Painting the Corners Read online

  That left Remy with just one loose end to tie down. “If that happens, I assume you’ll give us the chance to match any offer,” he said.

  “That’ll be up to Orlando. I understand you didn’t have much to say to him all season. He may prefer a change of scenery…and I’m not talking about the ballpark.” Keenan smiled again as he walked toward the door.

  The financial commitment was more than Vance was willing to make. “If he can get that money as a free agent, good luck to him,” he said. “If he can’t, maybe you’ll still have a chance to sign him for the 36 million we talked about. But that’s as high as I’ll go, Paul. If we lose him, we lose him. Again, I’d say our least miserable choice is to do nothing.”

  The hometown media began to press Remy about the status of negotiations with Orlando. He found the words to save face for the club and avoid an outright lie, without revealing the sad circumstances. “We’ve been in talks with his agent,” he said, “and there are proposals being discussed.”

  Orlando opted for free agency as soon as he was eligible. He was considered one of the most desirable players on the market. The print media found space every day in which to speculate on which clubs wanted him and could afford him. When questioned, Remy was reduced to saying that the team hadn’t been able to satisfy Orlando’s present contract demands, but that it still hoped to sign him. He telephoned one sports writer and claimed to be frustrated by the negotiations, indicating that Orlando’s asking price kept going up whenever he talked to the player’s agent. Unrevealed, of course, was that only two conversations with Keenan had taken place between April and October.

  Early in December, Keenan called. “I’m pretty sure you have no intention of signing my client, but I don’t want you badmouthing him to the press and saying he went elsewhere without giving you the chance to match the offer. The Indians have 48 million on the table for four years with a club option for a fifth year at twelve more. If they don’t pick up the option, it’s a two-million-dollar buyout. We’ll give you 24 hours to match it, and I’m going to confirm that with a fax in the next few minutes. If you’re not in the picture, at least you won’t have to worry about him hurting you all the time, playing in the other league.”

  Remy knew there would be other meetings over other players with Keenan. There was no sense being anything but cordial. “Thanks for the call,” he replied. “If you don’t hear from us, tell Jamal I wish him well.”

  * * *

  One week later, Remy had his new left fielder. Oscar Johnson had been with three other teams in the past seven years and had never been signed for more than one season at a time. He was a lifetime .262 hitter whose bat seemed unable to generate the long ball two years in a row. Coming off an unproductive campaign, he was almost a steal in the free agent market. Remy had studied Johnson’s statistics very carefully and felt confident about taking a chance on him for the upcoming campaign. But the media didn’t share his enthusiasm, and the talk show callers ridiculed him repeatedly for losing Orlando without getting some players in return. The off-season was a major disappointment to them thus far and they weren’t accepting it quietly.

  Karl Vance had been away most of December, vacationing in the Caribbean. He returned to his office on the Tuesday after Christmas and spent the next several days catching up with all the baseball news he had missed. Vance was especially interested in what the local sports columnists had been writing about his team.

  The staff had already been notified that there would be no work on Friday, the day before New Year’s Eve. Late on Thursday afternoon Vance invited Remy to his office. He was sitting on a corner of his desk, flipping an old baseball in the air, when the general manager came in. He had removed his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing a gold chain Remy hadn’t seen before.

  “Have you been watching ticket sales for next year?” the owner inquired.

  “Yes,” Remy said, “I’ve asked Isaacs to update me on it every week.”

  “As of right now, we’re down about twenty percent from a year ago.”

  “I know. I’m sure some of it has to do with Orlando.”

  “And the fact that we haven’t signed anyone exciting to replace him,” Vance replied quickly. “If we finished third with him, where will we be without him? That’s what the writers are asking.”

  Remy wanted to remind him whose decision it had been to forego trading Orlando back in July. He knew that if Vance had listened to him then, the fans and the media wouldn’t be complaining now. Instead, they’d be looking forward to how the players obtained for Orlando would help the team. But he realized that the urge to put the blame where it belonged was self-destructive, and he controlled it. “I think Johnson will have a good year,” Remy answered. “He won’t give us Orlando’s numbers but he’ll help win some games.”

  “Games that we may end up playing in front of a half-empty park in August and September,” Vance said

  “I’m doing what I can, Karl.” He tried to score some quick points. “And remember that Johnson’s going to cost you just a fraction of what Orlando wanted.” He gave the words a second to sink in before adding, “What’s out there right now is either overpriced or what probably won’t help us next year. I don’t want to spend money that we can put to better use in June or July when some teams give up on the race. When they’re ready to unload some good players, we’ll have more to choose from. Besides, we’ve got a couple of rookies coming up that should excite the fans. Timmy Boland stole 82 bases in Triple-A last year and — ”

  Vance interrupted. “I’ve got a decision to make, Paul. You know how quickly we use up our TV and advertising revenue. What we take in there isn’t anything close to what some of the other clubs get. The bottom line for us is filling as many seats as we can 81 games a year. That means the fans have to have something to get them excited during the winter, good hot stove league stuff. They need it long before we go to spring training. Otherwise, attendance will be down when the season begins and will stay that way or even get worse if the team’s off to a bad start. We’ve got to give them something to talk about now, to stir up interest.”

  “Do you have any particular players in mind?” Remy asked.

  “No, that’s still my general manager’s job,” Vance said. He got up from where he was sitting and moved around the desk to his chair. He dropped the baseball into an open drawer and pushed it closed. “As I see it,” he continued, “I’ve got three options right now. The first is to terminate your services. The writers and fans are all blaming you for losing Orlando to free agency with nothing to show for it. If you were gone and a new GM came in, they’d expect to see some changes. I think the anticipation would get a lot of them fired up and remind them where our ticket office is located. The second option is to do nothing. We can just hope the fans wake up and catch baseball fever one of these days. The last one is to authorize you to spend whatever it takes to sign some big name free agent right away. He may not be what the team needs to win more games next year, but that would also get the town talking baseball now, when it’s important. Those are all lousy options, but I had to consider each of them and I’ve decided that letting you go is my least miserable choice. You can understand that, can’t you, Paul?”

  •

  ALL THE SIGNS SPELLED VICTORY

  •

  Dedicated to Roger S. Driben

  “Why do I have to be an example for your kid? You be an example for your own kid.”

  —Bob Gibson

  FINALLY, ON A miserably cold October afternoon in Montreal, the baseball curtain was about to come down on the end of the season. It rained lightly most of the morning, but on several occasions the sun had surprised and delighted those walking in the crowded city streets by slipping through the slightest opening in the heavy, gray clouds, like a slowly hit ground ball somehow finding its way through the infield.

  Everyone knew what kind of weather Quebec’s largest city could expect when playoff games had to follow the
completion of the long regular season. Fans streamed into the ballpark wearing leather jackets and heavy woolen coats, with colorful scarves wrapped around their necks. Many of the men had on hats that could cover their ears and that normally sat on a closet shelf until it was time to be taken down for a football game in autumn. Gloved hands held on to thermoses of hot coffee as devoted supporters of the two baseball teams found the way to their seats. And on this day, with the series coming to a close and the championship resting in the balance, the Expos and Yankees were facing the reality of playing in temperatures that were in the mid-30s when the first pitch was thrown and would drop to below freezing by the fifth inning.

  The players danced around at their positions on the field, holding still only while the next pitch was on its way to the plate. They smoothed the infield dirt in front of them, occasionally picking up pebbles that they flipped beyond the first or third base foul lines. They pounded their red fists into the well-oiled pockets of their oversized gloves and kept up a constant stream of chatter toward the pitcher on the mound. There was no way to ignore the cold. They could only try to fight it off by moving back and forth between pitches, keeping their faces turned away from the wind, whenever possible, and making a lot of noise.

  “Strike the bum out, Vic.” The words of encouragement were shouted in from center field. “No hitter, no hitter, Vic, just up there for a walk.”

  “Come on, Victor, one-two-three, one-two-three,” the shortstop and second baseman said almost in unison.

  “Hum Vic baby,” the catcher hollered as he set the target behind the plate, “put it over, he’ll never see it.” They engaged in the baseball banter they had grown up with and that they hoped would pump up the player most responsible for their fortunes that day.

  On the benches, the players wore windbreakers under their team jackets, zipped to the very top. They sat hunched forward, their arms folded tightly across their chests, their feet stamping the ground. The ones whose teammates were at bat tried to stay warm by calling out more of the timeworn banalities of the game to whoever was in the batter’s box.

  “Good eye, good eye, Joe.” “He’s wild, Joe, can’t find the plate.” “Get a hold of one, Joe boy, park it baby.” Each side seemed to bring its own rhythm to the words of encouragement it offered both on the field and from the bench.

  Everyone dreaded taking his turn at the plate that day. The players knew that if the ball made contact with the bat near where they gripped the handle or down at the very end, beyond the sweet spot, it would send a sudden resonating sensation — an awful stinging, almost like an electric shock — racing through their fingers and wrists and into their forearms. Batting gloves or wristbands were useless to stave off the painful numbness that would settle temporarily in their hands, bringing tears to their eyes. Many players refused to swing as hard as they normally would, trying to cut down on the degree of discomfort they expected to have if they didn’t get good wood on the ball.

  The two managers were hardly oblivious of their players’ feelings about going to bat in such circumstances, having experienced the same distress in their own days on the field. As a result, each team attempted an unusual number of bunts during the game. The strategy anticipated that the hitter’s speed — even though slowed somewhat by the cutting wind — would still get him to first base before the fielder could move in, pick up the ball cleanly with his cold, partially numbed hand and make an accurate throw in time. After several innings, each side changed its defensive alignment, having both the first and third basemen stationed on the infield grass, ready to charge the plate at the first sign of the hitter’s intention to try to bunt his way on. And recognizing that the harsh weather conditions were forcing the game to be played this way, the managers did not always signal the infielders to return to their normal positions at the corners, even when the count on the batter reached two strikes and the likelihood of another bunt attempt was greatly reduced.

  The result, as any terribly uncomfortable spectator at the game could have foreseen from a combination of such elements and strategy, was that hits and runs were scarce. From the stands, it appeared that the players on both sides were more concerned about getting the game over with as quickly as possible and avoiding injury than with which team would leave the field as champions. And an impartial observer sharing the bench with either of the two clubs would have seen that the only players exhibiting any emotional concern with the outcome were those who already knew that they wouldn’t be returning the following season for another chance at the baseball jackpot.

  The Yankees took a two-run lead in the second inning on three well-placed bunts and two consecutive errors on ground balls hit to Guy Crawford, the Expos’ tall and talented shortstop who, other than for that very uncharacteristic lapse, played a brilliant game.

  “I can’t believe it. I’ve never screwed up twice in a row like that before,” was all Crawford could say to Jack Martineau, his manager, when he returned to the bench.

  At first, Martineau’s response was just a major-league scowl, conveying his great displeasure with one of his team’s best players. But then, realizing how that show of disapproval might have looked to others observing the scene, he put his arm around Crawford’s shoulder and offered a stream of moral support. “Don’t let it bother you, kid. Just play your game out there. You’ll get a chance to make up for it.”

  The Expos got one of the runs back in the fourth inning when the Yankee third baseman was charged with two errors on the same bunt. After dropping the ball when he first picked it up, losing whatever chance he had to throw out the batter at first, he grabbed for it again and fired it wildly down the right field line. That gave the Expos runner time to race around to third. The next hitter followed with a chopping infield single over the head of the pitcher, on which everyone close to the action could hear him cry out in pain when his bat met the ball. It allowed the run to score and immediately brought the Expos fans — quite subdued up to that point — back into the game. Most of them took the opportunity to stand up and move around while cheering, twisting their bodies back and forth in an effort to shrug off the penetrating effects of the raw afternoon.

  They had to wait two more innings, however, before the tying run came home on a walk that was followed by a clutch two-out double to the gap in right center field. Kelly LaBarr, the Expos catcher, stood on second with a big grin on his face. He knew he had made the right decision in ignoring the third base coach, who had been frantically waving his arms and shouting at him to try and stretch the hit into a triple. Time was called while one of the Yankees’ infielders retrieved LaBarr’s batting helmet that he had lost after rounding first. Putting it back on, he asked the umpire for more time while he bent over, hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. A poor hitter, and notoriously overweight, LaBarr was not used to running fast over any distance.

  When play resumed, and the crowd — which had treated the delay as another welcome occasion to twist and turn in place — sat down, a change of pitchers by the Yankees brought the Expos’ rally to a halt.

  The seventh and eighth innings gave neither team the opportunity for resorting to strategy on the base paths or cause for raising any excitement in the stands. The baseball gods — paying rapt attention to what was going on, and having to choose from all the cries of encouragement coming from both players and fans — had clearly become temporarily enamored with each side’s “Hey babe, hey babe, let’s get ’em one-two-three” chant that drifted upwards from a number of different locations on this very cold field of dreams.

  But something had to give. Light snow had begun falling an inning earlier and was making the baseball slippery to grasp. Before the start of the ninth inning, the umpiring crew met with the two managers at home and informed them that the game would be called on account of the weather if the score remained deadlocked after each team’s at bat. In that case, it would have to be replayed in its entirety. “And I hope I can hold off this terrible piss I have to take,” the
plate umpire told them, grinning as he said it.

  The Expos pitcher, their third of the game, responded poorly to the official ultimatum by walking the Yankees’ curiously named leadoff hitter, Dee Dijon, on four consecutive balls. The first sacrifice bunt moved him into scoring position. The next one caught the infielders flat-footed, despite the defensive strategy that had prevailed throughout the game. And the play put the Yankees ahead when the speedy Dijon rounded third and never hesitated on his successful dash to the plate while the ball was unwisely being thrown to first. High fives abounded when he returned to his Yankee teammates, and the feat was rewarded with loud applause from those sitting in the seats behind the visitors’ dugout.

  Before the Expos batted in the last half of the inning, Martineau spoke to the first three scheduled hitters and reminded them to watch carefully for signs from the third base coach before every pitch. “We’ve got to get at least one run home or there are going to be a lot of unhappy people in this ballpark,” he told them.

  Raul Bauer, the team’s center fielder, led off and watched the first two balls cross the plate wide of the strike zone. Martineau clapped his hands and flashed the “take” sign across the diamond to Andy Simone, the coach at third. He didn’t want Bauer swinging at anything until the new Yankees reliever showed he could get the ball over the plate. Simone promptly relayed the manager’s call, communicating through the quick movement of his hands over different parts of his face and body. Bauer waited for the coach to finish, stepped back into the batter’s box, and hit the next pitch sharply down the left field line.

  “Why the heck did he swing?” Martineau mumbled under his breath, pleased, nonetheless, with the result. Meanwhile, the Expos’ bench shouted its support to Bauer as he ran to first, made the turn, and coasted into second base with a double.

  Danny Orr, the Yankees manager, who had twice been voted to the All-Star team years earlier, was on his feet, waving at his infielders to move in close for the expected sacrifice bunt. He rested a finger on the left side of his nose for several seconds, signaling the shortstop to move towards third on the pitch and cover that base for a play on Bauer when the ball was bunted. “Look alive; be alert out there,” Orr shouted to his infielders. At the same time, he picked up a bat, wrapped both fists around the handle, and began squeezing hard in an effort to relieve the tension coursing through his body.