The Long Walk

     The young first baseman knocked hesitatingly on the door of his manager's office.  By the soft, almost reluctant sound of the rapping, the old manager figured that the young man had a pretty good idea why he was being called into the office.  It was the long walk.  The trek whispered about among the players.  The dreaded summons that would lead to the news that the team no longer wanted you.

First base is a power hitter's position.  The kid had put up solid high school stats.  He'd been an All-Star in Little League, Babe Ruth and Legion ball, and had shown enough promise in junior college to earn the consideration of being drafted in the 36th round.  He signed the contract eagerly, certain that he could prove himself worthy of being promoted to full season ball, up the minor league ladder and eventually to the majors.

     The young kid collided with reality pretty quickly.  He hit for about .250 in short season ball, which didn't set the world on fire, but the scouts in the organization figured that the kid hit for enough power and showed enough potential to be promoted to Low A ball.  When the kid struggled in April,
 the kid blamed the brutal Midwestern cold, a cold that once the sun goes down, dominates the game  like a pitcher with a nasty breaking ball and pinpoint control.  There are nights in April when by the late innings, you can count the fans that have stayed to shiver through the entire game.  They were the diehard fans.  He often wondered if they had kids playing on one of the teams.  Even though he loved the game, that would be the only reason he'd be staying in the stands on nights that brutal.   God, the kid would cuss about the cold.  The manager had to get on him a few times about it.  Nothing against profanity in general, but the kid's grousing was starting to bring down the rest of the team.  It wasn't like his teammates didn't have to deal with the cold as well.  The manager felt especially bad for the Latino players.  They weren't used to that kind of weather; some of them had never even seen snow before.  Most of them were just so grateful to be here though that they didn't bitch about it.  Baseball was their one big chance to make a better life for themselves, to escape the lands run by drug cartels or governments supported by them, to escape the poverty and the hopelessness of an existence where what little hope offered was proffered by Mother Church and the hope of a better life beyond this vale of tears and wage slavery.  When the kid was still struggling into the middle of May, the manager knew that their talent evaluator would be taking a hard look at him when he came to watch the team.

"Come on in, Zeke," the manager said kindly.  He took a deep breath.  This was the worst part of the job.  He'd gotten it down to a formula.  No bullshit.  No beating around the bush.  Just give the ballplayer his death sentence as succinctly and honestly as possible. 

"You wwwanted to see me, Chuck?" he said, stammering slightly.  Yeah, the kid was nervous.  He was batting .182 and the weather had warmed up.  It was the second week of May.  Last night he'd gone up against the pitcher from the Snappers that everyone was so high on, the second round pick who'd signed with the Brewers for over two million bucks.  He'd struck him out three times.  Nothing to be ashamed of, of course.  The pitcher had talent, and an aggressive attitude to go with it.  Still, he had never even made contact with the ball.  Zeke had taken his batting woes to the field with him along with his glove.  He had let a pick-off throw get past him because he hadn't caught the sign, and he got a late start on a foul pop near the visitor's dug-out that he probably should have gotten to had he been alert rather than dwelling about his dismal performance at the plate.  It didn't help that Eddie Tampico was here.  Eddie was the roving hitting instructor for the organization, a man who is paid to travel to all the teams in the organization, from AAA down to rookie ball, to work with and assess the talent at each level.   Eddie looked at him last night after the kid's third unsuccessful at bat.  Mentally adding his miscues on the field to his ineffectual performance at the plate, he looked at Chuck and tersely whispered

"Chuck, that kid's never gonna make it."

At that instant Chuck, as the ballplayer's manager, was assigned the task of being Zeke's advocate.   If he disagreed with Eddie's assessment, he would have taken up his cause, talked about the potential that he saw in the young man, cited some mitigating circumstances, or begged for a little more time to see if he could turn things around.  He didn't say anything.  After a few moments he just nodded, and said "Yeah. I know.    I'll talk to him tomorrow." 

"Do so."  Tampico grunted. "I've got a kid in Arizona, the first baseman from Drake that we drafted in the 12th round last year.   He looks like he's ready to send up to take his place.  I'll have him on a plane tomorrow."

Tomorrow was now. 

"I'm not going to sugar-coat this, Zeke," he said as the young man entered the room.  "I love baseball, and I love the fact that I'm still involved in the game, but there are times when I feel like I'm ripping out a chunk of my soul to stay in it.  This is one of those times.  He signed, then tapped a pen for a moment or two to give the young man a few moments to prepare for what he had to know what was coming next.

The young ballplayer hung his head.  How was he going to go back home and face his friends, his parents, all the people who were so proud of him when he was drafted?  Yeah, he knew what was coming.  He wanted to rage, he wanted to cry, he wanted to get down on his knees and grovel and beg for a few more days to turn things around.  He had been around the game long enough though to know that these were emotional responses.  The way children would act.  He wanted to go out like a man.  No blindfold.  Face the bullet as the executioner fired the gun.  He raised his head, looked at his manager, but said nothing.

The organization has decided to let you go, Zeke, the manager said, getting  up from his desk chair to move to put a hand on the young man's shoulder in an attempt to temper the brutality of what he'd said with a gesture of kindness.  It was a gesture that wasn't phony or forced; he genuinely felt for the young man.  He could see tears welling up in his eyes, but then Zeke gulped hard, took a deep breath, and said,  "I understand, Skip, but what am I gonna tell my father?  He had such high hopes for me.  He's always been so proud of me."

Chuck stepped back and waited for the young man to get control of his emotions, then gave him the same advice that he'd had to give so many other young ballplayers .  "Make him proud of you for something else.  Go to school; get a good job.  Live an honest life and find someone worthy to love."  He sighed, then continued..."Your dad ought to be proud that you were offered an opportunity to play professionally.  Few young men are.  And you know the unforgiving math as well as I do.  Of every ten kids drafted, only two make it to the majors.  You've got nothing to be ashamed of, son."

"Tell that to my dad," the disconsolate young man muttered softly, the bitterness evident in his voice.

"I've been there too," the manager said.  "You probably know that I never made the majors either.  I topped out at triple A.  'Good field, no hit' was the label they hung on me.  I had to go home and face my folks too.  It wasn't easy, and it won't be for you either.  But you know what?" he asked, but then continued before the young first baseman had a chance to answer him.  "I went home and discovered that my folks still loved me and were there for me.  I got a teaching degree.  Did some coaching, and got back into the game as an instructor rather than a player.  What else are you good at, son?"

"I have always been a good mechanic.  I enjoy working on and restoring old cars.  Maybe I can find a way to make a living doing that."

"You know, the organization offered to pay for your college education.  It's a generous aspect of the contract that you signed."

"I don't know if I'm college material," the young man said doubtfully. 

"Whatever you decide.  it's there.  Think about it.  Talk it over with your folks." 

Zeke sat there for a few moments, then raised his head and looked at his manager with a look of weary resolve.  He gulped a couple times, attempting to get control of his voice before he spoke, then signed and said, "I suppose I'd better go clean out my locker."

"Yeah," the old manager sighed, feeling the kid's pain and wishing that he could lift the burden from him.  "Take your duffel bag to your apartment and call your folks from there.  It will give you some quiet time.  Everyone needs a little time to compose themselves at this time.  Time to come to grips with it.  Believe me, son," he said sympathetically.  "We've all been there.  it's just a question of when.  Even the great ones sometimes have to be told that they aren't that great anymore,....and...some of us never were."

He reached out and shook the young ballplayers hand, then moved toward him and hugged him.  It wasn't much, bit he knew how much it had meant to have had his manager do the same thing the day his dream of playing in the majors was wrested from him.  He could see tears forming in the young man's eyes, so he pulled away, giving him a pat on the back as he did so. 

"You'd better get moving Zeke.  It might be better for you to be gone by the time the rest of the team is done with practice.  It's tough on everyone when they lose a teammate."

Except for the guy that takes my place," Zeke mumbled bitterly as he turned to leave, then slammed the door as he did.

His manager understood where his emotions were at and said nothing.  It was just one of the stages of grief that  he'd have to go through before he came to grips with the fact that his life would have to take a new direction.  He wouldn't take it personally.  He couldn't.  It was just part of being a manager.  Let the kid go.  Let the kid blame him if it made him feel better. 

Chuck returned to his desk, took out a form and filled it out to fax to the parent club.  Basically telling them that he verbally had informed Zeke Bukowski of his release.  The club would be sending Zeke more paperwork, including information about educational benefits coming to him, care of his parent' home address.

He then dug out some lodging information and some forms for the kid from Drake to sign once he arrived.  He was just getting out of his chair and heading out to the field to see how the practice was
going, when he heard a knock at his door.

"Come in," he said gruffly.

Zeke opened the door, looked at his former manager, and forcing a wan smile, said, "I just wanted to thank you for the time you spent working with me.   You are a good skipper.  I have no right to be mad at you, and I'm sorry I slammed the door on you when you were just doing what you had to do."

His voice was quavering by the time he reached the end of what he had to say, so he backed away, shutting the door softly.  All the old manager had time to say was a quick  "thanks,"  and "good luck son,'' the latter probably never heard by the disappointed former ballplayer, as the door shut before he had finished uttering it.

It showed some class for the kid to come back and say goodbye.  He'd already moved past anger.  He was doing well.  He would make it.  Somewhere.  Doing something.  Hopefully he would identify and target other dreams to pursue.

After some minutes he could hear the noise of voices now in the locker room.  The coaches must have given the team a break from practice.  They'd hit the Gatorade, the john, and some would take their cell phones out and call their families, their girlfriends, or their agent.  Sunflower seeds would litter the floor by the time the next practice began.  Life as usual in a minor league locker room.  He wondered how long it would take any of them to notice that Zeke was gone.