In 1977, baseball took an indirect route back to its
roots, where the Dodgers and Yankees were at the top of the heap at season’s
end. The Dodgers used a superb pitching staff, while the Yankees had Curt Flood
to thank for that.
While Flood had departed from pro ball after a dismal 1971
season with the Washington Senators, his court case against professional baseball opened the door for
players’ union representative Marvin Miller. He used the Flood case and the
oversight of team owners to usher in the age of free agency.
It all began with Andy Messersmith.
Messersmith, who requested a no-trade clause in his contract
with the Dodgers, was refused. Still, he pitched for the Dodgers throughout the
’75 season without a contract, posting a 2.26 Earned Run Average (among the
lowest in the National League) and earning the Gold Glove Award to boot. At the
end of the season, Marvin Miller urged Messersmith (along with Dave McNally,
who had been injured that year) to file a grievance and seek arbitration.
On December 23rd, arbitrator Peter Seitz upheld
Messersmith’s grievance, stating the pitcher was no longer bound by the
contract. After all appeals on the owners’ behalf were exhausted, players and
owners drafted a new agreement, allowing any player with over six years of
experience sovereignty when his contract expired.
Oakland pitcher Catfish Hunter was the first free agent.
When he left in 1975, the A’s faltered. Charlie O’Finley, the A’s owner, knew
that slugger Reggie Jackson would soon follow suit. At the end of the ’76
season, Jackson’s contract would end, which meant he would be a free agent,
too. Unwilling to pay Jackson, O’Finley dealt him off to the Baltimore Orioles
for the remaining year of his contract.
After his stint with
the Orioles, Jackson signed a five-year, three million dollar contract with the
Yankees; it would be a harbinger of things to come for both the Yankees and
Major League Baseball. Finally, the players were getting paid what they were
worth.
Meanwhile, life in Mount Adams remained a little more
low-key.
Throughout the Midwest, it always takes a little while for
spring to unfold her thin green wings and envelop the earth in her earthly
scent. In the meantime, we waited while Old Man Winter decided when to let go.
“Come on,” bellowed Mr. Klein, “it’s time to hit the
diamond.”
“Coach, it’s 40 degrees out.”
“Of course it’s 40 degrees. It’s March, it’s Ohio.”
Coach Klein snagged the equipment bag and hoisted it over
his arm. He was dressed modestly, wearing only the basic baseball uniform:
jersey, knee-length pants, stirrups, athletic socks, and cleats. The rest of us
kept our jackets on while we took thefield. Those of us who had gloves wore
them. The rest of us just spent our time between plays blowing hot air into our
hands and shoving them into the crotch of our pants like football players. We
tried anything to keep ourselves warm.
“If you guys wouldn’t stand there like scarecrows, you
wouldn’t be so cold.”
Mr. Klein tossed pitches to himself as we took turns
fielding. It was barely enough action to keep us warm in the outfield. I sprang
up and down in place while I waited for my turn.
“Fitzie! Look alive!”
Andy was still in the infield, but Mr. Klein had moved him
from pitcher to third base. His pitching arm had gone sour during his time at
the Virginia Military Academy.
“I think I feel rigor mortis setting in, coach.”
“Less time talking, more time fielding.”
Mr. Klein popped a quick grounder in Andy’s direction. Andy
shuffled to the left, but the ball was just out of reach.
“Why didn’t you dive for it?”
“The ground’s covered in snow.”
“It’ll make for a softer landing. I thought you spent two
years in the Army. You seem awfully soft.”
“Hit me another.”
“Alright.”
Mr. Klein clipped the ball towards Andy and Andy charged the
infield. The ball bounced at the leading edge of the dirt and bounced over
Andy’s glove. Andy had misjudged it completely.
“Hit me another,” said Andy.
“So you’ll miss it?”
“I’ll get it.”
Mr. Klein went ahead and hit another ball towards Andy. It
was a line drive. Andy moved his glove across his body. The ball popped in his
glove as he snatched it out of the air. He dug the ball out of the glove and
fired it towards first. Lee got into position, securing his left foot against
first and stretching out to receive the throw. It landed perfectly in Lee’s
glove. Lee fired it home. Byron snagged it and dropped it casually into the
plastic pail next to Coach Klein. It landed with that familiar hollow thud.
Fielding practice continued for another half an hour. All
the while, Coach Klein chatted with Byron.
“Byron, can you do me a favor for me and work with Fitzie on
his fielding?”
“Yessir.”
“Maybe you and the guys can play games of hot box during
your free time.”
“Yessir.”
Byron had already been appointed captain of the group a long
time ago, on and off the field. It wasn’t a big deal when Coach Klein asked for
help. Byron took the mantle, working fielding practice into our lives like he
had done on his own.
“Jake, what are you up to tonight?”
“Nothing much.”
“Good, let’s play ball.”
I shrugged, “the ground’s too wet.”
“So we’ll go to an indoor park.”
Byron gathered up the troops and we headed to the indoor
baseball park near downtown. Organized leagues were playing and the park was
packed.
“What now?”
“We’ll find something.”
Byron drove back to the high school and headed to the
gymnasium. While the track team used the basketball court for wind sprints and
jogging, we played catch along the sidelines.
“Hey, boys,” said Mr. Durant (the track coach), what are you
doing here this late?”
“Just practicing,” said Byron.
“You know you can’t practice here without adult
supervision.”
“Yessir, but you’re here and we’ll keep a low profile.”
“Byron, you know I can’t let you do that.”
“How about you let us play for just tonight and I’ll arrange
something with the athletic director tomorrow?”
“Okay, but just for tonight.”
Byron shook Mr. Durant’s hand and we resumed playing.
The next day, Byron checked in with the athletic director.
“Mr. Lafferty, I need to know if it’s possible to arrange
for extra practice time for the team.”
Mr. Lafferty leaned back in his chair.
“You know that the state athletic association puts a limit
on organized practice, right?”
“Of course, but this is just a couple of guys.”
“You can’t have practice on school grounds when there’s a
coach around.”
“Oh, Coach Klein won’t t be there.”
“It’s still shaky grounds.”
“Maybe we could play at the Junior High instead.”
“You can’t play on any school grounds in the district,
period.”
“It’s too cold and wet to play outside.”
“Do you think it’d work if I put calls through to local
universities?”
Byron nodded.
“Give me a few days.”
“We need somewhere now.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” said Mr. Lafferty, “I’ll get my
assistant right on it.”
Byron was called into the principal’s office by the end of
the day. He waited his turn, along with the delinquents, to talk to an
administrator. It was only moments until he was ushered to the AD’s office.
“Welcome back, Mr. Johnson.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lafferty.”
“I’ve got nothing but good news.”
“I’ll take the best news first, then.”
Mr. Lafferty chuckled.
“My assistant spoke with several colleges and universities
and here’s a contact list for all the available indoor facilities in the area.”
“Thanks again, Mr. Lafferty.”
“No problem, Mr. Johnson.”
Byron worked on the list from Mr. Klein’s office. Even as
early as two o’clock, athletic directors at the college level were hard to
find. Luckily, he did get in touch with the AD at Xavier.
“Hello, this is Byron Johnson, I’m a baseball player at Mt.
Adams, a local high school, and I’m looking for a practice facility for me and
my buddies.”
“Son, haven’t you checked with your high school coach?”
“Yeah, but there’s a limit on organized practices at our school.”
The coach nodded.
“You’re always welcome to play at Xavier.”
Between all those places we visited that spring, we explored
Cincy’s baseball culture to its fullest.
We loaded into Byron’s car and headed to the Xavier campus,
which was barely a ten-minute drive from his house.
The diamond was pretty standard, with a squared fence that
looked like a diamond ring. A long, rectangular aluminum building stood
adjacent to the field, the sign out front said, “Xavier Multipurpose Athletic
Facility”, so we went inside.
The atmosphere was streamlined and professional. Rows of
batting cages were busy with batting practice. Other players took long strides
across a patch of AstroTurf, stretching out their quads and hamstrings. Others
were participating in fielding practice and shagging fly balls.
We surveyed the place as Byron led the way.
“I think this is it over here.”
“You must be Byron Johnson,” said one of the batting
coaches.
“Yessir, I sure am.”
“I’m Walt Welker. I’m the head coach of Xavier baseball.
What’s everyone’s name?”
After we introduced ourselves, Mr. Welker pointed us to our
practice area.
“If you guys need anything at all, just let me know. As they
say, ‘Mi casa es su casa’.”
“Thanks, Mr. Welker.”
Our corner of the practice facility seemed far and away from
all the commotion in the other end. We lined up in two groups of two and
pitched the ball back and forth, switching partners every so often and watching
the Xavier players go through their drills.
A little later, Coach Welker approached us.
“You guys want to practice with the team?”
We all nodded enthusiastically.
“Then come on, we can always use fresh faces.”
Coach Welker led us to the practice field where the team was
scrimmaging. The Xavier players easily had half a foot and thirty pounds on us high
schoolers. Still, they welcomed us graciously.
“Hey, I’m Matt Willard. I’m the team captain.”
“I’m Jacob Jolley. I usually play right field.”
“I’m Lee Heinz, shortshop.”
“Andy Fitzpatrick, second base and utilty.”
“I’m Byron Johnson, and I’m the catcher.”
Byron stretched his left hand out to Matt and shook hands.
“You’re a southpaw, too. Wait a second…you’re a catcher?”
Byron popped his shiny black catcher's mitt and flapped it
at Matt. Matt nodded agreeably.
“Come with me, I’ll introduce you to our catchers.”
The rest of us split into our separate tribes. I hung out
with the outfielders. We continued to stretch and lob baseballs back and forth
in the outfield. Meanwhile, for Byron and the catching crew, it was business as
usual. Byron tagged along with Doug McCoy, the varsity catcher.
“What’s it like playing in college?”
“It’s nothing like high school. Everything’s more intense
and competitive. Guys at this level eat, drink, and sleep baseball.”
“Good.”
“Not always,” said Doug, “sometimes it eats up all your
time.”
Byron followed Doug to the bullpen. Catchers worked with the
pitchers as Byron watched.
“Jose! Venga, venga!” Doug commanded one of his catchers
with the wave of his hand. The catcher trotted over to Byron and Doug.
“Te necessite para tomar control del lanzadore. Se controle
el conversation. Esta el jefe.”
With an affirmative nod from Jose, the conversation was
over. Jose trotted back to the pitcher’s mound and conversed with the pitcher.
“You speak Spanish?” asked Byron.
“Of course I do,” Doug replied, “There are so many players
from Latin America these days, so it’s the most overlooked skill in any
catcher’s arsenal.”
While Byron learned the finer points, Fitzie was back to
basics.
“Andy and Lee, you guys take the field,” said Coach Welker,
“let my fielders take a breather.”
Fitzie and Lee took the field at second and short. Coach
Welker sent rabbits to first and third.
Coach Welker pointed the bat to the third baseman, “Okay,
one out with guys on the corners. What’s the play?”
“I hold the man on third. Then I get the force at second.”
Coach Welker pointed to first.
“I hold the man on third. Then I get the force at second.”
Coach pointed to Lee.
“I hold the man on third. Then, I get the force at second.”
Coach pointed to Fitz. There was a pregnant pause. Fitzie
was lost in thought.
“You! The second baseman. What’s the play?”
“Oh…hold the runner at third and work the fielder’s choice.”
“Slow response, but good answer.”
The coach tossed the ball into the air and swatted it
towards Fitz. Fitz, who was playing deep, sat his glove on the ground and
fielded the ball. He converted the out at second. Meanwhile the man on third
crossed home plate.
“Hey, second base, what happened with the runner on third?”
“He was ahead of the hit.”
“That’s because you were playing too deep. Anytime you got a
runner on third, you play shallow so you can make the cut-off.”
Fitzie moved inward, squeezing the field of play by several
yards.
“That’s good, but now there’s nobody on third.”
The players laughed. Fitzie moved back into his original
position, deep at second.
“Move in a little bit there, second base.”
Fitzie was just plain out of shape. Not physically, but
mentally. His baseball brain had withered considerably with two years at
Virginia Military Academy.
It would take a lot of work to re-create the muscle memory
that accompanies a seasoned baseball player. Still, with Byron and Company, it
was destined to happen.
“Alright boys, let’s bring ‘’er in.”
The team gathered near the pitcher’s mound for an
end-of-practice huddle. Coach Welker gave them a pep talk and sent them to the
showers. Byron thanked Coach Welker and our gang headed home.
First, we dropped off Lee and Fitzie. Then, Byron and I
headed home. As the car turned the corner on the approach to our houses, there were
cars lining both sides of the street. Byron passed my house and parked about
five houses down the road.
“I wonder what this is all about,” I said.
“I hope it’s not at my house,” said Byron.
I did not think about it, but the shadow of death always
lingered about the Johnson house, whether they wanted it there or not. With
three people dealing with chronic cases of Sickle Cell, it was only natural.
Luckily, everyone was alive and kicking at the Johnson house.
“What’s going on with all these cars?”
“Mr. Larinov passed away.”
“Oh,” said Byron.
It was the best managed response from either one of us. We
never did like the old man. In fact, we kind of hated him. He was a grizzly old
man. When he did speak to us, he spoke with a snarl. I personally didn’t think
he had one bone in his body.
“I’m fixing a ham,” said Mrs. Johnson, “I want you and your
sister to take it over to Mrs. Larinov.”
“Do we have to?”
“Why on earth would you ask that? Mrs. Larinov is alone now.
She needs our help more than ever.”
I tagged along with both Byron and Erica. When we rang the
doorbell, we were greeted by her son.
“Come on in!” he said as he held the door open for us. We
cut through the crowd and placed the platter on the china cabinet in the back.
It was just about the only free spot in the house. The rest of the counters
were covered in lunch meats, baked goods, and an endless number of sweets.
“Hello, kiddies!”
It was Mrs. Larinov, who was in unusually high spirits.
“Let me fix you a ham sammie.”
Mrs. Larinov started poking through the deli meats.
“Jacob, do you like ham or would you rather have turkey?”
“Turkey.”
“What kind of cheese do you like: American, Swiss, Cheddar,
or something else?”
“Uh…Swiss.”
“Good, good,” she said.
She turned back to the sandwich, loading it with lettuce and
onions and tomatoes. I didn’t like any of those things, but I didn’t correct
her. She grabbed a fistful of potato chips and dumped them on my plate. I took
it graciously.
“Byron, Erica, what would you like?”
“We’re okay, ma’am.”
“Erica? You’re so fragile and tiny. You must want a sammie
too.”
Erica looked to Byron. He shrugged.
“Yes, Mrs. Larinov.”
“I bet you like ham and cheese. Am I right?”
Erica nodded.
“Of course I’m right. Let me make you something special.”
While this elderly woman was crafting sandwiches for us
kids, her husband was in deep freeze at the local funeral home. It was very
strange to think Mr. Larinov was gone. Then again, we were still a little
relieved, even if we had not dealt with him for a long, long time.
“Sit here, kiddies.”
She guided us to the sitting room. The furniture in that
room was immaculate, as if it had not been touched since the day it was placed
there. A plush red settee and high-back chair sat next to a walnut coffee
table. Everything was ornately decorated. Each of us sat on the edge of our
seats, careful not to spill a single drop.
“Oh, you can relax yourselves,” she said, “furniture is made
to sit upon and use, not to look at.”
We slumped a bit, but I still felt stiff and uncomfortable.
All the adults gathered in the next room. It was okay, because we were dressed
in shorts and t-shirts while the adults looked dapper. It was good they left us
in the sitting room. As soon as we finished eating, we went to the kitchen.
Mrs. Larinov’s sisters, who were busy washing dishes, took our plates. We snuck
through the side door as soon as the coast was clear.
“You’re back already?” asked Byron’s mom.
“That house is full of old people.”
“Hey, those people are my age.”
“It was boring,” added Erica.
“Show some respect, Mrs. Larinov’s husband is gone –
forever, do not take that lightly.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.”
“Alright, scoot on up to your room. You don’t need to
trouble yourself with these things.”
Not long afterwards, Byron went to his bedroom, too.
Although I wanted to go out back and play catch, I knew better. I just returned
home.
“Hey, Jake, did you hear about Mr. Larinov?”
I nodded, “I was just over there with Byron and Erica. It
was really strange.”
“How?”
“Mrs. Larinov just started making sandwiches for us.”
“Everyone’s got their way of dealing with things, I guess.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“The funeral’s tomorrow night. I think we should go.”
The next morning, cars still lined our street as the Larinov
family continued accepting visitors. I went to Byron’s and the two of us biked
down to Lee’s house.
“We should stop and get Fitz,” I said.
“He’s working at the swimming pool, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, probably.”
We coasted down to the Heinz house and dumped our bikes in
the driveway. The house was quiet, except for Mrs. Heinz, who was dusting the
living room furniture.
“Hello, Mrs. Heinz.”
“Oh, hello boys, he’s sleeping, of course, let me fetch him
for you.”
We went to the kitchen and helped ourselves to cold cereal
(as we always did) and waited for Lee to get ready.
“Mrs. Heinz,” said Byron, “did you hear about Mr. Larinov?”
“Who’s Mr. Larinov?”
“Our next door neighbor; he died yesterday.”
“Good heavens, that’s terrible.”
“I’m kind of glad he’s gone,” I said.
“Why would you say that?”
“He was a mean old man with mean old dogs.”
“Well,” interrupted Byron, “he was just protecting his
property. I mean, you did break his porch awning.”
I scowled at Byron.
“He was just protecting his stuff.”
Lee turned the corner at that moment, “Whose stuff?”
“We’re talking about that moment when Jake broke Mr.
Larinov’s porch.”
“Oh, you guys were doing chores for like a month, right?”
I nodded.
“He sure was a mean old man.”
“What did he ever do to you?” asked Lee’s mom.
“If it wasn’t about us trespassing on his lawn, it was about
his dogs…or us hitting Wiffle Balls into his backyard. I’m glad he’s gone.”
“Leonard Heinz! Watch your mouth!”
“He was a mean man, mom.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to badmouth him. We should
go pay our respects.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s just the right thing to do.”
After breakfast, we tossed the ball back and forth until
afternoon rolled around. Then, we hung out in Lee’s living room, watching the
Reds’ day game on television. Mrs. Heinz served us pigs in a blanket and potato
chips while we watched the Reds play the Cubs at Wrigley Field. Lee kept score
in his score pad while Mr. Heinz sat in his recliner and watched the game with
us.
“The Reds sure are lousing it up this year.”
“They’ll turn it around,” said Lee.
“I doubt it. Reds Management doesn’t have a clue. I mean,
Woodie Fryman and Dale Murray…two mediocre pitchers that aren’t even worth the
bat of Tony Perez, let alone adding Will McEnaney to the mix.”
Woodie Fryman was the starting pitcher that day. As if to
validate Mr. Heinz’ claims, Fryman allowed four straight hits to the first four
batters, including a homerun by Murcer to give the Cubs a 4-0 lead after a
single inning. The Cubs would end up winning, 5-1, and to top it off, we all
had to go to a funeral.
As we rode to the funeral, my grandmother primped and
preened my brother and me, licking the palm of her hand and pressing our
cowlicks firmly against our scalps. At 16, it felt strange that I was getting
that sort of attention. Still, I remained motionless as she tended to my hair.
It gave her something to do and something to keep my mind off the funeral.
The Macedoian Orthodox Church stood proudly on the corner;
two large brown boxes of stone and mortar topped with a single onion-shaped
copper dome, stained and tarnished green.
The church parking lot was packed, just like our street had
been for two days prior. We didn’t understand it at all. Mr. Larinov was a
snarling old relic of a man.
The greeting line extended out the doors and around the
corner. Hordes of people gathered around Mrs. Larinov and her children. It was
almost thirty minutes until we even made it to the doors.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Larinov,” said my mother, “we’re so
deeply sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you so much for coming. I thoroughly enjoyed
your son’s visit to my house yesterday. He was a perfect gentleman.”
Other than the food, I hardly remembered the visit at all.
We entered the cathedral and, for the most part, it was just
as boxy and Spartan as the outside. The only exception was the wall behind the
altar, which was ornately decorated with gold-emblazoned friezes and
candelabras from ceiling to floor.
“Let’s sit next to the Johnsons,” said my father as he
pointed out Byron and his family.
I eased into the pew first, shuffling past the couple that
sat closest to the aisle. I sat next to Erica as everyone greeted us.
The ceremony was long and monotonous and I was glad when it
was over. We rode silently to the cemetery as the Johnsons’ car followed behind
us. When we got out, we gathered just outside the burial tent. Erica was at my
side again. The sun was bright and the wind was wild. While the pastor spoke, I
stared at the ground. Erica’s hand, gloved in white, brushed against mine.
Then, her two littlest fingers came into mine and we stood there silently as
the sermon continued. When it finished, Erica withdrew her hand without a word
and we returned to our separate cars.
It wasn’t until later that night that we saw each other
again. I was at Byron’s with the guys. We were, of course, in the backyard
throwing the baseball back and forth. Erica was there, too, with her best
friend Barb.
“Look at all those people,” said Fitz.
“It’s been like that all week,” I replied.
“I say ‘good riddance’.”
I shrugged.
“Maybe he just got mean as he got older,” said Lee.
“He’s been mean ever since we were little kids – I bet he’s
always been like that. I always hated him.”
The rest of us remained silent as we tossed the ball back
and forth. The baseball popped each time it landed in the rawhide of our
gloves. It must’ve been an unpleasant punctuation to the people saying goodbye
to Mr. Larinov.
Still, that didn’t stop us from playing baseball. It seemed
that nothing did.
.
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