31 - April 3, 1982

A typical day in southwestern Ohio during the first week of April usually meant unseasonably cold weather accompanied by heavy rain showers. In Oklahoma, however, it meant hot and blustery days.

I took the Greyhound bus to Oklahoma City to see Byron play a short time after he had been shipped up to the AAA level. The trip was long and arduous. The bus hit every whistle stop along the way, which ended up being about once every ninety minutes. A trip that would normally take twelve hours lasted a day and a half. The mixed bag of passengers could best be described as eclectic; at worst, they were a who’s who of societal leftovers.

The guy sitting behind me had a week’s worth of stink on his clothes and he managed to stay on the bus for most of my trip. I would’ve changed seats, but the bus was packed. Instead, I just held my nose next to the window vent and inhaled carefully. I also got off at each stop to catch a much-needed breath of fresh air.

When I finally arrived at the bus station in the wee hours of the morning, Byron was there to greet me.

“How was your trip?”

“Long and grueling,” I muttered.

“When we get home, you can crash on my bed. I‘ll just go ahead and sleep on the couch.”

My head hit the pillow and I was out like a light. Byron didn’t interrupt me until late in the afternoon.

“Come on, it’s time to get up.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s time to go to the ballpark.”

Sun shone brightly in my eyes as I rolled out of bed. Not even a hot shower helped me much as I got ready.

“I’ve got four tickets lined up right behind home plate.”

“Four? Why four?”

“My folks are going to be there, plus you, plus Chick Washington.”

“Ah,” I said, “I’m finally going to meet the infamous Chick Washington.”

“I think you’ll like him,” said Byron.

“As many Chick Washington stories as your father has told me through the years, I can’t imagine I wouldn’t.”

We hurried to the park, only so I could wait while the Phillies went through their warm-ups.

I sat where I always sat whenever I watched Byron play ball – right behind home plate and just to the right, between the netting and the home team dugout. It was always comforting to sit in that same familiar place, no matter where we were.

Byron’s at-bat didn’t come until the bottom of the third, since Byron was eighth to bat, only ahead of the pitcher.

Pitch one was a slider that beat Byron to the plate. Pitch two was a fastball, high and inside. The third pitch was a curve that fell low and wide. The umpire called out, Ball!”

Byron should have stepped out of the batter’s box to regain his composure, but he was still tense from the long string of strike outs he’d posted over his last few outings. He gripped the bat tightly in his two hands and hoisted it high above his head, ready for pitch number four.

The fourth pitch came right down the pike and Byron watched it the whole way from the pitcher’s hand to the catcher’s mitt.

“Strike three, batter. You’re out!”

Byron pounded his baseball bat fiercely against home plate and wrung the handle in his hands as he strode back to the dugout.

“Another God damned strikeout,” he grumbled to himself. It was a phrase that had been hissing through his teeth an awful lot lately. He was sick to his stomach about it, too.

When Byron approached the dugout, batting coach Cot Deal greeted him just inside the warm-up circle.

“Ignore the count; the count means nothing.”

As Cot’s guiding hand came upon Byron’s right bicep, Byron jerked away.

“Byron…”

“Not now, Cot, not now.”

Byron looked over to the stands where we sat and watched him play – or at least watched him strike out. The hits still weren’t coming.

“Byron,” called Chick, “come here a second.”

Byron trotted towards us.

“What did Cot say to you?”

“He told me to ignore the count.”

Chick nodded, “yep, that sounds just about right.”

“What do you mean?”

“What was your count on that last pitch?”

“It was one ball and two strikes.”

“What kind of pitch were you expecting?”

“Some junk, maybe a curve, maybe a slider.”

“What kind of pitch did you get?”

“A fastball.”

“Of course you got a fastball, straight down the middle of the plate, too. That was a perfect pitch to hit to any part of the field, but you just stood there and watched it drop right into the catcher’s mitt.”

“I know; I messed up.”

“You didn’t just mess up, you’re messed up. You’ve got all these pitchers roaming freely inside your head like goats in a pasture. They’re eating all your grass and you’re just standin’ there in a soggy old mud patch wondering what’s going wrong.”

Chick never minced words. Still, his words landed gently on Byron’s ears. Byron had heard Chick’s hard advice time and time again. Byron headed into the dugout and sought out Cot Deal.

“I’m sorry, Cot, you’re right.”

“It’s okay. You’re just in a slump, that’s all. We’ll work on that, too.”

Even though his batting average had been sub-par when he was playing AA ball, the Phillies needed a catcher with strong defensive skills, a good arm, and pitcher management and they needed him quick. Byron was the obvious choice. They moved Byron out to Oklahoma City to get coached at the AAA level. His catching fundamentals were nearly perfect.

He batted again in the fifth, seventh, and eighth innings. He went 0-4 with two strike outs. Luckily, the remainder of the batting roster was filled with hitters, so the Phillies didn’t necessarily need his input. Oklahoma City won 7-4.

His batting problems needed an extensive overhaul from the brain down and the next day, the Oklahoma Phillies had a hole in their schedule. Cot Deal and the coaching staff used that free time to overhaul Byron’s batting skills.

I tagged along with Byron. Mr. Johnson and Mr. Washington were there, sitting up in the cheap seats. I climbed up the bleachers to one of the top rows and looked down upon a day of baseball practice.

A tall but stocky man with a snarling face and a cotton-top head of coarse white hair stood in the batting cage talking to one of his players while Byron crouched down in his usual position behind home plate.

The fastballs came in and Byron caught them casually. With each pitch, his mitt dipped into place and met the ball just behind the plate. Each time it did, the ball popped in the soft leather heel of his mitt. Byron flicked his wrist and deposited the ball in the plastic pickle bucket beside him. The ball bounced against the plastic bottom, sounding out the quick, quiet rhythm of pitch-and-catch.

“You know what, Byron?” said Cot, as he interrupted the rhythm of batting practice, “your father did you the worst disservice ever when he bought that Jugs machine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How long did you own that machine?”

“We had a pitching machine as long as I can ever remember.”

“Your father drilled you every day on that machine, right?”

Byron nodded.

“Your father even taught you the proper care and maintenance for it, right?”

“Yeah, of course, you’ve seen me fix our machines.”

“I know, because you’ve taught our team manager things he didn’t even know about those machines, but how many hours of batting practice did you take from that machine?”

“I don’t know, a lot, I guess.”

“A lot?”

Byron rose from his catcher’s stance and stood next to Cot.

“Not much, I guess.”

“Exactly,” said Cot, “your father taught you day in and day out, but he only focused on your catching skills and completely skipped over the batting. I see all these nuances in you, both good and bad. You do these little things behind home plate that set you apart from every single catcher in triple-A ball. In fact, you’re more seasoned as a catcher than some pros I’ve seen. Yet, you make these little mistakes in the batter’s box that set you apart, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come here,” said Cot as he stood behind the boy and directed him through his batting stance, swing, and follow-through.

“Let’s start by breaking down this stance…”

“This stance has worked for me all my life until now.”

“That’s because you were playing against untalented players. When your competition is weak, you become weak. What’s worse is you were hitting the ball back then, so coaches let you make mistake upon mistake without correcting you. Let’s see you swing away.”

Cot directed the pitcher to deliver a fastball straight down the center as he stepped away from the cage. The pitch sailed in at waist-height and Byron connected with it easily, sending a grounder toward first base.

“See? I hit it there, didn’t I?”

“Barely, and that’s because you muscled through it. You’re still using your skill and not proper mechanics. When that ball comes out of the pitcher’s hand, your whole body stiffens, just like a golfer who keeps slicing the ball wide right.”

“How do I fix it?”

“First thing, you relax. Don’t tense up that left arm. Concentrate on the swing, not hitting the ball. Make the bat do all the work. I want you to take this next pitch and swing lightly, aiming the hit for the pitcher’s mound.”

The fastball came in and Byron swung again. The ball popped on the sweet spot and bounced towards the pitcher’s protective netting.

“That was easy,” said Byron.

“Well, it was easier, but you’ve still got a long, long way to go.”

The next day, the Phillies would play again and the four of us were there to watch. Again, Byron went hitless in four at-bats. This time, though, he grounded out twice, fouled out once, and hit a long fly ball that made it all the way to the warning track before being caught by the right fielder.

We all met Byron in the parking lot after the game.

“Hey son,” said Mr. Johnson, “let’s go out and have dinner at the place of your choice.”

Byron took his father up on the offer and we all ended up at a local steakhouse on the outskirts of the city.

“Consider this a congratulatory dinner,” said Mr. Johnson.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Do you know how many boys dream of being professional baseball players?”

“I don’t know.”

“All of them.”

“I’m not a pro.”

“You are,” said Mr. Johnson, “and some day, you’ll be in the major leagues. I know it, your mother knows it. Chick knows it, and even Cot Deal knows it. Why else do you think he’s spending all this time with you?”

Before Byron could answer, Mr. Johnson finished his thought.

“It’s because the Phillies know, sooner or later, they’ll need you in the majors.”

“I’m still not getting any hits. Coach Deal says I spent too much time behind the plate and not enough time at the plate.”

Mr. Johnson nodded, “maybe that was my fault.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Byron, “I never would’ve been here without you.”

“I still should’ve paid more attention to your batting. I could’ve had your sister help you with batting practice as much as we worked on catching.”

Byron shrugged, “It’s easier to second guess the past than it is to fix the future.”

“Son, the older you get, the more you sound like Chick.”

“And what’s so wrong about that?” said Chick.

“Well, that’s a long, long list,” replied Mrs. Johnson, “Where to begin?”

Everyone had a good laugh as we said our good-byes and went our separate ways, but before I went back to Byron’s apartment, Mr. Johnson pulled me aside.

“You know, Jake, I’ve considered you a part of my family for a long, long time, and if you want, Mrs. Johnson and I will get you a return ticket to Cincinnati.”

“I’ve already got a ticket.”

“I mean a plane ticket.”

“Nah, I’m fine.”

“I know how unbearable those bus trips can be. Just come home with me and Mrs. Johnson, our treat.”

“Alright.”

The return trip from Oklahoma City was just under two hours. That was much quicker (not to mention much cozier) than the bus trip there. Also, there were no smelly co-passengers to deal with, only the Johnsons. Still, the constant presence of Mrs. Johnson beside me was a sore reminder of Erica’s absence, especially since I sat across the aisle from Mr. and Mrs. Johnson on the small 20-seat prop-jet.

“It feels a little hollow, though,” said Mrs. Johnson.

“What feels hollow?”

“Not having Erica here. She would’ve loved Oklahoma City,” she said.

“Yeah, I think so.”

A soft silence rose as we both settled into our seat backs. Sounds hardly perceptible before suddenly became prominent cymbal crashes: the drink cart rumbling down the middle aisle and the inquisitive and soothing voice of the flight attendant asking the few of us what we wanted to drink as she handed off an inadequate handful of snacks to us followed by a small plastic cup and napkin. Then came the gurgling of some carbonated beverage and her foot pressing down on the brake and inching to the back of the plane, three passengers at a time.

As I sat there, I knew Erica would’ve loved Oklahoma City. Erica’s sense of adventure was as meager as a trip to a Crabapple Festival on a Saturday afternoon or sitting in the bleachers for a high school homecoming, wrapped tightly in a field blanket. Not having her there left a large hollow spot in the pit of my stomach. It was irreplaceable.

While I returned to college work at the University of Cincinnati, Byron continued working out the kinks in his batting with Cot Deal.

The days of batting practice piled up in front of Byron as he broke old habits and cemented new habits. Within only a few weeks, he doubled his batting average from .180 to over .375. That wasn’t stellar among AAA batters, but it was a long way from where he’d been in Reading and it secured his spot behind home plate n Oklahoma City.

It was just after midnight as I sat alone in the University of Cincinnati Mathematics Computer Lab. It was small and cramped and the Lab Assistant was nose-deep in studies. Meanwhile, I sat and stared at my old green-screened computer monitor. I was obsessed with the constant low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. It reminded me of the tentacles protruding from Erica’s arms and chest when she was just fourteen. That machine hummed quietly, working overtime to keep the little girl alive.

.