitations I, as a grown man, might have about crying on the phone to the coworker of the woman I love disappeared years ago.
Claire lets her stern attitude flush away as she hears the first of many sobs escape my lips. Just as fast, the small layer of control I have over my emotions rips free like a dead leaf in a strong fall wind.
“Ok, Ryan, let’s not do this right now. This is so not a good time. I need to be there for Molly, and—”
I interrupt with a renewed strength and aggravation dripping in like morphine through a needle. “I want to see my son.”
A long, dead exhale of defeat exits Claire’s lips. “Ryan, for the first year of your son’s life, I helped arrange all three meetings between you, Molly, and Mikey. Each one ended worse than the last, and I promised myself to not allow you to scare him or his mother anymore.”
There’s no denying I’m the one who screws up each meeting with my son, but I want to be a part of his life, even if Molly wants nothing to do with me. If she didn’t ever want me to see him, why would she have named him after my dad?
“Call him Moe.”
“No one else calls him that.”
“Michael Omar. The name honors both our fathers and his nickname should too.”
“Clean up your act, Ryan,” Claire says, unwilling to spare with me. “Molly wants you to know your son, too. It has killed her to watch you spiral out of control like this. When the right time comes, I promise, you will be allowed around him again.”
I throw my flask across the room and it smashes into a pot of fake flowers. “When?”
Claire sighs. “Ryan, someone much smarter than I said that if you want to move a mountain, start with the small stones. I don’t expect to hear from you until you’re moving the large ones again.”
I stay quiet, trying to process her words.
“Ryan.”
I don’t know if people actually understand when they’ve hit rock bottom or not, but I can feel a bed of stones underneath me, and the walls of life are closing in. If this is indeed the worse life can get, then the only place to go from here is up.
“Ryan, look, Molly needs me right now.”
I picture my old trainer, Ho Ban standing over me and telling me I’m not giving it my all. Back then; all I had to do was grip a little tighter, breathe a little deeper and push, just a little harder.
So, I push. “You’re right.”
I’m lying down, drunk, the sun shining right into my bloodshot eyes. God, I need some coffee. Rubbing my hand through my unkempt stubble, I take the hardest step, the first step, back toward respectability.
I push harder. “Claire, I’m going to take your words at face value and make a promise. Until I’m ready to be a decent man to Molly and a positive influence on my son, I won’t call. I won’t e-mail. I won’t be a bother.”
“It’s good to hear you say that, Ryan. I just hope, for everyone involved, you mean it.”
Assuming the conversation has ended, I stand.
“And Ryan, good luck.”
I exhale sharply. “Thanks Claire.”
With my first vote of confidence, I hang up the phone. Feeling a new sense of urgency, I change and head to the fitness room.
I push.
I think of Molly and I push.
I think of my son and I push.
I push with all of my strength, fighting the effects of the alcohol, as I think about Woodie.
I push as I think about my father.
I push faster, but this time when I think about my life and the game I love, I turn to the side and puke.
August 31, 2015
I cup my phone against my ear, too scared to breathe so as not to miss anything.
One of the unidentified voices on the conference call explains how he foresees things proceeding. “Listen, we don’t want this to be any sort of distraction to you this week. We want you to focus on what you need to focus on, and we’ll announce the decision when the dust settles. Does that sound fair?”
Though the man can’t see me, he must know my nerves are on overload by the way he’s speaking. On the other end of my phone, a small army of baseball personnel for the Cleveland Indians has gathered to discuss the possibility of me becoming the next head manager of the team. I’m alone in a hotel room in Los Angeles, half asleep, and knowing that the real fun starts as soon as I get off the phone. My current team, the Erie Express, has battled its way into the Triple-A Minor League World Series. The first pitch flies at 1:05 p.m., rain or shine.
“S-sure,” I stumble, “sounds great, and I appreciate you thinking of me and my situation during this, err...process.”
Dallas Huntley, now the team president of the Cleveland Indians has done the bulk of the talking thus far. “Well, just like the paper is reporting, we’ve narrowed our field down to two main candidates, and that selection process has left us in a unique position. On the one hand, we have one of our own coaches, from our farm system, waiting in the wings to take over. He’s well known here in Cleveland, as a former Indian, and has proven himself to be one of the up-and-comers in the game. On the other hand, we have you, also a well-liked prospect who has more experience and a great eye for pitching talent. Sure, we need someone who can kick-start our pitching program, but do we want to bring that person in as a head coach or a pitching coach? That’s the problem we face, but let’s not forget that if we don’t grab you while we can, our rivals in Detroit will no doubt scoop you up. So, not only would we get a great new manager, but we would stick it to them as well. That is a factor that can’t be quantified on paper, my friend.”
A surprise to no one at all, the other candidate, Woodie, currently manages the Indians’ Triple-A affiliate. He has spent just two seasons at the helm of The Hollywood Stars, and already my arch nemesis has them playing at a championship level. It’ll be hard to argue against hiring either of us, so my goal remains to coach my team to victory and hope that that proves enough.
I set down the binder I’ve been studying, full of the opposing team’s stats. “I appreciate you being open and honest with me at each step. I understand the position you’re in. Don’t think for a second I’m unaware of the choice you’re facing. Woodie and I go way back. I’ve seen his work ethic and determination up close more times than I care to recall. He’d be an excellent coach, mentor, and manager for your club. And that is why I’ll ask him to be my bench coach as soon as you guys come to your senses and offer me the job.”
Even I am shocked by my boldness.
“Ooh. This guy has got moxie. I like it.” exclaims someone else in the room, but the sudden outburst of all the others clouds the phone, making it hard to determine who spoke.
Mr. Huntley asks for quiet. “We’ve heard the same info about you from Woodie already. I think it’s great that you two have such deep respect for each other. We’re all very excited to see what happens during the international League World Series this week.”
We exchange pleasantries and hang up, so the preparations for today’s game can begin in earnest. The Express have batting practice soon, but the next hour I have all to myself. I limp into the therapy office to relax, but before I even sit down Jez, my team’s rehab therapist starts pestering me.
Jez peers down at his watch. “I hope there’s a good story behind your late arrival, mate.”
He’s a big ogre of a man who grew up over the pond in the UK, thus his accent sometimes makes it hard to communicate. What he lacks in Yankee attitude, however, he makes up for by being the best masseuse, ever. That makes him a friend to the whole team.
I sit down on one of his tables, grunting in the process. “The way my leg cramped up an hour ago, you’re lucky I made it at all.”
Over the past few seasons, he’s become my personal trainer and head cheerleader in my quest to become a better human being. While coaching one of the best teams in the minor leagues, I’ve rededicated myself to being a healthy person as well. Each day I’m working out just like I did in my youth. Jez oversees my regimen, including a daily massage for my abused legs and arms. My eating habits have also improved, though, that isn’t saying much considering the abuse I forced down my throat for years.
Jez tosses a baseball in his hands, which isn’t that odd considering we’re at a ballpark, but it looks like it’s covered in something other than cowhide.
He catches my gaze and smirks before tossing the ball onto a stack of towels. “You excited to be playing baseball on Dave Bresnahan day?”
The name Jez mentioned rings a bell, but I can’t recall where I’ve heard it before. “Uh, sure Jez, sure.”
He gives me a disapproving look. “It amazes me how little you little scrotes bother to study the history of the sport you expect to pay your bills.”
Jez didn’t grow up as a fan of baseball and he loves to remind us all of this fact. For generations his family has managed stables, breeding and training horses to run in the Grand National, the Kentucky Derby of England. He got his start in physical therapy by working day and night with athletic horses, so I guess on some level, I should feel ashamed that his baseball knowledge vastly surpasses mine.
“Well, Jez, isn’t that what you’re here for, to help me stay healthy so I can be an effective coach rather than a crab ass? How about you stop rubbing my nose in it and tell me whatever it is you know about Dave Breezingham.”
Rolling his eyes, Jez beckons me over to the massage table. “Let’s take care of your leg first and I’ll tell you all about Dave Bresnahan, and why he has his own day. Then we can discuss your shoulder and why you should listen to me for once.”
“Look Jez, the woman I love is out west, raising my son, who I’ve met only a couple of times under strict supervision because of my behavior. My father hasn’t spoken to me for years after he punched my lights out. My best friend is out-coaching me with less experience. Not to mention, the trainer I hired spends all of his days pestering me about old baseball stories and nonsense rather than helping my team win. You want to talk about pain and stress? Then let’s start there. As for my body, it’s as ready as I am to lead these men between the foul poles and onto victory, all right.”
I inject my voice with all the confidence I can muster, hoping he will let sleeping dogs lie.
Jez pats my leg a few times. “Hand me my baseball, would you?”
I grab for the baseball, but as my hand wraps around it I pull back in shock. I let out a surprised gasp and my eyes dart to Jez for an explanation. His face displays a smile full of large teeth, not all of them straight.
“Now are you ready to hear about Dave Bresnahan?” he asks, rubbing my leg. “In my opinion, Dave’s tale ranks as one of the single funniest stories in the hundred and fifty-plus years that baseball has been around. When the game was first invented, it was played to pass away the downtime during the Civil War. The act of a man trying to hit a ball thrown at high speeds with a thin wooden stick should be evidence enough that the game was meant to be an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon, not a league of muscled men scowling and too serious for their own good.”
I smirk.
Jez digs into my leg, attacking my sore muscles. “Anyway, back in the early '80s, Dave Bresnahan was a minor league catcher playing in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. He was a young guy, but his heart had already told him that professional baseball was not his future. You see, Dave wasn’t even the starting catcher on his Double-A team. He knew he had little chance to climb higher in the organization. Knowing that he wasn’t going to be playing baseball much longer, Dave came up with a scheme to play one of the best gags ever pulled off in a game.”
Jez’s relaxing baritone, coupled with his massage, lifts me into a transcendent state of meditation.
He continues, “One day he peeled a spud, you know, a potato until it was round like a baseball, and even painted red stitch lines on it. Then, during a game he was catching, he threw it down the left-field line, pretending a pickoff attempt with the runner at third base. The throw was tossed high and wide on purpose to trick the runner into thinking he could advance home with no chance of interference. Before the base runner could step on home plate, however, Dave Bresnahan tagged him out with the real baseball, which was still in his possession.”
I furrow my brow and grin. “Are you serious?”
I can’t remember ever hearing a story in baseball where someone got away with a gag as funny as this. The anger and frustration bubbling inside me just a few moments ago fades into background noise as my spirits lift.
I prop myself up on my elbows. “What happened? Did the runner get called out?”
“Well, initially yes. The ump was as confused as the rest of the crowd and players, so he called out the runner. That is, until they went to investigate what Dave had thrown in front of a stadium full of witnesses. When it was determined it was a spud, the runner was declared safe. The next day, Dave Bresnahan was let go by his team and never played ball again.”
Looking at the potato baseball with a new appreciation, I toss it in the air a couple of times.
“Pretty bloody funny eh?” Jez asks, patting my leg to signal he’s done.
“Hell ya. If you gotta go, you might as well go out with a bang, but I hope he had something lined up for life after baseball. It would be a shame to give up on the game, only to find nothing but failure elsewhere. Heck, I planned on playing until they dragged me away...” I trail off as the combination of this long season and the importance of this game sinks in. Then after a moment’s pause, I add, “In the end, I dragged myself away with false promises and pain pills.”
I toss the potato baseball back at Jez.
He catches it. “Ryan, go out there and thrash ‘em.”
“Jez, tonight no one can stand in the way of our victory. I don’t care what crazy stances they use, I don’t care if they steal signals, and I even don’t care if they cork their bats. We are ready.”
Still buzzing over the potato baseball story, I turn back. “So, Jez I don’t know if you would know, but whatever happened to Dave Bresnahan after he was cut? Did he find a life after baseball?”
Jez chuckles, shakes his head, and answers my question while preparing the next person for a rubdown. “You know, there are lots of great and honorable things in life that don’t require a ball to be hit. Dave found a great career forming a realty company out in Arizona. He told me that story himself when he sold me my house. Seems like a great guy who is just as happy, if not happier, than any of you career baseball blokes are. And he doesn’t spend half of his life stuck on a broken-down old bus, rank with body odor, driving from small town to small town just to pretend that what he’s doing is important. Ryan, sooner or later you’ll learn that there are bigger things in life than games.”
Without a pause, I wink. “Not likely.”
Though, as I walk toward the field, I can’t stop thinking of how much I miss Molly, and how much I wish I knew my son. I feel like I’ve moved my small stones, and that I’m inching toward the big ones.
Detouring to my office, I grab my cellphone, and before I can second guess myself, I press the call button.
It rings until the voicemail kicks in.
I was hoping to talk man to man, but the message can’t wait any longer. “Dad, I have a lot that I want to say and even more that I need to apologize for. Maybe we can talk after the series? I hope all is swell. I love you, dad.”