Imperfect: An Improbable Life (30 page)

On August 4 I lost my fourteenth game. The next day, Lach, among the most decent men I’d ever met and someone who’d once risked his career for mine, was fired by the Angels. Among my many mistakes was in allowing the losses to become personal, not only to me, but to Lach, Billy, Tim. Every day I looked into their eyes and felt I’d let them down. Even by that standard, August 5 was a terrible day.

The Angels held a press conference, where Lach glumly answered questions about what went wrong. He was, as ever, a picture of dignity and resilience. I sat in the back of the room and watched my coach, my friend, bear the weight of a season lost and a franchise suffering. I thought it should have been me up there.

A week later, after nearly eight full major-league seasons, I was sent to the minor leagues. The organization hoped a gentler environment might clear my cluttered head and develop those elusive secondary pitches. The plan was to rebuild my psyche and let my career follow, to facilitate my transition from a power pitcher to a finesse pitcher, the latter being what they call pitchers without a fastball. That, and a minor leaguer.

In spite of Bavasi’s sound reasoning, and in spite of the preponderance of evidence supporting his decision, I viewed the demotion not as a chance at a fresh start, but as the final stage of a complete breakdown.

My home games wouldn’t be in Anaheim, but in Vancouver. I had a pregnant wife at home. There were hundreds—no, thousands—out there like me, grown men with families who’d gone off to pursue baseball careers, aiming to advance through minor-league systems and one day stand in a big-league ballpark. I was moving in the other direction. Our paths crossed in the Pacific Coast League.

I had struggled with the Yankees, but that didn’t feel like outright failure. That was temporary. Success was a couple miles per hour away, a little more depth on my curveball, slightly more tilt on my slider. Success was within reach. It was four days away.

The minor leagues were outright failure, and it wasn’t all about how hard I would throw a baseball.

The Vancouver Trappers were playing a series in Tucson, Arizona.
I pulled open the clubhouse door, lugged my duffel bag across the threshold, and became a minor leaguer for the first time, after 1,535 major-league innings. In that moment I joined the many who were scraping and clawing their way to the majors. Some would get there. The rest would stop here, agonizingly close to all they’d ever played for.

Some of the faces were familiar, the ones that had come through Anaheim for short periods or had been in spring training. Mostly, however, they were kids, earnest kids who’d worked their way through the system and wore some of the weariness of baseball summers. They were, however, still enjoying themselves, still young and grateful enough for that anyway. I even laughed some that first night, something I hadn’t been doing a lot of in Anaheim.

The next morning was cool and sunny. I awoke to the chatter of families in the parking lot, the clicks and slams of car doors, and the rough stirring of engines. Gone were the trappings of the majors—the cozy beds, the room service breakfasts, even the quiet of morning. I’d pitched myself into a roadside motel in Tucson and woke up to the scent of bygone travelers and old cigarette smoke, and to a career in distress. In a dim light cast through thready drapes, the fall from hardball grace ended on an orangey-brownish carpet, and knocked the wind from me.

I saw myself as a ballplayer first, and as a worthwhile person because of it. Who was I without a fastball? What was I without a major-league uniform?

I’d built a life on a foundation of athletic achievement, beginning in places where the bases were toppled lawn chairs and salaries were paid in grilled cheese sandwiches and apple cider. My self-image came with a baseball cap, a roaring fastball, and a crowd on its feet,
applauding strike three. If I was special, or as special as some people thought I was, it was the game that made me so. How could anyone like me if I wasn’t a good baseball player?

Twenty years after I’d been handed my first uniform, near dawn and a few yards from the growl of semis on Interstate 10, I mourned the decline of that person. I searched my life for signs of what else I could be, of
who
else I could be. When nothing came but blankness and indecision, I sat on the end of the bed and questioned how it was—with so many blessings in my life, including and especially a wonderful wife and a daughter on the way—that failure on the baseball field could bring me to absolute misery. Nothing—not Dana or family or friends or money—offered more than temporary comfort, which only heightened my pangs of selfishness. The money least of all. In fact, the weight of the contract enhanced my despair: I was not just disappointing people, but cheating them, too.

I was a little dark that day. It wouldn’t be the last day like it or the worst day like it. But, it was the first of such depth. Fortunately, soon I got to pitch again. And, turned out, I had a little fun. The atmosphere with the Trappers was more relaxed. The spotlight was dimmer. Dana visited Vancouver, and with lighter hearts one morning we drove the ninety miles to Whistler. In just a few weeks, Southern California and the big leagues seemed a long ways away.

I returned to the Angels in early September, through Miami, where Harvey was working for the Florida Marlins. Scott Boras and Billy Bavasi worked out the details, all quite clandestine considering Harvey was employed by another club. Harvey and I spent a day together.

He reminded me that I was not my job, that the way I pitched did not define me, not when I was bad and not when I was good. Believing
I was a good person because I was pitching well, of course, was not the current issue.

As he’d done before, and would again, Harvey looked me in the eye and in that crackling New York accent said, “So, what are you going to do about it?”

Harvey had little patience for self-pity.

I’d tried just about everything. In fact, I asked over and over, what
hadn’t
I done about it?

Just being around Harvey was good for me. I met the team in Minnesota, won a game against the Twins, pitched in three more games and lost all three of them, numbers sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen. Like I said, historically bad.

The Angels lost 91 games and finished in last place in the AL West. We’d gone through three managers (John McNamara followed Lach, and then Joe Maddon followed McNamara). The season ended and I was glad for it. I needed to get out from under those eighteen losses, to clear my head so I could get on with saving my career, and it wasn’t going to happen as long as I was dragging 1996 around with me.

The year ended just as it should have, with a fresh and hopeful beginning. Maddy was born in December. She was healthy and happy and came into the world with a full complement of fingers, toes, and innocence. She was a blessing in every way. Having her in our lives allowed us a measure of perspective in an uncertain time. By herself, Maddy diluted my pain. Maddy’s timing was perfect. For her, I felt a renewal of purpose. I was going to pitch long enough for her to know her dad’s story, to witness at least a part of it. Every morning of that winter I left the house seeking to banish 2-18 to some other place than my head and my conscience. I ran, and I lifted
weights, and I threw. And when I returned home to Dana and Maddy, exhausted and wrung with sweat, I was convinced I’d taken back another inch toward repairing my name and my game.

Confident again, I was strong and, at twenty-nine, in my prime. By spring training, and in spite of the debacle of the season before, I was sure of myself. I’d done the work. I’d pushed the uncertainty away. I had more to pitch for.

Then I could barely get an out.

As though there’d been no five-month break, no morning workouts, no dedication to fulfilling my contract, I could barely throw a strike.

I made a few starts. The last was in Tucson, which meant a two-hour bus ride on a Saturday morning to face the Colorado Rockies. Nobody wanted to be on that bus, and few of the veterans were. I’d been knocked around by the Oakland A’s five days before, so I was eager to get on with my comeback, even if it meant 230 miles roundtrip. Close enough to that minor-league hotel room that I could almost smell it, I pitched an inning.

I couldn’t find the strike zone, like my arm wasn’t even part of my body anymore. Jim Leyritz was the catcher and he’d set up wherever he set up—in, away, down the middle—and I wasn’t ever close. It was gruesome. I’m sure it was pathetic to watch from the dugout, the stands, and the press box. It was worse from the mound, I could have assured them. Over the course of three outs, I’d given up walks, given up hits, even been struck on the shin by a rather firm one-hopper.

When I did finally get out of the inning I went straight to Lach, who had returned as manager Terry Collins’s pitching coach, and asked for another inning. “Just one more,” I said. When he said no, I begged for another inning, pleaded for another chance.

“You’re not going out there again,” Lach said. “You’re done.”

Back in the clubhouse where months before I’d managed to muster a laugh in the face of demotion, I couldn’t put the pieces together. Here I was, a veteran player, familiar with the game and its routines, and yet my career was hanging by a thread.

Something that had been there my whole life—the ability to throw hard, to throw near the plate and with movement—was gone. I wasn’t even thirty. Hours later, the bus drove north past that same motel, back across the desert to Tempe, dragging my career behind it.

The following morning Bavasi called me into his office. My head spun, thoughts of forging ahead mixing with ideas that I should make life easier for everyone by walking away. I was hoping for a pep talk. Keep working, hang in there, we’ll get this right, that sort of thing. Instead, his eyes were hard and his words pointed.

“If I had your stuff,” he said, “I wouldn’t throw strikes, either.”

It was not going to be a pep talk. He laid into me. I put my head down and took it like I deserved it. After 14 2/3 innings, and with the regular season a week away, my ERA was 13.50, almost twice the ugliness of the season before.

“You’re not going to make this team,” Bavasi said. “Here is your choice: Go back to the minors and work your way back or take your release.”

I’d gotten to the ballpark early that day, said my hellos, and changed into my uniform. Then I sat across from Bavasi wishing it were different, wishing I had a fastball to defend myself with, and wishing I wasn’t wearing the uniform. It seemed out of place, like a Halloween costume in March.

The choice was Triple-A or unemployment, neither of which sounded like an attractive career move. He’d stated the obvious, that
it just wasn’t getting any better, maybe it was best to move on, or stick around and serve the organization as a coach or consultant or something. I kept thinking I was too young for that. For any of this. Two years remained on my contract and I desperately wanted to make good on it.

Telling him I’d think it over, I left his office and returned to the clubhouse, where I laced on my spikes, put on my cap, and picked up my glove. Maybe somebody would give me the ball.

Tim Mead, a wonderful friend who’d been through so much with me, put his hand on my shoulder and asked if I wanted to take a walk. We found ourselves in center field and sat down, our backs to the outfield wall. I talked about all that had led me there, the pressure, my stinkin’ fastball that needed miles per hour and direction. Tim had seen me at my worst—the nights I’d lose and punish myself emotionally in front of my locker, or physically in the weight room—and at my best. Here we were at another crossroad, only this time my career was in jeopardy. We talked about family, about financial security, about moving on without the game, finding a purpose beyond baseball.

I think he knew I wasn’t going back to the minors and starting over, especially with Maddy at home. After a while, we stood and headed back across the field. The rest of the team was coming out to stretch, and I walked through the group, literally going in separate directions. I paused to say good-bye to Chuck Finley and Mark Langston. My world was ending, I thought, and theirs was going on. As they reached for something meaningful to say, I fought back tears and gave them a little wave, then left to find Bavasi. I was a wreck. The conversation came and went, jagged because it was unpracticed.

“I’ll take my release,” I told him.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Maybe you can figure it out.”

“It seems like these things, I don’t know, aren’t going to go away,” I said.

Billy stared. I reached for more.

“They’re a distraction to you and a burden on me,” I said.

He wasn’t disagreeing. I’d hoped he might.

“It would only continue the drama,” I said, and after a breath, added, “I’m through.”

He nodded again. Neither of us knew who was supposed to talk next. I was stunned by the finality of it, and maybe Billy was, too. I wanted to leave, but didn’t know how. He wanted me to leave, too. So I nodded back. And as I turned to find the door, he said something about the two years remaining on my contract, that the team would “seek relief” or something, but I wasn’t listening anymore.

I left my uniform in the laundry bin, packed nothing important into a cardboard box, and hugged a few former teammates. I was so jealous of them, being able to play still. In my truck, I drove to a lower field looking for Lach. This, I thought, is what it feels like when a career ends: standing in the outfield of a minor-league field holding nothing but disappointment. If Lach said anything, I didn’t hear it. He had been there through so much, had shown so much faith in me, and had endured the disappointments with such great compassion. The only kind of good-bye to a man such as Lach was the terrible and wrenching kind.

Then I drove home to California, listening to Willie Nelson and barely comprehending that the game, the Angels, all of it would go on without me. There’d always been an answer to the struggles before. More effort. More focus. Throw harder. Throw softer. Throw more curveballs, or fewer. But now this was it. All I could do was drive faster, to get home and to get away. My family, I decided, needed me.