Chapter 2 - Not Giving Up

In June of 1998, after the college season was a wrap, I was ready to give it all up. 22-year-old baseball players coming off a season where they don’t shine tend to not fare well as undrafted free agents.

I was finished with baseball. It was time to complete my credits for my MBA, which I had started during my senior season of baseball. Once that decision was made there was no going back, that much I was sure of. I had already started the mental process of moving on, or so I thought. See, you never move on from a game you love. After our final college game, I went to one of my favorite surf spots and just let the tears roll. That’s how sincere I was that my baseball playing days were done. It led me to reflect on some of the memorable moments I’d had, and also shared with mom and dad. 

One of my favorites was during college summer league season I decided to plan a surf trip to Maine with my best friend Matt. We were going up for a few days during a break in the schedule, and driving home on July 4th, in order for me to be home in time to get some rest and start the first game of a doubleheader the following day. We awoke on the 4th and decided to check the surf one last time and see if it was fun, figuring to catch just one or two then get on with the long drive home. We pulled up to Scarborough Beach and gazed upon perfect 4 to 5-foot waves, water that was gin clear, and not a breath of wind. We gorged ourselves for a good three hours, got on the road late, then made the clueless decision to drive by the Jones Beach fireworks show when we got back to Long Island. That was a bad idea. We ended up sitting in two hours of traffic, and by the time I dropped off Matt at his house, then drove home, it was close to 1 AM. Dad never got pissed, and he didn’t this time, but he made it clear that I probably wasn’t going to be at my best on the mound that day. I went out that day in what can be described as post-surf bliss, not a care in the world. And I felt great, so much so that I got within one out of a perfect game. The guy who got the hit basically hit a spinner off the end of the bat that squirted slowly toward the second baseman, who had no chance to make a play. I got the next batter to strike out, ending the game, a one-hit, no walks shutout. 

Another that popped into my mind was the no-hitter I threw in my junior year of high school. It was against a pretty weak team, but I remembered how I got to the field and realized that my cleats were not in my bag. The horror! I had to warm up and I had no cleats. I coaxed the cleats from one of our bench players, but they were two sizes too big. Somehow I didn’t trip over the borrowed clown shoes on the mound that night. 

But those games and others were just memories. 

So why did I find myself packing the car with my glove, spikes, and uniform, making the drive from Long Island to Amherst, MA? One more tryout for an MLB franchise, this one hosted by the Atlanta Braves. At the urging of dad, who kept tabs on all of the pro tryouts, I gave in and said I would go. I’d been to several of them for other teams over the previous weeks, and they were more or less dog-and-pony shows, with bored and tired scouts sipping coffee and, in the case of the Reds, sitting in the stands and reading a newspaper! Running out there for tryouts with the Tigers, Indians, Marlins, Dodgers, Orioles, and Reds, pitching well yet never eliciting a second look had me convinced that getting signed was not in my fate.

The Reds tryout was the worst of them all. It was held in Central Pennsylvania, and it started at 7 AM, but they kept the pitchers standing around doing nothing for nearly two hours. By the time I pitched in front of two very disengaged scouts who were nose deep in the sports section of the newspaper at about 10 AM, I knew the whole thing was a waste of time. They’d casually look up at the crack of the bat, spit some tobacco juice into their cup, and go back to the boxscores. I got all nine of my batters out, striking out two, with nobody hitting the ball out of the infield. If only they were watching my pitches, maybe they would have seen fit to offer me a shot in Single-A ball. But these guys were out to lunch and dismissed everyone at the end of the tryout without anything more than, “Thanks for coming. Best of luck in your professional baseball endeavors.” No wonder the Reds haven’t been a serious contender since 1990. 

We debated the Braves tryout at length. Why should I go? I asked. Why shouldn’t you go, was dad’s reply. He opined that the Braves were a well-run organization that wouldn’t waste money on conducting meaningless tryouts. This one had been by invitation only, so the overall talent level would probably be higher than at the open tryouts.

Considering how many miles I drove that spring, how draining it was to put over 1000 clicks on the odometer for what amounted to five or ten minutes actually pitching in front of a scout who was probably more interested in his chaw, was reason enough not to. But the pull of the chance, that if you were in fact good enough, and a scout gave you the rare opportunity, is unreasonably strong. The chance that I could do what I do best for a Braves scout and hear those sweet words, we’re going to sign you to a contract, was all it took.

So this Braves tryout was to be the last straw, the final dance. I went out to the field at UMass, gritty as always, hoping the good stuff would be there that day. The first thing I noticed was that this tryout was under-attended. Instead of the usual 120 or so guys milling about waiting to register there was only about 35. We split up into pitchers and position players, eight of us being the former. Only one other guy looked like a serious pitcher. He had a big frame and carried himself with confidence. I don’t recall his name, social graces not being high on the list of an athlete poised to perform for someone they need to impress, but I’ll call him Lefty.

The scout was a man by the name of John Stewart, one of the top scouts in the Braves organization. He was the regional director of scouting in the Northeast, and he came alone. He gave us pitchers a once over, asked where we played summer and college ball and assigned us the order we would pitch in. Lefty and I were to be the last two.

The reason for the light attendance we opined was the shifty weather (it had looked like the heavens were about to pour forth with some show-stopping showers early that morning, but held off), the invitation-only status, and the post-draft date. Guys who don’t know the system may give up, figuring they’re out of luck once the draft passes, not realizing that teams use that opportunity to find those few guys who they feel may have fallen through the cracks in terms of the draft. 

We waited through several rounds of infield/outfield defensive situations before it was time for live hitting and pitching. Of the pitchers that went before us, Lefty and I confided that nobody had anything really special to show. We felt good about being able to stand out in this talented group. It also helped that Mr. Stewart caught each and every pitcher himself. He said it helped him determine much quicker what kind of life a pitcher’s stuff had, what kind of potential, and if he felt that potential could project to major league level with some seasoning in the minor leagues.

I went before Lefty. We were given six outs to show our stuff. With Stewart behind the plate giving the signals I was relieved that I could just throw what he called and not worry about my pitch selection, especially against unknown batters. I had a feeling he would be aggressive with his pitch calls, and I was right. He wanted to see if I could throw the fastball inside on the corner. He tested me to see if I could attack early with my breaking ball. He was basically calling it just the way I like to pitch-getting outs efficiently. 

The damp weather helped me get a good feeling for the ball. To say I was completely on that day, mowing down six batters in a row, with only one hitting the ball out of the infield, is fair. I felt great, relieved, and content with my performance. I showed Stewart what I could do, and there’s no way he wasn’t watching. Finished, I walked off the mound and took my spot on the bench as Stewart lifted his mask and looked directly at me, nodded, smiled, and growled, “Way to throw the ball.”

I watched Lefty go through his six batters with equal ease with about the same fastball, a better curve than mine, but no slider or change-up. He was a solid-looking pitcher with good control.

Everyone took a seat on the bench and Stewart came over to thank everyone for coming out and gave a little pep speech on moving your career forward while being realistic about your abilities. Figuring that was it, I prepared to pop off the bench and head straight for the car, knowing this was the last hurrah and deal with it accordingly. Just then Stewart finished his pep speech. He loudly stated he needed to speak with Lefty and me more, on the side.

You two have talent, you can both pitch, and you frankly should get a good look over a season. Hell, he found Kerry Ligtenberg at a tryout like this in South Dakota just a couple of years before, and he even compared me to him, relating that if he hadn’t caught Kerry himself he never would have gotten signed, but… “Gentlemen, I don’t have any more budget to sign any free agents this season. I wish I did, and usually, I do. We’d send you to A-ball and see how you fare. But I’ll tell you what, I am your reference. I want you to go home and fax as many independent minor league teams as you can, with my name and information prominently displayed. You will get signed. I urge you both to go. Next year, you have my word that we’ll give you a look in minor league spring training camp. Here’s my card. Call me with any questions at all.”

Four hours later I stood in my parents’ living room, jumping for joy at the prospect of getting signed. We shared an emotional moment realizing the very thing I wanted was about to come to me. I got the Baseball America Almanac out and started faxing teams right away. A quick look at the current standings via dial-up internet gave me a good idea of who to target, the reasoning being that a bad team will need pitching, especially one that is hemorrhaging runs.

My fifth fax was to the Greenville Bluesmen, in Greenville, MS, right at the point I was getting nervous that I hadn’t heard from any of the first four teams I faxed yet. Within ten minutes of sending it, Arthur O’Bright, their General Manager called me. They had a need for pitchers, immediately. Could I play for the princely sum of $750 per month?

Where do I sign up?

Mom and dad joined me in a full-on celebration, dancing and jumping for joy. Then it was time to pack and get on the road as soon as I could. I had about a day and a half worth of driving between me and my dream. Then my car broke down that very night when I went to gas it up. Panic ensued, as I urged my mechanic to work late that night to fix a problem with the air intake, pleading with him to have it ready to go the next day. He completed the fix by 10 am the next morning. I picked up the car, said my goodbyes, and set out on what would become a trip, a season, a summer that was way more than I bargained for or ever could have dreamed up.