CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Baseball Men
“Hey, Dan! Shake a tail feather!”
Dan squinted his eyes against the foggy orange sun, trying to figure out who was busting his chops so early on the first Tuesday morning in June. As he neared the East side of the diamond, near the home dugout, Dan could see his verbal assaulter was Coach Croft. He could also make out another, larger figure standing next to South Pickens’ head man, but he couldn’t quite tell who it was.
Falling into his old habit of snapping to attention when the coach yelled, Dan broke into a trot and closed the 50 yards between him and the two older men in just a few seconds.
“What’s up, coach?” Dan asked, panting. The last week had been rough, and he was feeling weak again, though still stronger than when he woke up back in April.
“Mornin,' Princess,” Croft teased as he looked at his watch. “Glad you decided to join us today!”
Dan glanced at his own watch. “C’mon, coach, it’s still just 7:55. Practice doesn’t start until eight, right?”
Dan looked around him at the empty diamond and spread his arms out in an expression that said, “See? No one’s even here, yet!”.
Croft rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. “Well, actually, Dan,” the coach began, “practice doesn’t start until nine. You think any of my players would dare to show up in the last five minutes?”
The coach had a point, as promptness was ingrained in all the Eagles’ athletes. But Dan was sure Croft had told him to come to the field at eight. South Pickens was heading into sectional play, and the coach had invited Dan to help mentor the team during the playoffs. The idea appealed to Dan, but he was hesitant because most of the guys had been his teammates just a year or so before. But Croft had assured him there wouldn’t be any hard feelings, so here Dan was, ready for duty.
Croft took in Dan’s confused look and slapped his young charge on the shoulder, letting out a guffaw that shook his belly.
“Relax, son,” Croft said, letting Dan off the hook. “You’re not going crazy. I DID tell you to be here at eight, but not because that’s when practice starts.”
Dan’s brow furrowed, and Croft stepped back waving a hand toward his companion, who had been silent to that point.
“Dan Hodges,” Croft said, “I’d like to introduce you to Harry Foster. Harry, this is Dan.”
Harry was a large man, taller than Croft by three or four inches and outweighing the coach by a good 30 pounds. He looked to be about 60 but, unlike Croft, packed a solid, muscular physique under his large wind breaker. An unfiltered Kool cigarette hung from his right hand, and he transferred it to his left.
“Pleased to meet you,” Harry said, extending the now-empty right hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You have?” Dan gulped, body shaking as Harry pumped his arm.
Harry gave Croft a dry look and said, “He’s the nervous sort, huh?”
Croft shook his head. “Nah, that’s my fault. He’s had a rough spring, and I didn’t tell him you would be here.”
Dan cleared his throat. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”
Croft smiled again. “Son, don’t you recognize Harry’s name?”
Dan gave a sheepish shake of his head, “No … should I?”
“Aw, leave the kid alone,” Harry said. He turned to Dan: “Dan, I’m a scout for the Cincinnati Reds. Your coach and I went to high school together back when Mickey Mantle was just a twinkle in his daddy’s eye.”
“Really? Gee, I’m sorry, Mr. Foster,” Dan said. “I’m a big Reds fan, and I follow the Indianapolis Indians, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about Cincinnati’s scouting department.”
“Well, here it is!” Croft bellowed, waving toward Foster again.
“There’s a lot more to us than just me, Carl,” Foster said. “Anyway, kid, I spend a lot of time in the upper Midwest region — Minnesota, Wisconsin, the Dakotas — but I live in northern Kentucky. I pass through this area a few times each season, and old Croft and I try to hook up when we can to relive old times or whatever.”
Dan was mesmerized and didn’t realize his mouth was hanging open until Harry stopped for a beat to stare at Dan’s lower face. He was having a conversation — sort of — with a real Big League scout!
“Anyway, I came through just before Opening Day this year, and Carl filled me in on your story. Then, a couple of weeks ago, he called me up and told me you’d been ripping the cover off the ball in a local league.”
Dan blushed. He wondered if Croft had told Harry his “competition” had consisted of a hundred or so pudgy dads, most of whom had never played any kind of organized ball before.
“So,” Foster went on. “He said I should stop in and check you out the next time I got up this way. I’m heading up for a high school sweep along the western edge of Lake Michigan, so here I am. You ready?”
Dan gulped again and looked from Croft to Foster. “Ready?” he asked. “Ready for what?”
“For your tryout, Dan!” Croft exclaimed.
“Whoa, whoa,” Foster broke in. “Hold it there, partner. Let’s be careful with what we call things, OK? For now, I’d just like to see what kind of skills you got. Sound OK?”
Dan stammered. “S-sure, but how can I show you anything if I’m the only one here? Who’s going to pitch and hit to me.”
The two older men looked at each other, and Foster said, “Well, I suppose us geezers have a little life left in us. I think we can muster enough energy to get the ball over the plate and into the outfield … unless you got something against playing with old men.“
Dan’s face flushed. “Gee, I’m sorry, Mr. Foster. I didn’t mean anything by that. I, well, I don’t know what I thought.” He hesitated before finishing with, “Of course, you and Coach can work me out.”
“Great,” Foster said. “Let’s get to it, then.”
—
And did they ever get to it.
First, Croft hauled a duffel bag full of baseballs out of the dugout, and Foster carried them to the mound, instructing Dan to pick out a bat from the rack.
For the next 20 minutes, Harry offered up the most varied array of pitches Dan had ever seen from the batter’s box: fastballs that must have touched 85 mph, curveballs, changeups, screwballs, and one pitch that seemed to not spin at all but fluttered all over and around the strike zone, and which caused Dan to lunge wildly but miss completely.
“What was that?” Dan called out.
“That,” Foster yelled back, “was a knuckleball.”
All in all, Dan thought he handled himself well. He made contact with about 75% of Foster’s pitches and hit most of them hard. He connected enough, in fact, that Croft decided to leave his post behind the plate and make his way to the outfield to retrieve the balls as Dan hit them.
When Foster reached the bottom of the bag, he shouted, “Switch!”.
Croft jogged in from the outfield, his flipped-up shirt tail filled with baseballs, and jerked a thumb toward the outfield.
“Get on out there, kid,” he called to Dan.
Dan replaced his bat in the rack and ran to the outfield. He had been exhausted for days, sleeping at least 12 hours each night, but working out with Foster and Croft energized him. He felt like he could go all day long.
By that time, the sun had burned off any fog remaining from the late spring night, and Dan felt a thin layer of sweat forming over his brow as he sprinted to the outfield.
“Whoo—eee!” Foster yelled as Dan whizzed past him. “Your butt’s on fire, son!”
Dan didn’t mind the teasing, and he couldn’t have slowed down anyway. He was too amped up. Besides, how many 19-year-old kids got to hang out with a Reds’ coach early on a Tuesday morning?
He took his spot in center field and flipped back toward the diamond, where Foster was still sauntering toward home plate.
“Well, at least my butt’s not dragging on the infield dirt like yours!” Dan called.
I
t had been a spur-of-the-moment impulse, and he cringed at his own insubordination. He was relieved to hear Croft’s loud laugh erupt from the coach as he took the mound to pitch to Foster.
“Ha!” Croft yelled. “He got you, there, Harry!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Foster said. “Let’s just see if you can keep up with my bat, Hodges.”
Dan had clamped his mitt over his mouth to try and head off any more untoward comments, and now he pulled it away in relief. He shrugged off his embarrassment and called back to the scout.
“Give me your best shot, Harry!”
For the next 20 minutes, Harry did give Dan his best shot, and Dan reciprocated. Spraying balls from side to side, driving some deep, blooping some shallow, and even smashing a few on the infield grass to roll or hop into the outfield, Harry did his best to simulate just about every type of play that a center fielder might encounter in a real game. And, even though Dan knew the middle-aged scout couldn’t generate the type of power a Major Leaguer could, Dan was still impressed by Harry’s command of the bat. He was even more impressed by his own ability to keep up with the barrage of would-be hits Foster peppered his direction — and not in his direction.
Dan ran down balls that would have belonged to the left and right fielders in a normal game situation, and he dove forward and backward to keep balls from hitting the grass. Once, he even leaped against the outfield fence to save a “home run.” The only balls Dan didn’t catch were two no-doubt homers Harry deposited 50 feet beyond the fence and onto the adjacent practice field. In those instances, Dan just stood and clapped, to which Harry tipped his cap.
Even though Dan considered himself a third baseman, he had to admit it would have been difficult for Harry to work him out so thoroughly at the hot corner. Center field was a place for athletes, and Dan was proud he was doing well there, even if the situation were contrived.
On the mound, Croft held up a ball for Dan and Foster to see. “This is the last one, fellas,” he called. “Almost time for practice to start … for real this time.”
Croft turned back to the plate and uncorked a looping fastball that Foster swung under, lifting it high to straightaway center field. Dan drifted backwards, reaching behind him with his left hand to find the fence but never taking his eyes off the ball. When he felt the wall, he camped under the falling spheroid and watched it drop all the way into the webbing of his outstretched glove. He clamped both hands around the wrapped ball and trotted back toward the infield.
Croft waited on the mound for Dan and gave him a slap on the behind. “Nice job, Dan,” the coach said.
Foster was already in the dugout racking his back and gathering his belongings, including the empty duffel bag. If he had any thoughts about Dan’s performance, he was keeping it to himself.
“Well,” Foster said as he climbed out of the hole. “It’s about time for me to hit the road, so why don’t you take this bag and gather up those balls before your teammates get here and snatch them up?” This was directed to Dan.
“They’re not my teammates,” Dan corrected, “although they used to be. But, sure, I can pick up the balls.”
Dan took duffel from Foster and headed back to the outfield at a walking pace.
“Hey, better hustle up now,” Foster called after him. “I need to get a move on. And don’t forget — there should be 100 balls, including the ones I hit over the fence!”
“Got it,” Dan said, and he rolled his eyes without fear of Foster seeing him since he was heading away from the old scout.
What Dan didn’t see, as he ran toward the practice field, was the wink Foster gave Croft.