Have Glove, Will Travel_ Adventures of a Baseball Vagabond - Bill Lee [29]
We could not possibly screw this up as long as no one dropped the ball and the batter did not cross us by swinging at the pitch. If Upshaw bunted the ball hard enough to push it past me, Salazar could start the double play at third without moving more than a few inches. If the bunt left the bat so softly it took me an extra moment to reach it, we would still get the force-out at third, leaving runners at first and second and the double play still in order.
I threw the cutter outside, just as we planned. Upshaw bunted the ball between third base and the mound. I gloved the ball in an instant and turned to throw to third. No one there. That’s when I noticed Salazar standing next to me. He had forgotten his assignment. I smacked him on the bill of his cap with my glove and tossed the ball to first to retire Upshaw, our only play. Willie’s successful sacrifice changed the complexion of the game. Ozzie took me out for a right-handed reliever who allowed both runners to score on a bloop single. We lost by three to drop out of the playoffs.
I stalked into the clubhouse and packed my things. Pam had already flown out the day before. The team bus would be leaving for the airport in an hour. Screw the bus, I thought. I felt too upset to sit still for even five minutes. I threw my duffel bag over my shoulder and started walking to the airport, two miles away.
The neighborhood near the Barquisimeto ballpark looked like money: well-tended houses with two-car families, white pavement spotless as a new linen tablecloth. Nothing green, though. The sun had baked everything golden brown. Children laughed as they chased each other in a nearby park, but the sound could not touch me.
Four blocks into my walk, I thought the heat and bright sun had conspired to produce a mirage. In the near distance, two shimmering dark objects suddenly sprouted up from the pavement. They resembled twin monoliths rolling my way in a slow robotic motion. As they advanced, I realized these mechanical creatures were two flesh-and-blood men, each nearly seven feet tall, dressed in black Brooks Brothers suits, and wearing ties, of all things, in that sweltering heat. We met in the middle of the avenue. They were both blond, in their early twenties, with peach-fuzz faces. One had recently cut himself shaving.
“You lost?” I asked them.
“No, sir, you are the one who has lost.”
“Right, six to three. You guys at the game?”
Silence.
“You guys sure are tall. Basketball players?”
“We’ve played basketball, yes.”
“That right. So what happened they have you walking around in those hot suits? Coach punishing you for missing a few foul shots?”
The boys introduced themselves as Mormon missionaries from Brigham Young University. They had just arrived in Venezuela to work for their church and wanted to start with me, right there, an on-the-spot conversion that would deliver another sinner to the bosom of Jesus. One of them opened his Bible and began quoting scriptures while the other stuck a pamphlet in my hand.
Any other time I would have listened to their spiel just to amuse myself. Not that day. I turned my back on them and walked away pissed. Pissed over losing, pissed the season had ended, pissed at my 5-plus ERA, pissed at Salazar for botching that play, pissed at myself for blowing my shot back to the major leagues. Pissed at the world.
“No, sir, You are the one who has lost.”
Amen, brothers and sisters. Amen.
Or perhaps I wasn’t lost. After leaving Venezuela, Pam and I stayed at my parents’ home in San Francisco. I needed to regroup, to consider all my options—if I had any. Three days into our visit, my former manager Dick Williams called and invited me to join the San Diego Padres for a spring training tryout. I told Dick what I had gone through in ’83 with Tom Haller and the Giants. Williams assured me that this would be different;