Imperfect: An Improbable Life (21 page)

Then, before I’d run into the top of the Indians’ order, I walked Junior Ortiz. Ortiz, you might recall, was the Indians’ number nine hitter, and he arrived batting .239. I not only walked him, by the way, but walked him on four pitches, causing me to scream something very loud into my glove that, even from a couple hundred feet away, might have made Bronx denizens blush.

Kenny Lofton came up, took a strike, fouled off the next two pitches, then took a fastball up. Now, by the time I was done, only two hitters would have as many or more plate appearances against me than Lofton and hit for a better average against me than Lofton. Mike Devereaux batted .441 in forty-four plate appearances and Edgar Martinez batted .422 in forty-nine plate appearances. Lofton in thirty-nine hit .412, which is why I was so disappointed when one
of my best curveballs of the game started at his right shoulder, dropped down and through the strike zone, and went unrecognized by plate umpire Ted Hendry. And why I was so pleased when the next pitch, a curveball away, was hit on a fly to left and caught easily by Dion James.

That over with, Felix Fermin hit the first pitch, an inside cutter, to Boggs at third. A routine play. Like that, I was six innings in. I was a comfortable eighty-four pitches along. I was winning. Dana, brought to the front edge of her seat by the walk and my unhappiness with it, eased against the backrest.

Up in the broadcast booth, Kubek sent the viewers into commercial break.

“The Indians,” he said calmly, “are still hitless.”

CHAPTER 13

T
he Angels were a snakebitten franchise. Since their inception in 1961, their seasons either had ended glumly or—on three occasions, just to mix it up—in paralyzing despair. In the eighties, they’d won two American League West titles. In the championship series that followed they played six games that, had they won any of them, would have sent them to their first World Series and signaled the arrival of Gene Autry’s beloved franchise. They lost all six.

Their history showed they’d averaged a new manager every couple years, allowed Nolan Ryan to leave in free agency, spent millions on other free agents, and generally found ways to lose by a lot or lose by a little or lose in the most heart-wrenching way ever.

As if that weren’t enough, they played their games an hour’s drive from Dodger Stadium, and the shadow of the Dodgers was cast at least to Anaheim. The Dodgers had had only two managers—Walter Alston and Tommy Lasorda—since 1954. Their owner—Peter O’Malley—was a baseball blueblood. They were L.A.’s team, Hollywood’s team, occasionally America’s team. And while they arrived in Southern California only three years before the Angels had, the
Dodgers oozed stability and composure. They’d won two World Series in the eighties, including in 1988, a season in which the Angels lost eighty-seven games, finished twenty-nine games out of first place in the AL West, and fired a manager.

Because of Autry, however, the Angels had a lovable quality. They were often underdogs, but they were dashing underdogs on a horse named Champion, humming “Back in the Saddle Again,” and wearing a big cowboy hat. Everyone loved Mr. Autry.

What I knew about the Angels beyond that was limited. Lance Parrish, their new catcher, was one of my favorite players growing up, because of his Tigers lineage. (One of my enduring memories of baseball was Parrish’s mitt, ringed in orange, guiding a young Jack Morris, or a younger Dan Petry.) Wally Joyner, the first baseman, was nearly Rookie of the Year three years before. The starting rotation was old-ish at the top (Bert Blyleven) and young-ish at the bottom (Chuck Finley), and the bullpen featured a similar blend of old (Bob McClure and Greg Minton) and young (Bryan Harvey, Willie Fraser).

Of course, little of the major-league team’s makeup would matter to me beyond spring training. At some point in March, I’d slide over to the minor-league side and begin preparations for a season in the sticks. I figured it would be like my summers with Team USA, only longer and probably hotter. Maybe the buses would be nicer. There’d be no medal waiting at the end.

It wasn’t that I was a long shot to make the Angels, to become one of the few modern-day players to go from a college campus to a major-league roster. The fact was, I had no shot. I was going to start the season in Midland, Texas, Double-A ball, get my bearings, sharpen up my curveball, learn to be a pro. The decision had been made. In the early meetings leading to camp—manager Doug Rader,
pitching coach Marcel Lachemann, bullpen coach Joe Coleman, general manager Mike Port would convene often—my name would not come up. I was going to the minor leagues.

By February 1989, I’d signed for $200,000 (exactly what Don Welke had recommended to the Blue Jays three years earlier), skipped my senior season at Michigan, and won a gold medal in the Olympics. And then I’d show up in spring training to a major-league clubhouse with not just something to prove, but everything to prove. I was starting over.

From Flint, I packed a single suitcase and flew to Orange County, checked into a hotel across from Anaheim Stadium, did a press conference in which the questions included, “So, Jim, any other handicaps in the family?” and then reported to the bullpen in right field, where maybe a dozen of Lachemann’s pitchers were preparing for camp. The field had been prepped for a motocross event, giving the experience a Mad Max vibe.

Blyleven was there, along with Finley, Kirk McCaskill, Harvey, Fraser, Stew Cliburn, some others. For two weeks, we’d throw, work out, and then I’d walk back across the street and play Donkey Kong on Nintendo until I fell asleep. I had no car, no friends, and nowhere else to go. One afternoon I was invited to join Harvey, Fraser, and Cliburn for an afternoon in Newport Beach, where Finley had a condo. Harvey was from North Carolina by way of Soddy-Daisy, Tennessee. Cliburn was from Jackson, Mississippi. Finley was from Monroe, Louisiana. When they got to talking, I couldn’t understand anything they said. They pretty much lost me at, “Son,…” And that was the extent of my field trips.

By the time I was picking up a word here and there, we’d driven to Mesa, Arizona, for spring training. Gene Autry Park had three full fields, a half-field where the writers played Wiffle ball at dusk, a
bare locker room, a small building for the front-office staff, and a mobile home for the beat writers. The major-league players dressed toward the front of the locker room, where the lockers were large enough to store their gear. In the back, the rest of us made do with narrower lockers. More like large cubbies, actually, which we shared with another guy. I did my best to keep my head down and my mouth closed and my sweaty stuff away from my locker mate’s, then I went home in the afternoons to the Rodeway Inn, where I roomed with the bullpen catcher.

The Angels, it turned out, were a fascinating, bizarre, intimidating, impressive amalgam of baseball personalities, like nothing I’d ever seen. McClure, one of many in that small, muggy room who would come to have a profound influence on my life, one morning noted my bemusement with it all and said, “Look around, kid. It may never be this good in your career again. And you will never have a manager like this again.”

He was right. I hoped I made it to the big leagues one day so I could be part of it.

The manager, Doug Rader, was an imposing cigarette-smoking, snuff-dipping, Machiavelli-reading, gruff old soul who laughed loud, sometimes growled louder, and trusted his men to be men. Baseball men.

The pitching coach, Marcel Lachemann, was part father figure, part friend, part pitching guru, part gray-eyed taskmaster. When he talked about pitching, I felt like I should chisel his words into stone and drag the tablets to the mound with me.

The hitting coach, Deron Johnson, was a well-forearmed former power hitter who delivered batting tips in gravelly whispers from one side of his mouth, and pulled on a cigarette from the other, even after he’d been diagnosed with cancer.

The future Hall of Famer Bert Blyleven seemed so old I—at twenty-one—could barely believe it. His face was old. His body was older. He was irreverent, bawdy, brilliant, caring to the point of being sweet and, as soon as you believed that, he’d set your shoe on fire. As a pitcher and as a prankster, he knew every trick. I assumed it was because he’d been around so long he’d invented at least half of them.

The part-time coach, Jimmie Reese, had played three major-league seasons in the early 1930s with the Yankees, where he was a teammate of Lou Gehrig’s and a roommate of Babe Ruth’s. He’d wryly correct that he actually was a roommate of Ruth’s
luggage
. A generous man and storyteller, he possessed a personality that transcended generations and—in his late eighties—wielded a fungo bat with a sharpshooter’s precision.

The general manager, Mike Port, was so gravely earnest I avoided him in order to limit the intensely awkward conversations. Yet, later in my career he sent warm notes saying how proud he was of me.

The public relations man, Tim Mead, was a hardworking and loyal confidant to every man in the room, who bled whatever colors the Angels were wearing that year, whose human touch extended from owners to sportswriters to fans, and whose heart wouldn’t have fit in one of those little lockers.

The veteran, McClure, was a Harley-riding hardball philosopher whose left-handedness extended to his sense of humor and view of the world. He feared nothing and no one.

The Chief, Chuck Finley, was called “Chief” because that’s what he called everybody. With a wit as sharp as his split-fingered fastball, he accumulated strikeouts at about the same rate he did interest from women.

The designated hitter, Brian Downing, was a tough, quiet, muscled,
hard-swinging guy who had almost no interest in young players. Not surprisingly, we didn’t hang out much. He scared me a little.

The catcher, Parrish, was an amazingly large man—who, it should be noted, preferred one of those old-school metal cups. That, too, was large. In fact, it reminded me of a tractor seat.

The ace, Mike Witt, was the All-Star pitcher, an intense guy who’d won 100 games by then, once threw a perfect game, and whose signature curveball was christened—by none other than Reggie Jackson—as “The Mercedes Bends.”

And Kirk McCaskill became my best friend. A wonderful athlete, he poured all he had into everything he did. As my career progressed, along with my life, I’d often ask myself, “What would Mac do here?” Even if it didn’t turn out well, I’d know I did the right thing. Though he’d pitched for only four seasons in the big leagues, McCaskill was mature and thoughtful. Over dinner, he felt like a big brother. At the ballpark, he was closer to a mentor.

At the moment, though, they were guys I hardly knew. They were laughter from the other side of the room, and inside jokes I didn’t get, and holders of knowledge that came with long columns of statistics on the backs of their baseball cards, some of which I still had in a cardboard box back in Flint.

The experience—everything from sharing their fielding drills to standing in line with them for morning cereal—was overwhelming. They were so sure of themselves. And my presence there was a curiosity. Some veteran pitchers were skeptical of the Angels’ decision to have me in camp, but were kind enough to keep it to themselves. A gold medal didn’t rate here and neither did a big signing bonus. Paying one’s dues did. Getting big leaguers out did.

On day one, I was assigned a very blue uniform with the number
60 on the back, some very red spikes and, eventually, a pitcher’s mound in the bullpen, where I threw first not to Lance Parrish or any of the other catchers in camp, but to Lachemann’s brother, Bill, a very nice, very capable fifty-four-year-old man. The veteran pitchers got loose and searched for their mechanics and began their progression toward Opening Day. Further down the line of mounds, I was airing it out, throwing as hard as I could, justifying the first-round decision with every fastball, and trying to make Bill’s old, overstuffed mitt pop authoritatively, which it didn’t, no matter how hard I tried. The thing looked—and sounded—like a throw pillow.

When I was done, Bill nodded curtly and went off looking for Marcel, who he found near the locker room.

“That son of a bitch!” Bill sputtered.

“Who?” Marcel asked.

“Abbott,” Bill answered. “What the hell you trying to do to me?”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s about ninety-four and it’s
cuttin’
!”

And Bill held up his arm, where welts were raising on his wrist and forearm.

Marcel smiled.

“Well,” he said, “maybe we’ve got something here.”

Maybe I’d overdone it by a little. I was too busy trying to impress the coaches and the big leaguers to notice. Not only did my little locker have to fit all my belongings (along with my locker pal’s belongings), it seemed I’d also brought a few extras to camp. Questions, mostly.
Was my stuff good enough? Did I have to elevate my game? Did I need new pitches? Better pitches? Where did I stand next to all these guys, these great hitters and established pitchers who were playing a game I suspected was more refined than mine?