tripped over me and I felt a snap like I'd never felt before. The doctor said I tore the anterior, posterior, and medial collateral ligaments–the trifecta of knee injuries.
In time, I healed. I resumed playin baseball. But for the next six years, I never came close to the major league again, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how well I thought I was doing. It was as if the magic had washed off of me. The only evidence I had of my time in the big leagues was the newspaper box scores from 1973 and my baseball card, with a photo of me holding a bat, looking serious, my name in block letters, the smell of bubble gum permanently attached.
The company shipped me two boxes of those cards. I sent one box to my father. I kept the other.
They call a short stay in baseball "a cup of coffee," and that's what I had, but it was a cup of coffee at the best table in the best joint in town.
Which, of course, was good and bad.
YOU SEE, I was more alive in those six weeks with the Pirates than I ever felt before or since. The spotlight had made me feel immortal. I missed the huge, carpeted locker room. I missed walking through airports with my teammates, feeling the eyes of the fans as we passed. I missed the crowds in those big stadiums, the flashbulbs, the roaring cheers–the majesty of the whole thing. I missed it bitterly. So did my father. We shared a thirst to return; unspoken, undeniable.
And so I clung to baseball long after I should have quit. I went from minor-league city to minor-league city, still believing, as athletes often do, that I would be the first to defy the aging process. I dragged Catherine with me all over the country. We had apartments in Portland, Jacksonville Albuquerque, Fayetteville, and Omaha. During her pregnancy she had three different doctors.
In the end, Maria was born in Pawtucket Rhode Island, two hours after a game attended by maybe eighty people before rain sent them scattering. I had to wait for a cab to get to the hospital. I was almost as wet as my daughter when she came into the world.
I quit baseball not long after that.
And nothing I tried ever came close. I attempted my own business, which only lost me money. I looked around for coaching positions, but couldn't find any. In the end, a guy offered me a job in sales. His company made plastic bottles for food and pharmaceuticals, and I took it. The work was dull. The hours were tedious. Even worse, I only got the job because they figured I could tell baseball stories and maybe close a deal in the frothy hubris of men talking sports.
It's funny. I met a man once who did a lot of mountain climbing. I asked him which was harder, ascending or descending? He said without a doubt descending, because ascending you were so focused on reaching the top, you avoided mistakes.
"The backside of a mountain is a fight against human nature, " he said.
"You have to care as much about yourself on the way down as you did on the way up."
I could spend a lot of time talking about my life after baseball. But that pretty much says it.
NOT SURPRISINGLY, MY father faded with my athletic career. Oh, he came to see the baby a few times. But he was not as fascinated by a grandchild as I hoped he would be. As time passed, we had less and less to talk about. He sold his liquor stores and bought a half interest in a distributorship, which more than paid his bills without requiring much attendance. It's funny. Even though I needed a job, he never once offered one. I guess he'd spent too much time molding me to be different to allow me to be the same.
It wouldn't have mattered. Baseball was our common country, and without it, we drifted like two boats with the oars pulled in. He bought a condo in a suburb of Pittsburgh, joined a golf club, developed a mild form of diabetes, and had to watch his diet and give himself shots.
And just as effortlessly as he had surfaced beneath those gray college skies, so did my old man slide back into foggy absentia, the occasional
In time, I healed. I resumed playin baseball. But for the next six years, I never came close to the major league again, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how well I thought I was doing. It was as if the magic had washed off of me. The only evidence I had of my time in the big leagues was the newspaper box scores from 1973 and my baseball card, with a photo of me holding a bat, looking serious, my name in block letters, the smell of bubble gum permanently attached.
The company shipped me two boxes of those cards. I sent one box to my father. I kept the other.
They call a short stay in baseball "a cup of coffee," and that's what I had, but it was a cup of coffee at the best table in the best joint in town.
Which, of course, was good and bad.
YOU SEE, I was more alive in those six weeks with the Pirates than I ever felt before or since. The spotlight had made me feel immortal. I missed the huge, carpeted locker room. I missed walking through airports with my teammates, feeling the eyes of the fans as we passed. I missed the crowds in those big stadiums, the flashbulbs, the roaring cheers–the majesty of the whole thing. I missed it bitterly. So did my father. We shared a thirst to return; unspoken, undeniable.
And so I clung to baseball long after I should have quit. I went from minor-league city to minor-league city, still believing, as athletes often do, that I would be the first to defy the aging process. I dragged Catherine with me all over the country. We had apartments in Portland, Jacksonville Albuquerque, Fayetteville, and Omaha. During her pregnancy she had three different doctors.
In the end, Maria was born in Pawtucket Rhode Island, two hours after a game attended by maybe eighty people before rain sent them scattering. I had to wait for a cab to get to the hospital. I was almost as wet as my daughter when she came into the world.
I quit baseball not long after that.
And nothing I tried ever came close. I attempted my own business, which only lost me money. I looked around for coaching positions, but couldn't find any. In the end, a guy offered me a job in sales. His company made plastic bottles for food and pharmaceuticals, and I took it. The work was dull. The hours were tedious. Even worse, I only got the job because they figured I could tell baseball stories and maybe close a deal in the frothy hubris of men talking sports.
It's funny. I met a man once who did a lot of mountain climbing. I asked him which was harder, ascending or descending? He said without a doubt descending, because ascending you were so focused on reaching the top, you avoided mistakes.
"The backside of a mountain is a fight against human nature, " he said.
"You have to care as much about yourself on the way down as you did on the way up."
I could spend a lot of time talking about my life after baseball. But that pretty much says it.
NOT SURPRISINGLY, MY father faded with my athletic career. Oh, he came to see the baby a few times. But he was not as fascinated by a grandchild as I hoped he would be. As time passed, we had less and less to talk about. He sold his liquor stores and bought a half interest in a distributorship, which more than paid his bills without requiring much attendance. It's funny. Even though I needed a job, he never once offered one. I guess he'd spent too much time molding me to be different to allow me to be the same.
It wouldn't have mattered. Baseball was our common country, and without it, we drifted like two boats with the oars pulled in. He bought a condo in a suburb of Pittsburgh, joined a golf club, developed a mild form of diabetes, and had to watch his diet and give himself shots.
And just as effortlessly as he had surfaced beneath those gray college skies, so did my old man slide back into foggy absentia, the occasional
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