Déjà Vu All Over Again by BJ Neblett

Déjà Vu All Over Again

Beautiful late summer evening. Softball under the lights. Last game of the season. It all seemed way too familiar. You know: Been there, done that. I've said it often, when things seem to be repeating themselves it is usually for a reason. Fate or something or someone is trying to tell you something. You should listen. Of course, as usual, I wasn't paying attention.
Below you will see the results of when an inattentive pitcher tries to stop a hard hit line drive with his face. (No for the squeamish) I have a fractured nasal bone, a fractured orbital bone, and several fractures of the left cheek bone. Easily the worst injury I've suffered in my long and storied baseball/softball career as a pitcher. By the way, I picked up the ball and threw the runner out before I commenced to bleed all over the pitcher's mound... pure instinct and reflex.
Speaking of déjà vu and a storied career, this is good a time to re-post the true story of my last, eerily similar, injury which took place on a beautiful summer night, under the lights, last game of the season. (Also not for the squeamish) Enjoy.
BJ

         

Some of the swelling had gone down, the discoloration on the way!

Perhaps I should have a red target on my chest.

See me right here next season!

The Most Dangerous Pitch

BJ Neblett

© 2007, 2014

            Blood dripped onto the hard, cracked, sun dried earth, creating puddles of crimson mud. This was the first time I’d been hit and unable to complete a play. That’s what made me the maddest; that and the fact that we were ahead, winning. I was pitching a shutout into the fourth inning: no walks; a couple of strike outs. The nine guys behind me were doing a great job of handling the ball. And our opponents, a team made up of tough, young Dominicans and Puerto Ricans, were no slouches in the field.

            I was still standing when the first player reached me. I think it was Jose from the other team. He’d been on second base. Bent over, my blood pooling at my feet, I felt the comforting touch of his strong hand on my back.

            “Easy, take it easy.”

            My hand cradled my swollen right eye. It felt as if it would pop from its socket. Adrenalin still surged in my body as my good left eye desperately searched the infield around me. “Where’s the ball… where’s the damn ball?”

            Someone hollered to stop the play. “He’s hurt,” they shouted, “It’s a ground rule double.”

            A double, which would mean Jose would score. I cursed silently and then caught myself, asking for God’s forgiveness; and to save my sight. By now my eye throbbed, swollen shut, swelling to nearly the size of the softball that struck it.

            “Damn,” I repeated out loud as my team mates began to crowd around. Shock and concern showed through their troubled cries of, “Oh, God,” and “Wow!” Then again, head and face wounds do tend to bleed a lot. You’d have thought someone spilt a quart of red ink into the parched dirt.

            As a pitcher, you have an invisible target painted on your chest. You are fair game for every line shot, bouncing drive, and screaming grounder that burns its way up the middle. On the mound you have two responsibilities: pitch the ball, and get set. Or, better put, catch the ball without getting killed in the process. In baseball, you are sixty feet, six inches away from the batter, and raised ten inches. Softball plants you on the same plain as the hitter, some forty seven to fifty feet from home plate. And the extra feet can make all the difference, the difference between a hit and an out; between a bad bruise and a career ending injury.

            Baseball rookie for the Cleveland Indians, Herb Score led the American League in strike outs each of his first two seasons. In 1957, during a game against arch rival New York, Score was struck in the eye by a line drive off the bat of Yankee Gil McDouglas. His comeback lasted five frustrating seasons. But the one time overpowering pitcher never again posted a winning record.¹

            While waving to a relative during warm ups at Washington’s Griffith Stadium, Julius ‘Moose’ Solters was struck in the face by a thrown ball. The veteran American League outfielder fought back from the injury, but it eventually caused him to go blind.²

            Being known as possibly the first and only person ever blinded during a softball game was not a distinction I was interested in carrying.

            No one intentionally tries to hit the pitcher. That would be stupid. Chances are you’d be thrown out at first; maybe out of the game if your intentions are known. It just happens, more often than many people realize. Hairline shin fractures, battered knee caps and dislocated fingers are a part of a pitcher’s life. I should have known better. I have the experience, and the scars, to prove my point.

            In slow pitch softball, after release, there is an easy two and a half to three seconds before the ball reaches the plate. There’s plenty of time for a hitter to adjust himself in the batter’s box, and more than enough time for the pitcher to get set. Freak accidents do happen. But there is no excuse for any player not to be ready.

            Getting sloppy on the mound can shorten your career considerably. A combination of recent victories, plus having avoided being seriously hit for some time, conspired to make me careless. Instead of watching the travel of the ball, estimating where the hit ball would travel, and getting set, I found myself remaining planted on the rubber, no better than a spectator, after the pitch.

            To compound matters, I’d been working on a new pitch. The past couple of weeks, while honing my curve ball, I discovered a sharp downward breaking ball. During batting practice, the new pitch proved devastating to right handed hitters, and frustrating for lefties. Cutting sharply inside and dropping with a wild spin, no one seemed to be able to strike the ball squarely. The best efforts of some of the most skillful hitters resulted in a bouncing hard grounder or a low line drive. A few were able to get the ball in the air. When they did, it usually went straight up for a short pop fly.

            Because of the propensity of even pull hitters to send the pitch back up the middle of the infield, I jokingly dubbed my new weapon my ‘Come Back Pitch.’ During practice I threw out several surprised opponents at first base. My come back, often as not, came back right into my waiting glove.

            I worked on perfecting my new pitch. Slow pitch softball is far from an exact science. Tossing the oversized sphere at the proper height and arc, the balls fall victim to the slightest breeze. Sometimes you can make the wind work for you, bending an outside lob right into the face of an unsuspecting hitter, or cutting the edge of the plate. That is, if you are lucky. Otherwise, the best you can hope for is a corner plate strike. Knuckle balls, spinners and curve balls can also be used to thwart hitters, but are difficult to master. My ‘Come Back’ pitch had the added advantage of a fast, tight spin, making it extra difficult to place squarely on the bat.

            One of my heroes of the old time players is a pitcher for the hapless Washington Senators, nicked named ‘the Big Train.’ From around 1900 through the ‘20’s, Walter Johnson terrorized hitters with what most consider to be the fastest fast ball in the major leagues, then and since.

            How fast was Johnson’s fast ball?

            Consider Ray Chapman.

            Chapman once took first one, then a second blazing fast ball from the Big Train, Johnson. Stepping out of the batter’s box, the stunned hitter headed towards the dugout only to be reminded by the umpire he had another strike coming. Chapman continued on his way, calmly calling back over his shoulder, “Keep it. I don’t want it.”

            Perhaps the ill-fated Chapman should have taken the event as an omen. On October 10, 1920, while up at bat, Ray Chapman was struck and killed by a fast ball from pitcher Carl Mays.³

            We jumped out to a quick two run lead our first at bat. I managed to set down three of the four batters I faced in the bottom of the first, including a strike out. Our team went three up, three down, as did the opposition, in an uneventful second inning. We went up four to nothing with two more runs scored in the third off of left fielder Ron’s triple. The last of the third started off innocently enough with a routine pop fly. Then the bottom fell out. A single up the middle, a misplayed grounder followed by a line shot, and the bases were loaded. And the top of their lineup was coming to bat.

            It was time for some fancy arm work.

            It was time to try out the ‘Come Back.’

            The first pitch caught Alfredo, a good hitter, by surprise. Looking at first like it would fall short and outside, the ball veered sharply inside, slicing the edge of the plate. The look on his face was priceless.

            Ok… strike one…

            So far, so good...

            I gave him two junk pitches to think about, then another Come Back. It tipped off the edge of his bat and rolled harmlessly towards the mound, right to me. A quick throw home for the force and there were two outs.

            Franco wouldn’t be so easy. After a couple of called balls and a Come Back called strike, I gave him a sharply curving breaking pitch, thanks to a friendly cross breeze. He swung hard. But the backspin sent the ball straight up. It was caught by the catcher. Out number three and we were out of the inning. The Come Back had done its job.

            Our fourth inning produced a couple of hits but no runs. Then it was their turn again. And their three best sluggers were coming to bat.

            Jimmy is a strong pull hitter. He had managed a double and a triple off of me in other games. He wouldn’t bite on a short lob which fell ineffectually in front of the plate. My second pitch, a Come Back, he sent past me to my right. Our short stop bobbled the hard hit bouncing grounder, but managed to throw Jimmy out at first.

            Next was Jose, the team’s cleanup hitter and a threat to send one out anytime at bat. He’d gotten a deep dangerous fly off of me in the first inning which thankfully turned into a long out. I toyed with him best I could, giving him nothing to swing at until the count was three and two. Then he saw my Come Back. He not only saw it, but lined it like a rocket past me, the short stop and the infield for a double. My Come Back was earning its name. Those two shots should have told me something. They didn’t. I was still standing flat foot on the rubber.

            Bugara hits the ball probably as hard as humanly possible. His drives jump to the outfield before anyone has a chance to react. He once hit three tape measure homers over center field in three consecutive at bats in one game. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to fool around with him. Not with Jose at second and only one out. Even a sacrifice fly to the outfield would result in a run scoring. I took a deep breath, let it out, and tossed a Come Back.

            And it did…

            As best I can figure, the ball came off his bat and tipped off my glove in about half a second. That works out to something like 75 or 80 miles per hour.

            And there I stood.

            I raised my glove, but not quickly enough, not far enough.

            Victims of automobile accidents often report that at the moment of impact time seems to move in slow motion. I now understand what they experience. For one protracted fraction of a second time stood still. The din of the spectators faded to a distant thunder in my ears. My gloved hand crept skywards. It paused motionless in front of me at about nose level. The dull white leather clad ball balanced precariously on the edge of the mitt’s webbing, frozen in space. One thought replayed in my mind over and over, like a stuck 45 RPM record: I’m not going to catch this.

            And then someone hit fast forward.

            The speeding projectile tipped off my glove and mercifully slowed slightly. It slammed into my face, catching the cheek bone and upper eye socket squarely with a brain jarring, sickening thud.

            I was helped off the field, still holding the bloody wad of tissue someone provided, against my eye brow. It is interesting and strange to note that I never experienced any major pain, especially considering the seriousness of the injury. At the time of the impact, I felt as if punched by a gloved boxer, more surprising than painful. After, a dull, achy throb and a feeling of pressure against the eye ball were the main discomforts. By morning, and for several weeks, the entire orbit around my right eye remained extremely tender, swollen and sore.

            It’s never a good sign when your attending physician grimaces at your injury. The swelling and discoloration were severe. For others it made looking at the damages more painful than the actual experience. After tolerating an hour of ice, the gash just below my eye brow was cleaned and stitched. A comprehensive exam commenced including x-rays and a lot of discomforting prodding and poking. The doc said keeping the badly swollen and bruised eye socket well iced may have helped saved my sight. I was released with anti-biotic and strict orders to keep my eye iced constantly for the next twenty four hours. Two days later an optimistic optometrist said he could find no permanent damage, thank God. But I wasn’t out of the woods yet. He told me it would be weeks, maybe more, before the long term affects of such an injury could be determined.

            In the ‘60’s, Tony Conigliaro was well on his way to a hall of fame career. Joining the Boston Red Sox in 1964, in just a few seasons, the twenty two year old right fielder hit an amazing 104 home runs, running up 294 RBIs, with a .276 average.

            On August 18, 1967, Tony C came to bat in the fifth inning against California Angels’ pitcher Jack Hamilton. A fast ball, estimated near 100 MPH, struck Conigliaro in the left cheek bone. The impact shattered his eye socket and permanently damaged his left eye.

            Conigliaro was carried off the field on a stretcher. It wasn’t immediately known if he would survive the injury. Tony survived and returned to the Red Sox in 1969, moving to the Angels in 1971. After three disappointing seasons, it was evident the damage done on that August night in 1967 was too great, and he retired.

            Tony C suffered a massive heart attack and stroke in 1982 which left him in a vegetative state. The one time Cooperstown bound slugger passed away shortly after his 45^th birthday in 1990.⁴

            Sunday, October 14^th. It was too soon. I knew it was too soon. The days were growing short, the air chilly. Softball would be ending. I wasn’t about to spend the winter wondering how it would feel; wondering if I would pitch again; if I could pitch again.

            Outwardly, my eye was healing quickly. All that remained was some discoloration and a forming scar where the stitching of the ball cut me.

            But that was on the outside.

            The pressure on my eyeball subsided, returning from time to time. And my depth perception was nearly normal. At least that’s what I told myself. But I was starting to be bothered by sparks of light, flashes they are called, and they can be harbingers of more serious problems to come.

            Still, I was determined; stubborn.

            For the first time in my life, nervousness and doubt accompanied me to the mound. Doing my best to shake the feeling, I steeled up some counterfeit courage and took my warm up pitches.

            Not bad…

            Not good either…

            Then again, a four week layoff will rust up anybody’s arm. Even without a batter to face, I found myself purposely avoiding the pitch that had nearly blinded me. It’s too soon I rationalized. Just stick with the basics.

            It did little to easy my churning stomach.

            The first hitter of the game dug into the batter’s box. A familiar, reassuring voice reached me from left field. It was my friend Ron. “Give ‘em the old ‘Come Back,’ Billy!”

            And so I did.

1. Cahan, Richard and Mark Jacob, The Game That Was, p. 230

2. Cahan, Richard and Mark Jacob, The Game That Was, p. 231

3. Cahan, Richard and Mark Jacob, The Game That Was, pp. 24, 138

4. David Eisenthal, davideinsenthal.typepad.com

The Most Dangerous Pitch by BJ Neblett

The Most Dangerous Pitch

by BJ Neblett
© 2007

             Blood dripped onto the hard, cracked, sun dried earth, creating puddles of crimson mud. This was the first time I’d been hit and unable to complete a play. That’s what made me the maddest; that and the fact that we were ahead, winning. I was pitching a shutout into the fourth inning: no walks; a couple of strike outs. The nine guys behind me were doing a great job of handling the ball. And our opponents, a team made up of tough, young Dominicans and Puerto Ricans, were no slouches in the field.

            I was still standing when the first player reached me. I think it was Jose from the other team. He’d been on second base. Bent over, my blood pooling at my feet, I felt the comforting touch of his strong hand on my back.
            “Easy, take it easy.”
            My hand cradled my swollen right eye. It felt as if it would pop from its socket. Adrenalin still surged in my body as my good left eye desperately searched the infield around me. “Where’s the ball… where’s the damn ball?”
            Someone hollered to stop the play. “He’s hurt,” they shouted, “It’s a ground rule double.”
            A double, which would mean Jose would score. I cursed silently and then caught myself, asking for God’s forgiveness; and to save my sight. By now my eye throbbed, swollen shut, swelling to nearly the size of the softball that struck it.
            “Damn,” I repeated out loud as my team mates began to crowd around. Shock and concern showed through their troubled cries of, “Oh, God,” and “Wow!” Then again, head and face wounds do tend to bleed a lot. You’d have thought someone spilt a quart of red ink into the parched dirt just behind the pitcher’s mound.

             As a pitcher, you have an invisible target painted on your chest. You are fair game for every line shot, bouncing drive, and screaming grounder that burns its way up the middle. On the mound you have two responsibilities: pitch the ball, and get set. Or, better put, catch the ball without getting killed in the process. In baseball, you are sixty feet, six inches away from the batter, and raised ten inches. Softball plants you on the same plain as the hitter, some forty seven to fifty feet from home plate. And the extra feet can make all the difference, the difference between a hit and an out; between a bad bruise and a career ending injury.

            Baseball rookie for the Cleveland Indians, Herb Score led the American League in strike outs each of his first two seasons. In 1957, during a game against arch rival New York, Score was struck in the eye by a line drive off the bat of Yankee Gil McDouglas. His comeback lasted five frustrating seasons. But the one time overpowering pitcher never again posted a winning record.¹

            While waving to a relative during warm ups at Washington’s Griffith Stadium, Julius ‘Moose’ Solters was struck in the face by a thrown ball. The veteran American League outfielder fought back from the injury, but it eventually caused him to go blind.²
            Being known as possibly the first and only person ever blinded during a softball game was not a distinction I was interested in carrying.

             No one intentionally tries to hit the pitcher. That would be stupid. Chances are you’d be thrown out at first; maybe out of the game if your intentions are known. It just happens, more often than many people realize. Hairline shin fractures, battered knee caps and dislocated fingers are a part of a pitcher’s life. I should have known better. I have the experience, and the scars, to prove my point.

           In slow pitch softball, after release, there is an easy two and a half to three seconds before the ball reaches the plate. There’s plenty of time for a hitter to adjust himself in the batter’s box, and more than enough time for the pitcher to get set. Freak accidents do happen. But there is no excuse for any player not to be ready.
            Getting sloppy on the mound can shorten your career considerably. A combination of recent victories, plus having avoided being seriously hit for some time, conspired to make me careless. Instead of watching the travel of the ball, estimating where the hit ball would travel, and getting set, I found myself remaining planted on the rubber, no better than a spectator, after the pitch.
            To compound matters, I’d been working on a new pitch. The past couple of weeks, while honing my curve ball, I discovered a sharp downward breaking ball. During batting practice, the new pitch proved devastating to right handed hitters, and frustrating for lefties. Cutting sharply inside and dropping with a wild spin, no one seemed to be able to strike the ball squarely. The best efforts of some of the most skillful hitters resulted in a bouncing hard grounder or a low line drive. A few were able to get the ball in the air. When they did, it usually went straight up for a short pop fly.
            Because of the propensity of even pull hitters to send the pitch back up the middle of the infield, I jokingly dubbed my new weapon my ‘come back pitch.’ During practice I threw out several surprised opponents at first base. My come back, often as not, came back right into my waiting glove.
            I worked on perfecting my new pitch. Slow pitch softball is far from an exact science. Tossing the oversized sphere at the proper height and arc, the ball falls victim to the slightest breeze. Sometimes you can make the wind work for you, bending an outside lob right into the face of an unsuspecting hitter, or cutting the edge of the plate. That is, if you are lucky. Otherwise, the best you can hope for is a corner plate strike. Knuckle balls, spinners and curve balls can also be used to thwart hitters, but are difficult to master. My ‘come back’ pitch had the added advantage of a fast, tight spin, making it extra difficult to place squarely on the bat.

             One of my heroes of the old time players is a pitcher for the hapless Washington Senators, nicked named ‘the Big Train.’ From around 1900 through the ‘20’s, Walter Johnson terrorized hitters with what most consider to be the fastest fast ball in the major leagues, then and since.

            How fast was Johnson’s fast ball?
            Consider Ray Chapman.
            Chapman once took first one, then a second blazing fast ball from the Big Train, Johnson. Stepping out of the batter’s box, the stunned hitter headed towards the dugout only to be reminded by the umpire he had another strike coming. Chapman continued on his way, calmly calling back over his shoulder, “Keep it. I don’t want it.”
            Perhaps the ill-fated Chapman should have taken the event as an omen. On October 10, 1920, while up at bat, Ray Chapman was struck and killed by a fast ball from pitcher Carl Mays.³

             We jumped out to a quick two run lead our first at bat. I managed to set down three of the four batters I faced in the bottom of the first, including a strike out. Our team went three up, three down, as did the opposition, in an uneventful second inning. We went up four to nothing with two more runs scored in the third off of left fielder Ron’s triple. The last of the third started off innocently enough with a routine pop fly. Then the bottom fell out. A single up the middle, a misplayed grounder followed by a line shot, and the bases were loaded. And the top of their lineup was coming to bat.

           It was time for some fancy arm work.
            It was time to try out the ‘come back.’
            The first pitch caught Alfredo, a good hitter, by surprise. Looking at first like it would fall short and outside, the ball veered sharply inside, slicing the edge of the plate. The look on his face was priceless.
            Ok… strike one…
            So far, so good...
            I gave him two junk pitches to think about, then another come back. It tipped off the edge of his bat and rolled harmlessly towards the mound, right to me. A quick throw home for the force and there were two outs.
            Franco wouldn’t be so easy. After a couple of called balls and a come back called strike, I gave him a sharply curving breaking pitch, thanks to a friendly cross breeze. He swung hard. But the backspin sent the ball straight up. It was caught by the catcher. Out number three and we were out of the inning. The come back had done its job.
            Our fourth inning produced a couple of hits but no runs. Then it was their turn again. And their three best sluggers were coming to bat.
            Jimmy is a strong pull hitter. He had managed a double and a triple off of me in other games. He wouldn’t bite on a short lob which fell ineffectually in front of the plate. My second pitch, a come back, he sent past me to my right. Our short stop bobbled the hard hit bouncing grounder, but managed to throw Jimmy out at first.
            Next was Jose, the team’s cleanup hitter and a threat to send one out anytime at bat. He’d gotten a deep dangerous fly off of me in the first inning which thankfully turned into a long out. I toyed with him best I could, giving him nothing to swing at until the count was three and two. Then he saw my come back. He not only saw it, but lined it like a rocket past me, the short stop and the infield for a double. My come back was earning its name. Those two shots should have told me something. They didn’t. I was still standing flat foot on the rubber.
            Bugara hits the ball probably as hard as humanly possible. His drives jump to the outfield before anyone has a chance to react. He once hit three tape measure homers over center field in three consecutive at bats in one game. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to foll around with him. Not with Jose at second and only one out. Even a sacrifice fly to the outfield would result in a run scoring. I took a deep breath, let it out, and tossed a come back.
            And it did…
            As best I can figure, the ball came off his bat and tipped off my glove in about half a second. That works out to something like 75 or 80 miles per hour.
            And there I stood.
            I raised my glove, but not quickly enough, not far enough.
            Victims of automobile accidents often report that at the moment of impact time seems to move in slow motion. I now understand what they experience. For one protracted fraction of a second time stood still. The din of the spectators faded to a distant thunder in my ears. My gloved hand crept skywards. It paused motionless in front of me about nose level. The dull white leather clad ball balanced precariously on the edge of the mitt’s webbing, frozen in space. One thought replayed in my mind over and over, like a stuck 45 RPM record: I’m not going to catch this.
            And then someone hit fast forward.
            The speeding projectile tipped off my glove, mercifully slowed slightly. It slammed into my face, catching the cheek bone and upper eye socket squarely with a brain jarring, sickening thud.

             I was helped off the field, still holding the bloody wad of tissue someone provided, against my eye brow. It is interesting and strange to note that I never experienced any major pain, especially considering the seriousness of the injury. At the time of the impact, I felt as if punched by a gloved boxer, more surprising than painful. After, a dull, achy throb and a feeling of pressure against the eye ball were the main discomforts. By morning, and for several weeks, the entire orbit around my right eye remained extremely tender, swollen and sore.

           It’s never a good sign when your attending physician grimaces at your injury. The swelling and discoloration were severe. For others it made looking at the damages more painful than the actual experience. After tolerating an hour of ice, the gash just below my eye brow was cleaned and stitched. A comprehensive exam commenced including x-rays and a lot of discomforting prodding and poking. The doc said keeping the badly swollen and bruised eye socket well iced may have helped saved my sight. I was released with anti-biotic and strict orders to keep my eye iced constantly for the next twenty four hours. Two days later an optimistic optometrist said he could find no permanent damage, thank God. But I wasn’t out of the woods yet. He told me it would be weeks, maybe more, before the long term affects of such an injury could be determined.

             In the ‘60’s, Tony Conigliaro was well on his way to a hall of fame career. Joining the Boston Red Sox in 1964, in just a few seasons, the twenty two year old right fielder hit an amazing 104 home runs, running up 294 RBIs, with a .276 average.

            On August 18, 1967, Tony C came to bat in the fifth inning against California Angel’s pitcher Jack Hamilton. A fast ball, estimated near 100 MPH, struck Conigliaro in the left cheek bone. The impact shattered his eye socket and permanently damaged his left eye.
            Conigliaro was carried off the field on a stretcher. It wasn’t immediately known if he would survive the injury. Tony survived and returned to the Red Sox in 1969, moving to the Angel’s in 1971. After three disappointing seasons, it was evident the damage done on that August night on 1967 was too great, and he retired.
            Tony C suffered a massive heart attack and stroke in 1982 which left him in a vegetative state. The one time Cooperstown bound slugger passed away shortly after his 45^th birthday in 1990.⁴

             Sunday, October 14^th. It was too soon. I knew it was too soon. The days were growing short, the air chilly. Softball would be ending. I wasn’t about to spend the winter wondering how it would feel; wondering if I would pitch again; if I could pitch again.

           Outwardly, my eye was healing quickly. All that remained was some discoloration and a forming scar where the stitching of the ball cut me.
            But that was on the outside.
            The pressure on my eyeball subsided, returning from time to time. And my depth perception was nearly normal. At least that’s what I told myself. But I was starting to be bothered by sparks of light, flashes they are called, and they can be harbingers of more serious problems to come.
            Still, I was determined; stubborn.
            For the first time in my life, nervousness and doubt accompanied me to the mound. Doing my best to shake the feeling, I steeled up some counterfeit courage and took my warm up pitches.
            Not bad…
            Not good either…
            Then again, a four week layoff will rust up anybody’s arm. Even without a batter to face, I found myself purposely avoiding the pitch that had nearly blinded me. It’s too soon I rationalized. Just stick with the basics.
            It did little to easy my churning stomach.
            The first hitter of the game dug into the batter’s box. A familiar, reassuring voice reached me from left field. It was my friend Ron. “Give ‘em the old ‘come back,’ Billy!”
            And so I did.

 

1. Cahan, Richard and Jacob, Mark, The Game That Was, p. 230
2. Cahan, Richard and Jacob, Mark, The Game That Was, p. 231
3. Cahan, Richard and Jacob, Mark, The Game That Was, pp. 24, 138
4. David Eisenthal, davideinsenthal.typepad.com

 

 

It's Only A Game (Part 2) by BJ Neblett

It’s Only A Game (Part 2)

by BJ Neblett

© 2010, 2012

Throughout the remainder of the winter Roger managed his fantasy Red Birds. Mindful of his youngest daughter’s chidings, he followed the ‘Birds regular season schedule, rotating his line up and even taking a few days off. Still, just as Jess warned, unexpected things happened. Roger found it comical to watch a digitized player argue calls or limp off the field with a pulled hamstring.

The season got off to a slow start. The computer game ‘Birds seemed little better than their real life counter parts. Then, three weeks into the season the team made a startling come back. Down six runs, the ‘Birds beat the Mets nine to seven. The following day Dyer pitched a four hit shutout. As Roger became more familiar with the game controls, and more confident as a manager, the team went on to win six straight, taking three from San Francisco and a weekend set from the Dodgers.

The ‘Birds were making a strong turn around.

Roger couldn’t be happier, sneaking off to the den at every opportunity. Helen didn’t share his enthusiasm.

“I thought that game was a good idea, now I’m not so sure.” Roger’s wife heaped an extra large spoonful of green beans onto his dinner plate. “You certainly seem happier… but how about sharing some of your joy… and time… with the rest of your family? Honestly,” she continued, returning the pot to the stove. “It might as well be the middle of the summer.”

Staring at the mushy green mound on his plate, Roger frowned. “I figured you’d be happy. The Red Birds are winning. We’re in second place.”

With a sigh, Helen rolled her eyes. “It’s only a game, Roger! Not even a real game… its fantasy!” She kissed the top of her husband’s head, and then took her place at the table. “But… as long as you are happy…” she smiled coyly and winked, “…then I’m happy, too.”

Spring training brought a shock to the baseball community. The local papers screamed the headline news: Dyer and Crowly to return! Under pressure from fans, new manager Wojciechowski had somehow convinced the Red Birds’ front office to buy back the popular pitcher and fielder’s contracts. The move cost the club dearly. But with the return of the two veteran players, and the addition of some promising rookies, things were looking up. Sports writers across the country eased their constant condemnation of the team. Some bookies went as far as to offer even money the jinxed ‘Birds would finish the season out of the cellar.

By the first day of spring, the real Red Birds had won a half dozen tough exhibition games, even taking one from the Yankees. Roger didn’t pass up the rare opportunity to flaunt the sweet victory in the face of Bobby Kelso, even if it was only spring training. Meanwhile, Roger’s fantasy ‘Birds were past the All Star break with a very respectable fifty-one and forty-five record.

Opening day, Roger and Helen sat behind the Red Birds’ dugout, sipping cold beer and rooting for the home team. In the third inning Kessler was thrown out trying to steal second. Roger felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. When pitcher Blake opened the sixth by hitting San Diego’s Gonzalez, the strange tickling grew into an eerie uncomfortable sensation.

The ride home was a quiet one. Finally, Helen broke the pall of silence. “Sorry we didn’t win, Honey.”

Roger’s eyes remained fixed on the road ahead.

She patted his knee. “I did have a good time today…”

“Huh… what…?” Roger’s blank expression morphed into a crooked grin. “Oh… yeah… me, too… I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“Sorry the ‘Birds lost,” she repeated.

The grin grew to a satisfied smile. “Yeah… but you know what? I was proud of those guys today. They played well… despite losing… they played a good game.”

By seven PM all that remained of dinner were empty glasses and gnawed pizza bones. Roger paid the check, leaving behind a generous tip for the friendly waitress with the inviting smile and bulging Red Birds T shirt. Exiting Scooters the game as well as the feeling of déjà vu were soon forgotten.

Roger continued to manage his fantasy team. The avatar ‘Birds were doing well, winning games and holding firmly onto second place. The real world ‘Birds continued to improve also. No longer the butt of jokes the team was slowly earning a reputation. One columnist went as far as to tag the team the turnaround of the century, antagonistically adding that in his opinion the turnaround would continue… into a full three-sixty.

Roger Martin didn’t care. His team was playing better than ever. And, his computerized players provided him with plenty of armchair excitement.

One Saturday afternoon, a few weeks after the real All Star break, Roger stiffened in his Lazyboy, the fingers of his left hand digging into the faux leather. “Put Cox in, you idiot!” he screamed to the flat screen. “Can’t you see Murphy’s arm has had it? Cox will get you out of this mess!”

Before Roger could relax in his seat, the Red Birds pitching coach strolled to the mound. Taking the ball from Murphy with a pat to the southpaw’s shoulder, he made a quick signal. From right field a red and white baseball shaped golf cart appeared. It bore pitcher Danny Cox to the mound. Nine warm-ups and seven regulation pitches later the relief hurler had retired Hardy, leaving the bases loaded and putting an end to the Brewers’ rally.

That night Roger couldn’t sleep. Try as he may, every time he closed his eyes he re-witnessed the diamond drama played out earlier in Milwaukee: the struggling Murphy; the misplayed double play; the slow, deliberate walk to the mound; and Cox’s masterful handling of the Brewers short stop to end the inning.

Giving up on sleep, Roger Martin found himself in his den, staring at the darkened TV screen. From the corner of his eye something caught his attention. It was his score book. Flipping through the well used, dog eared pages, Roger found what he sought.

The feeling in the pit of his stomach made him wish he hadn’t.

There it was, in the hastily scribbled red ink language of baseball. Gwynn had started the Brewers eight by striking out. An easy bouncer to short had gotten Weeks.

There were two outs.

Then the bottom fell out.

The struggling Murphy served up a smash line drive. Ideal positioning and a bull’s eye throw by Komati, the ‘Birds’ left fielder, held the speeding Cameron to a single. Next up, Kendal hit a shot to second. A bobbled ball and a costly error and Milwaukee had runners on first and second; and then Murphy walked Heether to load the bases.

Manager Roger Martin had seen enough. He’d punched the red button on the controller, pausing play and sending the pitching coach Balcom to the mound.

He made the right decision.

Relief pitcher Danny Cox struck out Hardy to end the inning. A big red K marked the end of the inning. Cox and Roger’s fantasy ‘Birds had held on to beat the Brewers three to two.

Roger glanced down at the day’s sports page which lay open on the floor. The headlines confirmed the coincidence: Red Birds take Milwaukee 3-2 on brilliant pitching from reliever Cox.

An oddly familiar feeling came over Roger as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Instinctively he reached to smooth them. “This is crazy,” he said to no one, “damndest coincidence I’ve ever seen!”

But was it a coincidence?

Recalling the Red Birds’ opening day, Roger flipped back to page one. His fingers skidded across the score sheet like a blind man’s reading Brail. When his fingers stopped so did Roger’s heart. In the third inning of the fantasy ‘Birds’ opening day, rookie right fielder Kessler had misread Roger’s signals and was thrown out stealing second. Just like the real game.

Swear began to bead on Roger Martin’s forehead. He forced himself to focus further down the page. Pitcher Bobby Blake’s first pitch of the sixth inning had caught San Diego batter Gonzalez square on the shoulder. The incident had nearly cleared both benches.

Just like in the real game.

The incredible circumstances surrounding the coincidences dogged Roger throughout the week. Sitting at his desk at work, Roger found he could concentrate on nothing else. He also found he couldn’t bring himself to watch the ‘Birds play, surprising his wife by showing up at the dinner table on time.

But even eating Helen’s delicious creamy homemade Mac and Cheese became a chore, as Roger’s mind continued to return to the two games.

Saturday morning, Roger was back in his den. “Here ya go, dad,” Jess said, handing her father a stack of papers. “You know you really should learn to use the computer. There’s a whole other world out there beyond spreadsheets and solitaire; it’s called the Internet.” She giggled. “Anyway, there’s what you asked me for, lucky for you the Daltons next door never throw anything out, enjoy.” With that Roger’s young daughter skipped out of the room.

With unsure hands, Roger began to shuffle through the pile of newspapers, scanning the box scores, stopping occasionally to circle a play or call. Finally he reached for his score book.

“This is crazy…”

An hour and a half later Roger changed his tune.

“I must be crazy…”

Comparing the Red Birds’ season box scores in the papers Jess had provided to his own score book, Roger found more than just a coincidence… more than several coincidences.

The random plays Roger selected from the box scores mirrored game for game those in the fantasy ‘Birds score book. The more Roger compared the two, the more unbelievable it all became. Finally Roger realized that his own Red Birds games actually predicted the real Red Birds outings. Already deep into the season, the real Red Birds games exactly replicated the outcome of each game played by his fantasy Red Birds… game for game, score for score… play for play… hit for hit.

Sweat beaded Roger’s forehead and his hands shook. Dropping the revealing material on the floor, he darted out the back door.

It was another week before Roger Martin returned to his den.

“Ok, now…” Roger sat uncomfortably in the worn lounger. With his open score book in one hand and the remote in the other, Roger nervously pressed a button.

“Welcome to AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants.” The announcer’s voice boomed from the Dolby surround sound speakers as the sixty inch flat screen came to life. “It’s a beautiful August Sunday here in the City by the Bay, perfect weather for baseball. Today the Giants face the re-born Red Birds. As fans know, the ‘Birds have won ten of their last fourteen on the road, and seem virtually unbeatable at home. Our Giants have their work cut out for themselves today, as a Red Bird win combined with a Philadelphia loss will put the red hot Red Birds firmly in first place.”

Glancing at his score book, Roger let slip an ironic laugh. “Work cut out for them…” he repeated, laughing again. It was Saturday afternoon, August 18. The date inscribed on the open score book was August 18. Roger’s fantasy Red Birds had soundly trounced the struggling Giants 10 to 2, six weeks earlier.

Checking his lineup, the first batter should be Wang. “Play ball!” the televised ump barked. Wang, the Red Birds lead off power hitter strode slowly, confidently to the plate, pausing to knock some dirt from his cleats with the end of his bat. Roger felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to itch.

“Lead-off double…”

The words no sooner out of Roger’s mouth, Wang ripped the third pitch served to him between center and left for a double.

Roger’s neck hairs began to tickle.

“Strike out…”

Richards tried in vain to check his swing. “Strike three… out!” the home plate ump called, wildly waving his arm in a chopping motion.

Roger’s neck hairs broke into a jitterbug.

“Double play…”

The Giants’ second baseman Scutaro leaped into the air pulling in a sharp line drive, then turned and tagged a stunned Wang. It was an unassisted double play… exactly as the fantasy player Scutaro had executed it weeks earlier. Roger’s score book slipped from his hands as his mouth dropped open.

Some three hours later, Giant’s catcher Posey popped up to shallow right field to end the game. The final score: Red Birds 10, Giants 2. Roger had given his family strict orders not to disturb him during the game. Keeping meticulous track of the game on a blank score sheet, he now compared it to his fantasy Red Birds August 18^th game.

The two were identical.

Not close…

… not similar…

… identical.

One could have been a photo copy of the other.

“This is nuts…” were the only words finding their way past the stunned fan’s lips as he repeated himself. “This is nuts…”

Crazy, delusional, supernatural, or whatever, the proof rested in the documents at Roger’s feet. Every game the Red Birds had played so far this season was a real life replay of Roger’s fantasy season. Roger could just as well have been watching a taped rerun of the games.

It took some time but eventually Roger accepted the idea that his video game could predict the outcome of his favorite baseball team’s games. And the short lay off he’d taken from playing the seemingly enchanted game had proven what Roger already knew: he was a better manager than the ‘Birds real skipper. For two weeks Roger refused to touch the game console; for two weeks the Red Birds fell into a slump. It was time for action; the Red Birds needed his help.

As September ended Roger’s teams, both real and virtual, were firmly seated in first place. Their record had garnered them a first round bye and assured the team of home field advantage. A week before the playoffs, Roger set about his work in earnest, easily handling the Philadelphia Phillies, and then sweeping the surprised Cardinals for the National League Pennant. By the time the real Red Birds had taken their second game from St. Louis, Roger had his World Series tickets firmly in hand.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? You’ve been moping around here ever since we returned home. You were even quiet at the game. Are you feeling ok?”

Roger Martin slumped back into his Lazyboy. The Miller High Life in his hand sloshed white foam onto the tired chocolate Naugahyde. He didn’t notice. He looked up at his wife. “Nothing, Helen, nothing… I’m ok…”

“Well, I can tell something is bothering you. When you are ready to talk about it I’m here.” With a yawn and a smile, Helen Martin placed a kiss to the top of her husband’s head and started up the stairs. “I’m off to bed… don’t stay up too late.”

It was a chilly Thursday evening, a week before Halloween. From their seats behind the home team dugout, Roger, Helen and the girls had watched the Red Birds take the first two games of the World Series from the New York Yankees. Murphy’s masterful handling of Jeter and Rodriguez had shut out the American League champs in game one; and tonight a booming three run homer into the right field bleachers by catcher Pena in the sixth inning had secured a 6 – 1 win for the Red Birds.

Roger glanced down at the score book in his right hand. The sixth inning homer by Pena was circled in red. A notation at the top of the page read: Red Birds/Yankees World Series Game Two Red Birds Park. The fantasy World Series game had been played a week earlier. With a sigh, he flipped the page: Red Birds/Yankees World Series Game Three Yankee Stadium. The page held partial, tentative starting lineups for the opposing teams but was otherwise blank. The real third match-up between the Birds and The Yankees was scheduled for the day after tomorrow in New York.

Roger felt the game controller slip from his left hand.

“Boy, what a series! Lots of action, some great plays, not too one sided…”

Roger Martin turned with a start. Kat stretched and yawned, letting out a low, contented yowl. On the sofa next to her, a large man with a large round head and pumpkin smile popped a handful of raisins into his mouth.

“… just enough intrigue to keep it exciting, but still a win for the home team. But, then again, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Oh… it’s… you…”

Walter Johnson pulled more raisins from his hip pocket. “Thought I’d pop in and see how you were doing now that you’ve got yourself a winning team. There’s nothing like a winning season to lift a man’s sprits!”

Roger did his best to smile. “Yeah, yeah, sure…”

 “So, what’s it to be? Who will be starting game three, Blake? He’s well rested since the NLCS. Or maybe you should go with Jimenez and save Blake for game four, the final nail in the Yankees coffin.”

Roger looked at the score book again, and then let it drop to the carpet. “I… I don’t know…”

Downing more raisins, a knowing grin crossed the Hall of Fame pitcher’s face. “Not having much fun are you?”

“I don’t understand… I mean… I thought this was what I wanted. The ‘Birds have had a great season; we’re in the Series… hell, we’re winning the Series… from the Yankees!”

“You should be proud! You’ve turned the team around. It’s you… your managing of the team… you’re why they are winning. You said it yourself; you’re a better manager than Wojiechowski. You’ve proven that.”

Roger leaned back into his recliner, closing his eyes; gently rubbing his weary forehead. “Then why isn’t it fun anymore?”

“You’re a smart guy, Roger, you’ll figure it out.”

When Roger finally opened his eyes Walter Johnson was gone. “Wow, another crazy dream, huh Kat?” Scooping up the score book, he rose from the Lazyboy and stretched. “Guess I’ll finish Saturday’s line up in bed,” he said to the purring feline, “I’m beat.”

In the living room, Roger paused to poke at the embers in the fireplace. Bluish-yellow flames leapt to life on the few remaining logs, sending their warmth across the room. Returning the poker to its resting place, something caught his eye. On hands and knees, Roger retrieved a dusty baseball from behind the living room sofa.

Standing, he read the hand written signature: Walter Johnson.

For the first time in weeks, Roger Martin smiled.

Tossing the score book into the growing fire, Roger placed the autographed memento onto the fireplace mantle and headed to bed.

                                                                                                            Seattle, WA

                                                                                                            October, 2012