With a schedule that runs from the first of April to the end of September, eighty-one games at home and eighty-one on the road, big leaguers cherish the All-Star break. Those not chosen to play often dash home or enjoy brief vacations. The year before, after being overlooked yet again, my father and a teammate spent the break trout fishing in Montana, then met the team in San Francisco when the schedule resumed. Listening carefully, I had unfortunately heard no such talk of a fishing trip this year.
When my father watched me play, he never sat in the stands with my mother or the other spectators. He didn’t want to be bothered. Once, a kid asked for his autograph, and he griped about it for a week. He played for the Mets; therefore, he was famous and did not wish to mingle with ordinary parents. To get away, he would find a spot on the fence not far from our dugout, and from there, alone, he would growl and yell advice. He despised all of my coaches because they, of course, knew so little about the game. Invariably, they tried to engage him because of who he was, and his rude behavior was embarrassing. On several occasions, I was compelled to apologize to a coach.
The tournament was played in Scarsdale, and as we drove to the ballpark, no one said a word in the car. Jill and I were in the rear seat, and she was pouting because she hated baseball. My father was sore because a writer in the
When I took the mound, I could barely grip the ball. My first pitch was a weak fastball that the batter lined hard, but directly at our shortstop. I took a breath and felt better. My second pitch was a fastball that the batter popped foul to our first baseman. Two pitches—two outs. This might be easier than I thought. The third batter was trouble and everyone knew him. His name was Luke Gozlo, a big kid with a big mouth and a big bat to back up his words. He would later be drafted by the Red Sox and fade away in the minors.
My coach said repeatedly, “Don’t put the ball in the center of the plate. A walk is better than a home run.” I was trying my best to walk him when my third pitch trailed inside. Luke lifted his front foot, attacked the ball, and as soon as he hit it, I felt sick. Our left fielder never moved. The jackass stood with his hands on his hips and watched the ball as if he were watching a jet fighter buzz the field. It landed in the parking lot. Luke whooped and hollered as he rounded first and second, his fist pumping in the air. What a jerk. He stomped on home plate and yanked off his helmet so everyone could see his grinning face.
I threw three fastballs as hard as I possibly could and struck out the cleanup hitter. As I walked off the field (never run, my father had insisted; the pitcher never runs off the field), my father was waving me over. My coach, though, suspected trouble and met me at the foul line. He put his arm around my shoulder, told me to shake it off, and escorted me into the dugout, where I was safe from my father’s advice.
Luke Gozlo came to the plate in the top of the fourth with the bases empty and no outs. My father yelled “Paul” to get my attention, but I pretended not to hear him. My first pitch was a fastball that Luke hacked at and missed, and as our fans were cheering, I heard my father say, “Knock him down, Paul.” I looked at my coach. He heard it too, and he was shaking his head. No.
I had hit a few batters, but never intentionally. The year before I had bounced a fastball off the helmet of Kirk Barnes. The sound was sickening. He cried for an hour, and both of us almost quit the game. And I wanted no part of Luke Gozlo. He was a tough kid, the type who would wait in the parking lot after the game and beat the hell out of me.
I walked him on the next four pitches, none of them remotely near his head or near the strike zone. With a 2 and 2 count on the cleanup batter, I hung a curveball, a huge mistake. He crushed it, and when it cleared the fence, Luke started whooping it up and showing his ass again as he rounded the bases. At that moment, I wished I had beaned him.
I struck out the next two, then walked two, then got lucky with a long fly ball to deep right field. As I walked to the dugout, I glanced at my father. He was shaking his head, frowning, mumbling, with both arms folded angrily across his chest. I thought about hitchhiking home. Maybe I could catch a ride with a coach or a teammate. Maybe I could just move in with the Sabbatinis and have a normal life.
With the team trailing 5–2 and facing elimination, our coach decided to change pitchers. I wanted to keep playing, but I was also relieved to be out of the game and tucked away in the dugout.
Eastchester won 11–2, and our season was over.
My career was over too. I would never again put on a baseball uniform.