RMJ 95 May 20

TUESDAY, MAY 20 ● Houston, vs Cincinnati

I knew I would have to stay awake for an hour or so when I got home in the nether regions of darkness, while the world around me slept. I did not plan on staying up until 5:30 a.m., but life is like baseball: it is timeless. When I arrived home at 4:00, I saw a note from Judy on the kitchen counter:

Wake me up when you get in.

I had a feeling it was something that would upset me. Most of our predawn heartache has involved our daughter, Julia.

This time it was my father.

He had suffered a massive stroke while he was watching our game with the Phillies.

The prognosis was not good; I had to prepare myself for his death. Judy looked heavy with despair as she left me with my thoughts and went back to bed.

I poured a glass of wine and sat on the deck with the puppies and a cigar. The pups helped a lot, for there is living where there is dying. And there is joy in the blossom of youth.

Still, the sadness came in waves just as the clouds came and went, shrouding the Moon in mystery, leaving it near full, luminous, and flat as a sand dollar.

I didn’t really cry, but my eyes were floating in sorrow.

I think it helped to know that it happened suddenly, and that there was no pain or suffering. Twenty years ago, he endured four hours of colon-cancer surgery. I was in the last years of my pitching career, and this brush with death was devastating to me; it foretold the symbolic death of my essential being.

To that point, baseball had defined me, but now I was clinging to it as if it were a piece of driftwood in the vast, open sea. As we talked before he was gurneyed to the operating room, he wept. I had never seen him cry before, and I remember telling him that it was all right to cry.

“These guys I play baseball with think they’re tough,” I said. “But they would cry too. Nobody can stand up to his own mortality. You’ll get through this. I know you will.”

The fact is, I didn’t know he would get through it. And I was not prepared to lose him. I think his tears were for Mom and for me, for Rick, and for Laura Lynn.

He lived his life for his family, not for himself. It was as if he was born to serve. As a child of the Depression, he was nearly obsessed with his labors to provide for the family. He often brought work home from the office and worked until he slept. On Sunday nights, he sat down to an old Smith-Corona typewriter and hunt-and-pecked his way through a long letter to his parents in Pennsylvania.

And to think I can hardly get around to calling him once a week.

 

I remember my Dad sitting at the dining-room table, with his briefcase and papers. But I also remember waiting for him to come home, so I could pitch to him in the back yard.

In my early teen years, I pitched so hard that the ball often hit him in the shins or on the arm. I learned a few new words during those sessions, but he never quit trying to catch me — until I was smart enough to quit throwing to him.

I remember him taking Rick and me to the park, and he kicked a football way up over the tops of the trees. I was amazed at these powerful punts.  Rick and I circled around underneath, in vain attempts to catch them.

I recall him taking me to Little League signups when I was seven years old. You had to be eight to play, but I wanted to see what it was like. It turned out to be the formation of a new league, and they were a couple of boys short, so I got started a year early. I think this foreshadowed my life in the game.

I had my first date for a dance party in sixth grade, and I was embarrassed to have him take me to pick up the girl, because he was bald. He didn’t tease me or get mad; he just put on his business hat and said, “Let’s go.” 

One night I came home with an extra-credit assignment in Physics. I had no clue how to solve it, but he helped me. He took my textbook and read through it; then he went to work with his slide rule. I was the only kid in that class who got the right answer. I’m pretty sure my teacher was wise to my ways, and I didn’t really care.

I was just proud of my Dad. 

 

All of these images crossed my mind as l looked out at the lake in back of the house. The water has always been special to me: the way it reflects the many moods of lighting, weather, and season. This night, the lake was swollen with rain, and it was tranquil, with lights from across the way floating still-and-silent in murky tones of amber, white, and red.

Seven years ago, just after his retirement, my father had a stroke while I was at spring training. I flew from Florida to California, hoping to beat death to his door. He made a remarkable recovery from that setback, but just as he was getting his mobility back, he fell and broke his hip. The doctors put a couple of screws in the bone to ensure proper healing, but something went wrong.

He was supposed to be pain-free in a few weeks, but a few months later, when he was to take a cruise to Alaska with Ryan and his cousin Ashley, he was still suffering. He suffered through the cruise and through our trip to Hawaii the following Thanksgiving. Finally, it was discovered that his hip bone was dead, and they gave him an artificial hip. 

The past two years, he has been fine, but the illnesses and injuries had clearly taken a toll. He was not real mobile, and though his mood improved dramatically when the hip pain went away, he spent most of his time watching sports and business news on television.

The truth is, he was always a homebody, and he would have been happy to stay home all the time. But my mother loved to travel, and he traveled all over the world with her, for her.

 

He was not a religious man, but he was a faithful servant — at home, at work, and even in his spare time. He always volunteered to help coach our teams, raise funds for our activities, contribute to charities. He was such a soft touch that he was inundated with mail requesting donations. His favorite charity was the YMCA.

After I became a Christian a few years ago, I had several talks with him about spirituality. My sister is more devoted to the Lord than me, and we had a searching conversation with him just last month when I was in LA. I am hoping that his devotion to the YMCA, to his wife, to his children, and to his work, along with the seeds we tried to sow last month, will speak for him now, when he cannot speak for himself.

He never spoke for himself, but always for others.       

 

This afternoon, waves of sadness came over me. I wept some, and I sat immobile a lot. I know I have to get on with things, so I called Gerry and told him that I would be there for the game, but I wanted Bill to manage the team. I called Cubby and asked him to make the coaches and team aware of the situation. I called Barry and arranged the transportation. We will leave tomorrow, with Julia; Ryan and Ashley will fly in tomorrow night.

I laid down for a nap around 5:00 and left for the ballpark at 6:00. When I arrived, Gerry was in my office. It was great to see him, and he struck just the right balance. He sympathized, talking briefly about when his father passed away. Then he got down to business.

Sid couldn’t throw today. His arm is still sore, and our doctor, Bill Bryant, thinks he is finished.  Gerry had talked with Vern, and they penciled in Donne Wall for the first game in Denver.

When I walked into the coaches’ room, a hush fell over them. I tried to break it by being upbeat and talkative, but I’m sure my words didn’t hide my distress.

I walked back into my office and had another disturbing thought:

As I walked through the tunnel to the dugout, I encountered Biggio. He patted me on the shoulder and said he was sorry to hear about my Dad.

“I know,” I said. “It’s tough to know what to say and what to do. But I don’t want you guys carrying my load into this game. We have to go out there with some spirit. Maybe you could spread the word. I’m concerned about it. We need to get fired up.”

 

One thing was evident in the first inning: the Reds were fired up. They have the worst record in baseball, and their manager, Ray Knight, has been fussing and fuming all year. He finally went ballistic last week, tearing a bag from its mooring and slamming it down like a pro wrestler.

I had a few managers who had short tempers. A little rage can be helpful — once in a great while. But if you go off too often, it loses its impact and becomes almost laughable.

Knight was suspended three days for his recent tirade. He started serving those days today at his home in Albany, Georgia.

Before the game, the Reds had a closed-door, players-only meeting. I’m sure they are hoping to play like champions during Knight’s absence, to show their management that they can do better without him. The same thing could happen to me some day, but I am going to try my best not to have too many tantrums. I haven’t had any yet.

 

Deion Sanders led off with a single, and then Curtis Goodwin got a drag-bunt single. Then they pulled a double steal. Barry Larkin grounded out to drive in a run, then Reggie Sanders singled to center to drive in another run.

Reggie Sanders never stopped running as he rounded first, and Mouton’s throw to Biggio had him cold at second, but Bidge dropped the ball. Chirs Holt stiffened and we got out of it with just two runs. But the Reds had clearly thrown down the gauntlet.

They got another run in the second, and John Smiley was pitching well for them. Still, we rallied to tie the game at 3.

In the eighth, Russ Springer ran afoul of Lady Luck: he jammed Hal Morris, and the ball dribbled down the third-base line for a double. Then he jammed Willie Greene and broke his bat in half. The ball went looping over Bagwell’s head, and he missed it by a foot or so.

Joe Oliver hit a liner to short, and it looked like we were out of it with just one run, but the ball knuckled toward Ricky Gutierrez and caromed off his glove, allowing Greene to score.

In the ninth, the Reds got another run on two broken bats and a dribbler up the middle. In all, they got fourteen hits, and at least ten of them were weak. They were full of vigor, and we seemed flat. We still had a chance, but it got away.

 

After the game, I had to endure a media session. They knew about my father, so I had to address this subject with microphones in my face.

“Is your father going to make it?” someone asked.

“No,” I said. “If he survives, there won’t be much left of him.”

There were several radio reporters, and four or five newspaper guys. I thought they were sensitive in their questioning. I was really glad there were no TV cameras; I must have looked like hell.

 

When I got home, Judy was packing for the trip and Ryan was already in bed. I tried to call home several times, but the line was busy. I finally gave up and went to the deck with the wine, the cigars, and the puppies. I felt better outside than in the house; don’t ask me why.

Judy finally came out and handed me the phone. I talked to Rick, and he said there was no change; Dad’s breathing had been shallow, and at one point the nurse called to say that she thought he was near the end.

The family raced over to the hospital, and by the time they got there, he had lurched back into the fight and was breathing rapidly.

Everyone there, it seems, is praying that he will let go. But there is no assurance that this will happen.

Tomorrow, we will see for ourselves.