Strike Three
First were the Comets, then the Patriots. Two teams I’d quit. It felt like two strikes and I was ashamed. Nobody likes quitters but that’s what I was. That said, I still wanted to play baseball and that meant finding a new team.
This time, it was the Paris University Club, or PUC. The club was composed of four teams, the top one reserved for the best players. They included several American college players who’d been recruited to improve the quality of French baseball. No way did I expect to play at that level but I was confident I could play at the one next, for PUC2, the second best team.
So it was deflating when the manager approached and said, “You’re on Team 3.” He hadn’t seen me play and was clearly judging me by how old I was compared to other players. Nevertheless, I tried to appear upbeat. “Is there a chance of moving up if I play well?” I asked. The manager, Jeff Stoekel, had played baseball at Harvard and quickly replied, “Of course, absolutely!”
Stoekel, who was about twenty-five, let it be known that he wanted to make PUC the best baseball team in France. His father was a scout for several major league teams.
“I have a good feeling about this,” I told Petie after another practice. “All I need is a chance to show ’em what I can do.”
PUC3 was a mixed bag. Most of the players were a third my age, some a little younger, and a few were completely new to baseball. Once, when we were short of pitchers, one of the novices raised his hand and said he’d be willing to pitch “if someone will show me the motions.” Another time, I had just doubled and was standing on second base when the next batter, who’d walked, suddenly came sliding in. “What in blazes are you doing?” I yelled, jumping to avoid his spikes. “I’m stealing second,” he said proudly. I glared at him like he was a total idiot, then began to laugh. “Hey man, you can’t do that if someone’s already here.”
Stuff like that made playing with PUC3 a true life adventure. But they were fun guys and I enjoyed their company. I divided my time between pitching and playing first base.
I hit well and my pitching was even better. With PUC2 hurting for pitchers, I figured I’d soon be called up.
Didn’t happen.
Taking matters into my own hands, I approached the manager of PUC2 and asked for a tryout. With me was Eric Villatte who had had quit the Patriots around the time I did after his own falling out with Francois. Eric, who’d once pitched for the French national team, was now with PUC2 and tried to persuade the manager to take me on. “He’s good, he can really help us,” Eric said. The manager, Francisco Arriagada, looked at me, unimpressed, and didn’t say anything at first. Like Stoekel, he was probably taken aback by my age. “Okay,” he finally said. “Our next practice is Tuesday. Be here and you can throw for me.”
Tuesday arrived.
But when Petie and I arrived, PUC2 was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the elites were using the diamond.
More shocking was seeing Arriagada in left field. He was busy fielding fungoes. “Hold my stuff,” I told Petie. “Let me find out what’s happening.”
Arriagada was surprised when he spotted me. “Where’s PUC2? I asked. “I thought we had a practice. You said you wanted me to throw for you.” Arriagada looked pained. He was clearly embarrassed and avoided looking me in the eye. Instead he pointed toward the far end of the complex where the batting cages were located. “Some of the guys are over there,” he said. He then turned and ran to catch a fly ball, not saying anything else.
“Something’s not right,” I said to Petie as we headed toward the cages. When we got there ten minutes later, it was as I feared. The cages were empty. Not a soul was around. “He lied to me; the fucker flat out lied to me!” Petie was dumbfounded. “He could have called,” she said. “If he changed his mind he could at least have said something.”
Then it began to rain. Hard. A flock of ducks passing overhead abruptly descended and began splashing in the giant puddles that had formed. “At least we’re not alone,” I said.
When we got home, I dashed off an email to Jeff Stoekel, describing what had happened and reminding him of his promise that I would have the opportunity to move up if I played well enough. “There’s no challenge for me with PUC3,” I said. “I’d like to play for PUC2 or at least have a chance to try out.”
Jeff disagreed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he replied. He then explained in so many words that he wanted to keep PUC2 as a kind of farm team for the elites, where young players with promise could be developed.
Bottom line — I was too old.
I quit.
