Big League Dreams Ch 01

Big League Dreams: Chapter 01

I started this story a while ago, before COVID-19 and before the likely contraction of baseball's minor leagues. So, it exists in a fantasy world where these things didn't happen.

I hope that the quality of the story allows you to ignore that.

Also, while I never specifically say what baseball organization is featured, it is based on one team, which is pretty obvious, especially if you have read some of my earlier stories.

But I've taken liberties with locations of minor league teams, and my descriptions of the minor league cities and towns are completely fictional.

As with all of my stories, they are not submitted until completed, so the chapters will appear every few days.

Thanks for reading!

Where I grew up, the end of August was a time of warm days and cool nights, when you could begin to feel the impending crispness of autumn. Down here, though, it was still sticky and hot all of the time. I came out of the shower, towel wrapped around my waist and shower shoes flopping against the tile floor, when the clubhouse kid ran up to me to tell me that Kenny, our manager, wanted to see me. Early in the season, when I was struggling with my command, I would've worried that I was about to be released, sent home to a life of coaching high school and teaching English or something like that. But since the All-Star break, I had been lights out. I was third in the league in ERA, second in wins, and fifth in strikeouts. I had begun to see the occasional mention of my name as a prospect in discussions on the big team's fan sites (yes, I read them), and I even nudged into a late season list on

Baseball Prospectus

.

So, I wasn't completely surprised when, after quickly getting dressed, I was told by Kenny that the late season callups meant that I was moving up to the team's top A league team for the playoffs. He shook my hand, told me I had worked hard and deserved it, and handed me information about my flight first thing in the morning. I found Larry, our pitching coach, thanked him for his help, told a couple of the guys, cleared out my locker and went back to the apartment I shared with 4 teammates to pack. As I was driving home, I called my parents and gave them the good news. I knew they were worried when I was struggling early, and they definitely helped me keep my spirits up until things turned around.

The apartment was, as you might expect, a dump. The five of us shared 2 bedrooms and a couch, and the place was filled with dirty clothing and baseball equipment, take out containers, pizza boxes and cans of cheap beer. It smelled of sweat and rotting food, and even the fans that we had set up didn't really move the air enough to create a comfortable breeze. I had no clue what my housing situation would be like where I was heading, another southern town, a bit bigger than where I had spent all of this season until now. It wasn't hard for me to throw my stuff into a suitcase, a duffle, and an equipment bag. The rest could be thrown away. I cracked open a celebratory beer and played video games until my roommates arrived, and that led to a few more celebratory beers, although I could sense a tinge of jealousy that I was the one chosen to move up, especially from Tim, who was drafted higher than me, and was counted on to be the team ace, until he wasn't and I was.

My phone woke me early the next morning. After clearing the fog from my head, I got dressed, made a pot of coffee and called a cab to take me to the airport. It was already feeling like another warm, humid day. At some point, I realized, I'd have to figure out what to do with the car, but that could wait for another day.

The flight was uneventful, and I was surprised to see that the team had sent someone to pick me up at the airport and drive me to the stadium. The facilities here were newer than the "historic" stadium I had left, although admittedly, they lacked its character. But it was a step up the ladder, which was the only thing that mattered.

A few of the guys were already in the clubhouse, some getting treatment or preparing to do extra work, and others were just sitting, listening to music on their earbuds or playing cards. I saw a few guys who I knew from spring training or as former teammates, and they greeted me. I still felt like an outsider, and I was—most of these guys had been here most of the season, had jelled and become a playoff team. I was the new guy, coming in as a probably weaker replacement for their best pitcher, Ramon Cardenas, a fireballing Dominican, who as the dominoes fell, was called up to AA. Being the best pitcher on a low A team guaranteed me nothing here, and these guys knew it. And so did I.

I left my crap against a wall and found my way to the manager's office. Teo, the manager, and Al, the pitching coach, who I had worked with a little during the spring, welcomed me, told me the schedule and when I would be starting, and congratulated me on the strong season I had so far. They told me to get settled, but to be back by 1:30 for the pitchers' stretch and meeting.

"Uh, Teo, any idea about where I'm supposed to stay?"

He looked up from his papers and smiled before responding, his voice gruff, with just a hint of a Spanish accent. "Oh, yeah, I forgot. You have two options. The club will pay for a few nights in a hotel, but then you're on your own—and since you won't be here long, that's an option. Or, maybe you could move in with the family that Ramon was living with, the Pullmans."

I thought about it. I'd be here maybe a month, if all went well, and on my salary, it might be nice to stay with a host family. I'd never done it before, and figured I'd give it a shot. I could see Teo fiddling with his computer, and he printed out a page. When the printer stopped whirring, he handed me a sheet with a name, address and phone number. "Skip, I think I'd like to try the host family."

Al jumped in. "Good choice, kid. The Pullmans are good people. Let me give them a call." He grabbed his phone, pressed a few buttons and held the thing to his face.

"Hi, Sandy? Yeah, it's Al Flemons. Good. You? Great. Uh, look, we got a new kid here, Ray Poole. Yeah, replacing Ramon. Really? Great. That'd be great. I'll send him over. Are you sure? Really? Thanks. He'll meet you outside by the gate. Say hi to Terry for me. Bye."

He took the phone from his ear, looked at it to make sure that the call was disconnected, put it down on Teo's desk and turned to me. "Sandy Pullman will be here in about 15 minutes. You can stow your gear in an empty locker, then go out and meet her by the gate. You're a lucky guy—they treat their players real well. Remember—be back here by 1:30."

With that, it was clear that I was dismissed. The locker room was a little fuller than before, and I saw Roscoe Brownlow, a big outfielder who I had roomed with in rookie ball.

"Dude," he said with his stereotypical California drawl. "Welcome to our humble abode."

I smiled and nodded. "Great to be here, man. Good to see you."

He pointed to an empty stall next to his. "Take this one, Ray. It was Ramon's, so maybe he left some of his talent to rub off on your shit stuff."

I wouldn't have taken that from most people, but Roscoe was a known goofball, without a legitimately douchey bone in his body. Laughing, I walked over and unloaded my equipment into the locker before checking my watch. It was time to meet my host family.

"Where're you running to, buddy?" Roscoe asked.

"Meeting my host family."

"You taking over Ramon's spot?" I nodded. "Sweet. He loved 'em, and they seem like nice people, too."

"That's what everyone says."

He stood up, and towered over me, and I'm not a little guy. "Then, behave yourself, and I'll see you in a few, dude." He started to walk toward the trainer's room, and I got my suitcase, slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and exited the clubhouse into the building heat of the late morning. I trudged to the cyclone fence gate, feeling the heat rising from the blacktop, suddenly realizing how tired I was, and that my one cup of coffee and airport breakfast sandwich had not been enough food, when I saw a black Mercedes sedan pull up on the outside. As I approached, I could see that the driver, a blonde woman, was chatting with the guard before she looked up in my direction and waved. I also noticed a passenger in the back seat, but couldn't tell if it was a boy, a girl, or how old.

Picking up my pace, in part because it was the polite thing to do, and in part to speed my entrance into what was likely to be air conditioning, I went through the gate, thanked the guard and approached the car. The driver was, in fact, a blonde woman, maybe a few years younger than my mother, pretty in a "mom" sort of way. Looked like she spent some time at the gym, or playing golf or tennis, but she had a little meat on her bones, and not in a bad way. With a well-manicured hand, she motioned me toward the passenger seat. I pointed to my luggage, and she laughed, musically, the lines around her eyes crinkling, as she popped the trunk. Stashing my stuff and slamming the hot metal lid, I opened the passenger door, felt the rush of cool air, and settled into the comfortable leather seat. It had been a while since I had been in a car that wasn't just this side of a death trap, and it felt good.

"Hi, I'm Sandy Pullman," my driver said in a friendly, Southern tinged voice, reaching out her hand.

I shook it, my big pitcher's hand engulfing hers. "Ray. Ray Poole. Thanks so much Mrs. Pullman."

She laughed again, and said, "Please, Ray, call me Sandy."

I smiled and nodded. "Thanks, Sandy," I replied, emphasizing her name.

"It's no problem at all, Ray. And meet my daughter Allie," she motioned toward the back.

"Allison," muttered a voice from the back seat. "Mom, I'm sixteen years old now, and I told you I want to be called Allison."

As I turned to look at the back seat, I could see Mrs. Pullman—Sandy—rolling her eyes. "Nice to meet you, Allison." I stressed her name. She was a fairly tall girl, with brown hair pulled into a pony tail. Nice looking, I guess, but she did nothing to try to enhance her looks, and she was dressed in a baggy T-shirt with my new team's logo and athletic shorts. I admit to noticing that her legs looked athletic, but that's where it stopped.

"Thanks, Ray. Nice to know someone listens around here."

I turned to face forward, worrying that my next few weeks were going to be filled with teenage girl drama. I had enough of that from my little sister when I was home. But everyone insisted that the Pullmans were nice, and it had to beat living in a cheap motel, draining my limited resources.

By this time we were on a major road, and Sandy was handling the car with confidence. "So, Ray, tell us about yourself."

That made sense. They agreed to take me into their home, but I could be an axe murderer. "Well, Sandy, I'm from Connecticut. My dad's a stockbroker and my mother works part time in the schools as an aide. I have a sister who is a little older than Allison, and she just started college. I was a pretty good pitcher in high school, but small, so I didn't get any scholarship offers. I ended up going to a small college in Pennsylvania, planning to become a teacher, but between my freshman and sophomore years, I grew 5 inches and with a little weight training, all of a sudden I became a minor prospect. I was drafted in a late round by the team and was told, actually, that they never expected me to do much, but, and I quote, 'organizations need lots of arms.' I struggled through rookie ball, but they must have seen enough to keep me another year, and I struggled again at the beginning of this season, and thought they were going to send me home, but something clicked, and I've had a great second half. Which, I guess, earned me this promotion. I'm excited to be here and to try to help the team."

Sandy looked at me and smiled. "We've been hosting players for years, even before your team had the affiliation, but I think this is the first time we've had a college grad." I shrugged as she continued. "Terry, my husband, owns a textile company that's been in his family for years. He played baseball in high school, where we met—I was a cheerleader—and loves the game. I mostly stay at home, but I do a bunch of volunteer work in town."

I smiled. Craning my neck, I turned toward Allison in the back seat. "So, what about you, Allison? What do you like to do?"

"I'm an athlete. I play soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter and softball in the spring. Although I wish we could play hardball like the boys."

"That's cool," I responded, genuinely. "I used to shoot a little hoop back in the day."

I could see a hint of a smile cross her face and I realized that if she tried, she would probably be kind of cute. "I guess we'll have to see how good you are," she responded, with a little bit of a challenge in her voice.

I nodded. "What position do you play in softball?"

"Pitcher. And shortstop when I'm not pitching."

That meant only one thing to me. "So you're the best player on the team?"

She smiled broadly, lighting up her face. "Yeah, I guess so. Danielle is a better hitter, but other than that...." Her voice trailed off and her face recomposed itself, as if she realized that she had briefly stopped being sullen.

"I look forward to seeing your stuff," I said.

"And I look forward to seeing yours, I guess," she replied.

Sandy interjected, "It's nice to see you two getting along so well. Allie—Allison"—she corrected herself just as her daughter was about to say something—"had trouble talking with Ramon, since his English wasn't so good, although you'd think that with all of the years studying Spanish, she'd have been able—"

"Mom, stop. We've been through this a million times. He spoke fast, and with a Dominican accent, which is way different from what we learn in school. And I'm not that good at languages, either."

While this mother/daughter exchange was buzzing in my ears, I looked around and realized that we were in a pretty fancy neighborhood. The houses were far apart, surrounded by greenery, and many were behind gates and walls. We turned into a driveway, Sandy pressed a button on the sun visor, and two iron gates parted to allow us to drive through. The house was a huge white colonial, with a wraparound columned porch. There was a big, well maintained lawn in front, and Sandy drove up and parked on the circular driveway, in front. My parents' house was pretty big, but this was borderline plantation-sized.

As soon as the car stopped, Allison opened the door and hurried out, up the stairs and into the house. I could see that she moved gracefully, lending credence to her claimed athleticism.

"Ugh," Sandy exhaled. "She's been so moody lately. I don't know what's gotten into her."

I shrugged, not being anything close to an expert on teenage girls, or women in general. I opened the door and walked toward the trunk. Sandy popped it, and I retrieved my junk and waited for her to lead me in. But rather than walk into the house through the front door, she led me around the side. She walked up a few steps to a side door, reached into her purse, pulled out a key and opened the lock. Turning toward me, she motioned me to follow her in. I expected to be in a mud room or some utility area, but it looked as if I was entering an apartment.

"This'll be your apartment, Ray. It has two bedrooms, a kitchen and living room. I mean, it isn't much, but it's private, so you can come and go without disturbing us, and vice versa. Obviously, you can have guests, but please don't make too much noise late at night."

I was sort of dumbfounded. I expected a guest room in the main house, not an apartment, which, from my quick view, was furnished nicer than any I could afford. The TV alone would probably set me back a few months' salary. "Wow, Sandy, this is really great."

She beamed at me. "Here's the key. And if you need anything from the house, the number is taped over there by the phone. Let me let you get settled, and then you should come to the house for the tour before you have to go back to the stadium." Sandy turned away, then turned back, rummaging through her purse before extracting what looked like a set of car keys. "I almost forgot—there's an old blue Honda in the garage that you can use while you're here. Just fill it up when you need gas. And I suspect you will want to change the radio presets from what Ramon listened to," she added, shaking her head. Having shared a clubhouse, car and apartment with Latin players, I could understand how the music they liked took getting used to.

I took the keys. "Wow, again. You guys are so nice. This is way more than I expected."

"Ray, I know how little you guys make, and how hard it is to be away from home and family and friends, so Terry and I started to let players use this apartment. We built it for my mother to live in after Daddy died, but she passed only a year later. It seemed like the right thing to do. And we enjoy meeting the players, and Terry and Allie—I mean Allison," she said exaggeratedly, while rolling her eyes, "love getting to go to the games and being treated special. So, settle in, and come by the house before you head back."

"Thanks, Sandy. I don't have much stuff, so I'll see you soon." She let herself out and I checked my watch. Plenty of time to unpack my few things, and head back to the stadium. I wanted to be very early. I rolled my bag toward the bedrooms. One had a queen sized bed and the other had twins, so I moved into the room with the queen, which also had a smaller TV. It was bigger than a hotel room, but not huge. I unpacked my clothing, hanging my one wrinkled suit, my pants and a couple of shirts, and stuffed the rest into drawers. The bathroom was shared by the two bedrooms, and I put my toiletries kit inside. Done unpacking.

I walked into the kitchen and began opening cabinets. They had stocked the place with staples—sugar, salt, cereal, coffee, tea, some cookies and chips. Opening the fridge, I was shocked to see a couple of sixes of pretty good beer, milk, OJ, some fruit and veggies and eggs. That would certainly more than do until I figured out what else to add. I poured myself a glass of water and inhaled an apple before heading back to the main house, for what I expected to be an impressive tour.

*

I learned two things from watching my first game with the new team. First, it is still baseball, not really different at this level than the one I came from, if maybe a tiny bit faster and shinier. And second, it felt weird watching the team celebrate their victory, without really feeling part of it. We had a few games to play out before the playoffs started, and I would get one start before then, so hopefully I would begin to contribute and be part of the team. Afterwards, Roscoe invited me to join the guys for a beer or seven, which I agreed to do, despite my weariness, because between being a new guy, and a college guy, I couldn't expect to just be accepted. But I stopped after two beers and figured out how to find the Pullmans' house, parked the car and stumbled into bed.

The next morning, I woke up, made some coffee and a bowl of Special K. Sitting at the small kitchen table, I thought about my day—maybe do some food shopping before going to the stadium. My first start would be the next day, so I needed to get my work in, and spend the game charting the pitcher. As I sat at the table, I started to hear the unmistakable sound of ball hitting leather. First, a sharp crack followed by a softer thump. Crack, then thump. Someone was bringing some serious heat.

I opened the door to a bright, sunny day, almost overwhelmed by the deep green of the lawn surrounding the Pullmans' house. The day's heat was brewing, but it was still comfortable, at least in the shade of the overhang. I followed the sound of the ball hitting glove around to the back of the house, and saw Allison, in shorts and tank top, bandana around her head, readying to pitch a softball to an older man, squatting uncomfortably in the grass, protecting himself with a big catcher's mitt. I assumed that was Terry Pullman, and you could see the former athlete's body under his middle age extra weight. Allison stepped, wheeled her arm and tossed a bullet toward her dad, which he caught, nodded, and tossed back to her without standing. I guess at a certain point in your life, it is easier to just stay down, than to stand and squat between pitches. I watched her throw a few more, all fast, and mostly straight, although a few were a bit wild. The kid looked like she had some talent.