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Trip To Williamsburg
Nov. 14th, 2007 11:13 pmA career in baseball exists somewhere between Never-was and Has-been. From all those days in the minors as nothing, to the last time you get to walk out of the dugout as a player. That’s the only moment you get.
It’s hard not to be daunted, riding in the cab up Yawkey Way, trying to look at everything at once. Maggie, one of the waitresses at the Durham Marquee, said that when she visited it the first time, it was like grabbing on to a live wire. She’d been especially attentive when my call-up came. I went up the street with the memory of the moles on her right breast fighting for my attention.
Lowell had pulled a hamstring, and was out for three weeks. They needed a left-handed bat off the bench, and that meant someone from the Bulls was needed to fill out the roster. That meant my first ever .300+ season came at just the right time. It left me standing in the shadow of the Belly, looking out over into the Triangle way out in center field and wondering.
It was the Yankees in town, and with a one run deficit going into the ninth, they went to the bullpen for Mo. Then Manny ripped a double off the Green Monster over Matsui’s head and we were back in the game. Skip pointed me into the box. We didn’t have a lot of speed on base, but a clean single with Manny running on the pitch could bring him home.
Mo’s cutter was on as I settled into the box. That viper late movement, dropping three inches down at the plate in the last second, turning my swing into a futile thing. The second went by at the ankles, but the next one bit the corner sharply, putting me deep in the hole. He’d go to the outside corner. I’d watched him do it a hundred times over beers, watching him handcuff batters. Look for the movement, and just pull the ball.
It hummed coming in, outside and diving. Quick bat. Clean swing. I was still waiting for the sound of the ball off the bat, even as the echoes of the slap of the glove died away behind me to the groans of the fans. Sitting in plain sight, right by the Lone Red Seat, was Never-was. He tipped his hat to me as he left with the rest of the fans.
It’s hard not to be daunted, riding in the cab up Yawkey Way, trying to look at everything at once. Maggie, one of the waitresses at the Durham Marquee, said that when she visited it the first time, it was like grabbing on to a live wire. She’d been especially attentive when my call-up came. I went up the street with the memory of the moles on her right breast fighting for my attention.
Lowell had pulled a hamstring, and was out for three weeks. They needed a left-handed bat off the bench, and that meant someone from the Bulls was needed to fill out the roster. That meant my first ever .300+ season came at just the right time. It left me standing in the shadow of the Belly, looking out over into the Triangle way out in center field and wondering.
It was the Yankees in town, and with a one run deficit going into the ninth, they went to the bullpen for Mo. Then Manny ripped a double off the Green Monster over Matsui’s head and we were back in the game. Skip pointed me into the box. We didn’t have a lot of speed on base, but a clean single with Manny running on the pitch could bring him home.
Mo’s cutter was on as I settled into the box. That viper late movement, dropping three inches down at the plate in the last second, turning my swing into a futile thing. The second went by at the ankles, but the next one bit the corner sharply, putting me deep in the hole. He’d go to the outside corner. I’d watched him do it a hundred times over beers, watching him handcuff batters. Look for the movement, and just pull the ball.
It hummed coming in, outside and diving. Quick bat. Clean swing. I was still waiting for the sound of the ball off the bat, even as the echoes of the slap of the glove died away behind me to the groans of the fans. Sitting in plain sight, right by the Lone Red Seat, was Never-was. He tipped his hat to me as he left with the rest of the fans.
