That Championship Season
Comets Story 14
Ah, March! Howling winds, torrential rains and mind-numbing temperatures. I was in great spirits. Great because it marked the beginning of my second season with the Comets.
Our first game was against Saint-Lô, a team almost as tough as Caen and managed by a former pro from the Dominican Republic.
I was stretching and trying to keep warm when, just before game time, Axel cornered me by the dugout and said he needed a favor. “Mo Mo is pitching today but says his arm is hurting. I remember you said you used to pitch. Can you give me an inning or two if I need you?”
GULP!
Even though I’d long fantasized about pitching again, Axel’s question stunned me. Throwing against a German bunker or bale of hay was one thing. The thought of taking the mound again after so many years was overwhelming.
No way am I ready for this. The last time I pitched was in high school. I remembered what doctors had said, that my injury was permanent and there was no fixing it.
I was about to tell Axel no when an entirely different feeling washed over me. It wasn’t confidence exactly; it was more a tingling sensation, a desire of getting out there once more and showing the Comets what I could do, or hoped to do. “I’ll give it a try, Axel. No promises but if you need me, I’ll give it my best shot.”
Then, just as suddenly, the tingling turned to trembling. Catcher Jean-Phi asked if I were cold. “Yeah, kind of,” I mumbled. No way could I tell him I was scared shitless. Jean-Phi stepped onto the field and hollered to Petie in the stands to fetch my jacket. “He’s freezing!”
Petie hustled to the car and fished out my old parka from the trunk, a dirty, worn turquoise blue jacket emblazoned with “ABC News, Sarajevo 1984.” It was part of the gear that had been handed out to reporters covering the winter Olympic Games there. (see back view at left) The Comets broke into laughter when they saw it. I shrugged as Petie draped it over my shoulders and sat down beside me. I was still shaking uncontrollably but the chilly weather had nothing to do with it. Petie patted my knee. “It’s okay,” she said. “You can do this.”
The moment I both dreaded and dreamed about came in the fourth inning. With the Comets ahead 6–3, Axel signaled for me to take over.
Drawing a deep breath, I pulled off the parka and bolted from the dugout. Try to look confident, in charge, I thought to myself. But when I reached the mound and peered toward home plate, I shuddered. It seemed a mile away. I began my warm up tosses. That’s when one of my spikes caught on the pitching rubber and I nearly fell.
Petie was watching. She’d moved to a screen directly behind the catcher to get a better view. She could see I was off balance and rushing. She also could tell I was favoring my right shoulder and half-arming my pitches. Either it’s bothering him or he trying to avoid putting it to the test, she thought. “Nice and easy, Klad,” she hollered. “Just relax and take your time.”
After completing my warm-ups, I nodded to the umpire I was ready. From the bleachers I could hear the girlfriends of some of the Comets shouting, “Vas-y, Don! C’mon Don!” For a moment it was high school all over again. I looked toward the bleachers and grinned.
Then the lead-off hitter stepped to the plate — and I stopped grinning. Good Lord, he’s practically a midget! How can I find the strike zone with a guy like this? It reminded me of Eddie Gaedel, the 3’7” midget who was immortalized
in baseball’s record books after St. Louis Browns owner Bill Veeck brought him in as a publicity stunt to pinch hit against the Detroit Tigers in 1951. Gaedel was ordered not to swing and was walked on four straight pitches.
The hitter for Saint-Lô hitter was a little bigger, about five feet. Like Gaedel, he walked on four straight pitches.
As if on cue, the Saint-Lô players began banging on the metal walls of their dugout with their fists and bats. Ignore it, don’t let them get to you, but the noise was so deafening that I thought I was trapped in a boom box.
The second batter was retired on a fly ball but next two walked, loading the bases. My pitches were sailing outside, forcing the catcher to dive to his right in order to catch them.
“Settle down, Klad,” Petie shouted. “Right at ‘em.”
As the Saint-Lô players began drumming on their dugout again, I took a breath and went into my wind-up. The batter connected, lining a one-hopper that glanced off the shortstop’s glove for an error and brought in a run. “No big deal,” I told the shortstop who was clearly upset. “We’ll get the next one.”
And we did, on another grounder to short, only this time the shortstop fielded the ball cleanly and turned it into a double play to retire the side.
I tried to catch my breath as I returned to the dugout. “You okay?” Axel asked.
“I am now. A few butterflies at first but they’re gone.”
The long and short of it was that I survived. I lasted two more innings and gave up a couple more runs before running out of gas. Afterwards, Petie, who had watched it all from behind the backstop, joined him in the dugout. “How was it?” she asked.
“Kind of surreal, like a different time, a different place. I could picture exactly what I wanted to do in my mind but my body sometimes did something else. You saw what my control was like: it stunk.”
“It could have been better,” Petie agreed. “Every time you released the ball, you were falling toward the left instead of going straight toward the plate. But that’s something you can work on. Whatever, I hope you feel good about today. Not bad for someone who hasn’t pitched since he was seventeen.”
There was another consolation as well: I got a couple of hits and we won 10–7.
That first game was a harbinger for the season. The Comets were on fire and rolled over everyone: the Huskies of Rouen, the Seagulls of Cherbourg, the Cabs of Les Andelys, even mighty Caen.
But with those victories came worrying signs. It was the way the players carried themselves, with a swagger, not unlike the team they despised most: arch-rival Caen. It was also in the way they talked. I got concerned when I overheard one Comet brag that he knew more about baseball than Axel.
“Maybe it’s just that they’re growing up, flexing their muscles a little bit,” Petie said. “After all, most of them have been with Axel since grade school.”
They’d been his pupils then where he taught physical education; they’d learned baseball at his knee. Growing up together, they were, in some ways, almost like a family and that’s what I loved when I joined the club the year before.
Now, however, cracks were appearing, and they were about to split wide open.
It happened on the most important day of the season, the day the we played for the championship of Normandy. Our opponents were the Wallabies of Louviers. Because we finished with a better record, 12–2, we had the right to choose where to play but it had to be a neutral field. “What do you think, Don?” Axel asked. I didn’t hesitate: “Rouen. If it’s good enough for Joan of Arc, it’s good enough for us.”
“You mean as long as we don’t get burned?” Axel laughed.
It was in Rouen, the ancient capital of Normandy, where Saint Joan was imprisoned before being burned at the stake in the 15th century. In recent times, it had emerged as one of the most important baseball cities in France. It was headquarters of the Pole Ressources Nationaux, one of several sports academies which provide training for the country’s best athletes. It was also home of the Rouen Huskies, an elite club which had several players playing professionally in the U.S.
For the Comets, the most impressive feature was the baseball field, a diamond nestled in a small valley on the city’s outskirts. The one drawback was that it was shoe-horned between a hospital and major expressway, which effectively blocked the circulation of air. On hot muggy days, the results could be stifling.
Which is how it was the morning of the championship game. Not a breeze was to be found. The park felt like a steam bath and I could hardly breathe. I was also nervous and hyperventilating. Only when the umpire cried “Play ball!” did I start to feel better.
Being the home team, we dashed onto the field. I trotted out to first base and began lobbing grounders to the infielders. Mo Mo made no complaints about a sore arm. No way was he going to give up the chance to pitch in the Comets’ first-ever championship.
The game got off to a fast start. Mo Mo got the first two batters on strike outs, the third on a nubber to first which I fielded easily for the final out of the inning.
In our half, we jumped to an early lead with three straight hits and a walk. I was batting fifth and doubled to make the score 3–0. My hit prompted the Louviers manager to call time and have a quick chat with the pitcher. It was the last “quick” thing of the game. When play resumed, it felt like slow motion with the pitcher working at a snail’s pace. Between each pitch, he’d rub the ball, hitch his pants, tug at his cap, kick the rubber, wipe the perspiration from his forehead, then shake off the catcher’s sign — a ritual that could last nearly a minute. It was putting everyone to sleep — especially me.
Perched off second after my hit, I felt myself drifting, my mind wandering. What a lovely ballpark. Wonder where Joan of Arc was held before she was executed. The tower’s around here somewhere. Whew, sure is hot.
Suddenly, the pitcher whirled and threw to the second baseman who had crept to the bag. I was caught flat-footed. To avoid being tagged, I bolted toward third. An instant later I was on the ground clutching my left leg in agony. I had pulled hamstring. Time was called as teammates helped me from the field. The championship game we’d worked so hard to get to, and I was out of the game! Only one inning. I couldn’t believe it.
My absence, however, made little difference. The Comets were playing superbly and Mo Mo was pitching like a dream. By the fourth inning, the team had tacked on four more runs to make the score 7–0.
(Don, at left, hangs on after pulling hamstring)
That’s when things came apart.
With the Wallabies at bat, a ground ball was hit to the second baseman. It should have been an easy out but Axel, who had replaced me at first base, dropped the throw. Mo Mo threw his arms up in disgust. Then he flicked his glove at Axel, opening and closing it, as if to say, “This is how to catch, dummy.” Axel was stung, but it was about to get worse.
Two innings later, a Louviers batter hammered a line drive to left that was just foul. But the umpire, whose view was partially blocked, called it fair. Howls of protest erupted from the Comets. “Are you blind?” yelled Mo Mo. Jean-Phi ripped off his catcher’s mask and looked at the umpire in disbelief. Antoine, in left field, ran toward the foul line, pointing frantically to where the ball had landed.
The umpire held his ground. “Fair ball! Play on!” he barked.
But when the inning was completed and the Comets had returned to their dugout, their protests only grew louder. Finally, the umpire had enough.
“Time!” he bellowed. Yanking off his mask, he let the players have it. “I’m the umpire, I make the calls, I’m the one who decides! Me! Not you! Understand?” He glared at the players to make sure they got the message.
They didn’t. The grumbling continued, and that’s when Axel, one of the gentlest, most easy-going people you’d ever meet, exploded. Still reeling from what happened earlier with Mo Mo, he lit into his players with a vengeance. “I don’t give a damn whether the umpire is right or wrong! I’m warning you, if I hear one more word, I’m forfeiting the game. I’ve had it! One more word and it’s over!”
The players reacted as if they’d been slapped in the face. Never in their lives had they witnessed such an outburst from their coach. This wasn’t the Axel they knew. Jean-Phi, whose role as catcher had given him a clear view of the foul ball and who was frequently the club’s peace-maker, was incredulous. “You mean we can’t say anything? We don’t have the right to protest?”
Axel was irate and trembling with rage. “I said that’s enough, and I mean it!”
I was on the bench at the far end of the dugout and tried to calm things. “Hey guys, you’ve got a game to finish. Just let it go.”
With Axel’s outburst, however, it was as if a candle had been snuffed out. No longer was there any life in the dugout. Complete silence prevailed. For the rest of the game, the Comets simply went through the motions, holding on to their lead and winning 12–3.
When the final out was recorded and the Comets were crowned champions, the players rushed onto the field to exchange hugs and high-fives. For a brief moment, they were able to put aside the traumas and personal upsets of the game and enjoy what they achieved.
After the victory photo was taken, Axel stood off to the side almost in a daze, as if he weren’t part of the team. I struggled to my feet and hobbled over. “Come on, Axel,” I said. “They couldn’t have done it without you. You should be proud.”
He looked sad. “I don’t know, Don. This was our first championship, something special, but it sure doesn’t feel that way.”
In the aftermath of their best season ever, Axel faced a new challenge: keeping the team together. But it was too late. Mo Mo was the first to leave, quitting to play with another team. Catcher Jean-Phi went off to university to study math. Vlad, the Cuban shortstop, left the Comets to return to Beuzeville to manage his bar and care for a newborn son. Damien, a slick-fielding third baseman, was accepted into an English program in Great Britain. David, the Comets’ fleet-footed centerfielder, enrolled in medical school but a few months later gave it up to become a pastry chef.
One by one, the players departed, moving on to new jobs, new schools, new lives. By the next season, nearly everyone who constituted the core of the Comets would be gone.
What never occurred to me — what I never dreamed — was that I would be gone, too.
— Don
