A Midsummer Madness

We lay our scene in New Britain, at Beehive Stadium, right off Route 9 amidst the rolling hills and wooded green of Connecticut. It’s the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and eighty-six and it’s opening day in the Double-A Eastern League between the New Britain Kingsmen and Vermont Reds. A good house is expected. Manager Shake Glover of the New Britain Kingsmen sat at his desk going over his opening day’s line-up. He liked it. From top to bottom, he liked it. There was speed at the top, thunder in the middle, and grinders at the bottom. The pitching match-up felt good as well. Though he never took anything for granted, you had to like your chances with their big lefthander on mound—Steve Basset, 16 and 6 last year, leading the league in strikeouts—against their guy Platko who was 34 and coming back from Tommy John surgery. Yeah, he thought, we could do worse. And coming from a guy who was wary of jinxes, that was saying a lot. He took a sip from his thermal coffee mug—the same one he’d been sipping on since four this morning—and leaned back in his squeaky chair. He lifted his cap and ran his palm over his thinning hair and gazed up at the ceiling with his hazel eyes. At forty-six going on forty-seven, Shake was still in pretty good shape. He weighed one-eighty-six, six pounds over his playing weight, and he had a bit of a boiler but at 5’11 with broad shoulders and a jump in his step he still looked like he could turn a double play if he had to. His trimmed beard, like his hair, was auburn (a gift from his red-headed mother), with no hints of gray yet, and if it was said he looked like anybody famous it was probably the guy who played Rambo’s colonel in the movie ‘First Blood’ (Richard Crenna). But that guy had all his hair. Shake’s hair had not so much thinned as it had receded, leaving him with a high forehead which he covered up most of the time with his ball cap. His gaze left the ceiling and settled back on his line-up card. Yeah, he thought, not bad—and for a tiny, infinitesimal moment he indulged a feeling of satisfaction. It was spring, opening day, and there was not another place in the world he’d rather be. Normally he’d squelch such a feeling and give it an intentional pass but today, at this moment, he felt like pitching to it despite the danger. Part of it was fed by the calm before the storm. Game days were always hectic but opening days were especially so. On top of running his team, there were city dignitaries to meet, owners and league officers to schmooze, heightened clubhouse commotion, ceremonies, touchy weather, and finally a game to manage. Any minute his office door would open to a problem, but for an exquisite moment he looked at his line-up card—the symbol of his goodwill towards men—and let a smile crease his lips. Shake can be forgiven the smile. The New Britain Kingsmen were an excellent team with top prospects. They had finished first last year and the year before that and ‘Baseball America’ picked them to finish first again this year. Going into his eighth year as manager, Shake had been named Manager of the Year in the Eastern League four of those years and nobody would be surprised if he won again this year. They were not a bunch of sad sacks being led by a foul-mouthed, tobacco-chewing reprobate nor (like some Disney fantasy) a ragtag team of misfits led by an outcast who, despite the mighty odds against them, find a way to win the big one. Nope, the Kingsmen were well coached and full of talent and did one thing consistently—win. There was a quick knock and the door opened. His assistant coach Rick Burton stuck his head in and said, “Forty minute delay, but we’re good to go.” Shake nodded. He already knew about the rain delay. They had cancelled batting practice because of rain, but it was supposed to clear out and be a nice day. “Ask Prince to come in here. Thanks,” he replied. Hank Prince was a late add to the roster, coming down from Triple-A just two days ago, and Shake had not had a chance to talk to him at length. He was leading off and starting in centerfield. Normally Shake would wait until after the game for such a talk but the rain delay gave him a window to dig into his new problem child. Hank signed a fat contract out of high school and in two years was playing for the big club, but after a year of missed curfews, missed signs, and lackadaisical play he was sent down to Triple-A to shape up. Now he had been sent down to Double-A. This kid was a ‘can’t miss’, a rising star who had stopped rising, and when a rising star stopped rising it was considered a coaching problem. He was expected to turn the kid around. It was a ten second walk from the player’s lockers to his office and after a few minutes of waiting Shake got up out of his chair. Hank appeared just then and he sat back down. “Hank, have a seat,” he said. The angular youth nodded without smiling and eased into the chair across from Shake. He was just twenty-two and his smooth, coffee-colored cheeks didn’t look like they needed to be shaved very often. His afro was shaped into a kind of flat-top like Ricky Henderson and Shake made a mental note of that. “Heard you found an apartment… in the City Center,” said Shake. “Yeah.” Shake waited for a little more but when he didn’t get it he added, “Not the best neighborhood.” “Why? Cause it’s black?” “Don’t know about that,” replied Shake, not taking the bait. “It’s got a high crime rate. Drug and gang problems.” “Dunno ‘bout all that. Seems fine. Like where I grew up.” “Fair enough… I got you leading off. I know they had you batting sixth or seventh last year but I like you at the top of the order. Okay with that?” “Sure.” “With your eye and your speed—and you got some pop—you’re a natural born lead-off hitter and table-setter. When you get on look for the green light. I like putting the pressure on. You could easily have forty stolen bases this year.” “Or more.” “Or more,” repeated Shake with a grin. That was his queue and he looked into Hank’s eyes. “You’re capable of more. But right now you’re in the dog house. I didn’t put you there but you’re in the dog house and you need to show me you want out. Three years ago you were the youngest rookie in the majors. The next Ricky Henderson. Now you’re in Double-A and going the wrong way. I don’t know what the deal is—you’re too young, the money went to your head, too much pressure—don’t know and don’t care. You need to show me you want to play. I already know you can play. But I want to see that other thing. That fire. Are you ready to do that?” Shake half expected an answer filled with excuses and finger-pointing but what he got back was a pleasant surprise. “I know, man… I know, coach. I’m gonna turn it round. I want outta that dog house. I’m here to turn it ‘round. You can believe it.” “Good to hear,” said Shake. He waited a moment and added, “Be not afraid of greatness.” “Is that some of that Shakespeare shit I’ve been hearing ‘bout?” asked Hank, smiling for the first time. “Well, not exactly ‘shit’ but yeah. The actual quote goes something like this: Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great; some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. “Cool, bro. Love it,” replied Hank, bouncing his head to show his approval. “I’ll have you quoting Hamlet back in the big leagues,” said Shake. They talked for another couple minutes until Shake was satisfied that the young man was sincere about turning things around and not conning him. He let Hank go and followed him out the door where he found the owner Rex Lyon in the hallway. The old man stood next to a much younger man in levis and a sport coat who Shake recognized as Orson Kent. He was the son of one of the big club’s owners and had been sent down to the farm system to learn the business.