"Yoo-hoo, Ballet Boy," they called after him. But that wasn't the name that stuck. Smooth was the name that stuck.
His first call-up to the major leagues came at the age of twenty-two, a mere pup. Now he was five months shy of thirty, a tired old dog in baseball years. In his seven seasons in the big leagues he played for five different clubs: Yankees, Cardinals, Cubs, Red Sox and now, the Giants. His career began in New York and was ending in San Francisco on the other side of the continent.
Pinch-hitting for the pitcher, Smooth cinched down his batting gloves. He grabbed a thirty-three inch Louisville Slugger from the rack and mounted the dugout steps. "Hit a homer," said Chunky Clark, his best friend on the team, who was standing nearby.
"Shut up," said Smooth.
He swung a weighted donut near the on-deck circle. Paid attendance was forty thousand, nine hundred thirty-a sellout-though there were plenty of empty seats. When his name was announced he heard a smattering of boos.
Big Phone Bill Park, San Francisco. 3:17 p.m., Pacific Daylight Time. Braves vs. Giants, Braves leading 3-0. Bottom of the seventh, two out, nobody on. On the mound Greg Maddux, spinning a one-hit masterpiece.
There is no crying in baseball. And no gimmes, either.
Smooth tapped the plate two times with his bat for luck, the way he always did. He dug his rear left foot into the dirt in the back of the box. A switch-hitter, his left side was his best side. After a few warm-up swings he was in his rhythm. He was set.
It'd be nice to write how those lucky taps paid off for Smooth this one last time. How he quieted his heart pounding like a bass drum in a parade and hit a Ted Williams-like shot into the right field seats in the last at-bat of his career. How everybody in the park rose as one and cheered, and his teammates carried him off on their shoulders after he bounced on home plate with both feet.
Yes, and elephants can fly.
Maddux pitched like a man who despised the idea of sentiment in the national pastime. First pitch looked about the size of a b-b coming at him in the batter's box. Second pitch he never saw. Both were called strikes. Third pitch was a sucker pitch, a bender that swooped in off the plate but close enough to make you think. Smooth pulled his bat back too late.
The ball dribbled miserably onto the dirt in front of home plate, lacking the oomph to reach the cut grass. It was an easy catcher's put out, made easier by the fact that Smooth slipped getting out of the batter's box. Running down the line he heard the ball whizz past his ear like an angry hornet before it snuggled into the soft oiled leather of the Big Cat's big glove. A small child could get lost in that glove. He was out by ten feet.
For Smooth Steve Cassidy a game that had once been easy had gotten hard, and that was all there was to say. Baseball fans, being who they are, had lots more to say, however. When he jogged off the field for the last time, ending the inning for the Giants and a lifetime of boyhood dreams, a large-bellied man in a muscle T-shirt yelled,
"SMOOTH YOU SUCK!"
In happier times Smooth might have returned to the bench to spit seeds or search the stands for beavers with his teammates. But those times were long gone. In disgust he threw his batting helmet across the concrete dugout floor littered with gum wrappers and Gatorade cups, and stormed down the tunnel into the clubhouse.
He crashed through a door. Metal folding chairs sat in front of each player's locker, presenting an easy target for his rage. His foot lashed out and down went one with a loud clatter. He kicked a second chair onto its side and it knocked over two more, domino-style. "One lousy check swing and I'm fuckin' tuna," he said, hitting the wall with the side of his fist. "Tuna!"
He picked up a bat and was about to do more damage when he realized he was not alone. Someone in the clubhouse was witnessing his El Destructo routine.
It was Clubhouse Guy, watching the game on TV with the sound off. He sat in a wooden rocking chair that was as ancient and rickety as he was. The rocker made a sound like car brakes when the lining is worn down to the metal.
Creaaaaakkkkkk.
"Done?" he said.
Creaaaaakkkkkk.
"Maybe," said Smooth, fingering the bat like it was a loaded weapon. "I haven't decided. Why don't you put some WD-40 on that damn thing?"
Clubhouse Guy was dressed all in white, like a lawn bowler or an extremely wrinkled old angel. He wore white pants, white short-sleeved shirt, white belt, white socks, white canvas shoes. His arms and legs were thin as the slats on the back side of the rocker. His face was gaunt and pale. All in all, he made a cadaver look healthy.
None of the players knew his real name. He was Clubhouse Guy, though he never helped with the game spreads and no one ever saw him pick up a towel. Even the front office people were hard pressed to explain where he came from or what he did or anything about him. Somebody said he once served as a clubbie for John McGraw, but that would have made him one hundred twenty-five years old and he didn't look a day over one hundred five.
The Braves were up in the top of the eighth, Chipper Jones at the plate. It was like Clubhouse Guy was talking to the TV set, not Smooth, when he said, "You storm around like your life is over. Your life isn't over. It's just beginning."
"See how much you know," said Smooth disdainfully. "They UR'ed me."
"I know," said Clubhouse Guy.
"You know?"
"Of course I know. Everybody knows. It's on the wires."
"It is? Already? Damn the body's not even cold yet." When you are UR'ed in baseball you are unconditionally released from your team. Sent on the Underground Railroad to oblivion. Dusty told Smooth the bad news during BP, but somehow he thought the team would wait to release the news until after the game was over. It didn't surprise him, though. There are no private funerals in baseball. When you get hosed everyone reads about it in the paper.
"Dusty knew you were being UR'ed and he gave you a chance to get your uniform dirty," said Clubhouse Guy. "That was decent of him."
Suddenly Smooth felt tired, his anger draining out of him like the air out of a ball with a hole in it. The bat slipped from his hand. It hit the floor and rolled. He picked up one of the chairs he had kicked over and sat down heavily next to his locker. After today this cubicle would no longer be his. After today the Smooth Cassidy nameplate at the top would be gone, to be replaced by another.
Somehow the fact that his UR had gone out over the wires made it feel more real to him. It was official. Now everyone in the world would know. He was tuna. Meat in a can, chicken of the sea. He began to undress, unbuttoning the top button of his jersey that said "GIANTS" in large black letters across the chest. There was a wide dirt swath across the front. "I only wish I got it dirty sliding into third on a triple or doing a headfirst dive to rob somebody of a base knock. Not falling over first base like an oaf after a check swing dribbler. That wasn't exactly a Sports Center highlight, you know."
On the television Chipper Jones popped up, a soft fly ball into the centerfielder's glove. The Braves were done in the eighth. Smooth glanced away as if the sight was too painful.
"Fuck it," he said. His jersey fell to the floor. "I'll catch on with someone. The Fish are hurting at second. You watch. Come Thursday I'll be kicking back on the shimmering sands of Miami Beach. I'll drop you a postcard."
The rocker creaked steadily. Clubhouse Guy said nothing. He had the irritating habit of creaking only when someone else was talking. When he started to talk he stopped his creaking. On his lap was a silver bowl half-filled with prunes. Clubhouse Guy ate prunes the way some managers chewed Tums. He held a prune up to the light between his thumb and forefinger as if inspecting it for impurities. The inspection over, he popped it in his mouth.
"Ever consider what your life might be like without baseball?" he said as he chewed.
"No," said Smooth. "Why should I?"
In light of his age and experience and the mysterious circumstances surrounding him, Clubhouse Guy functioned as the resident clubhouse sage, imparting nuggets of philosophical wisdom after a hard loss or a big win. While the players, who were decades younger, did not exactly relish his advice, they did, for the most part, tolerate it. Then again, seeing that he was as constant a clubhouse presence as farting or belching, they had very little choice in the matter.
"Just a thought. How old are you?"
"Twenty nine."
"Oh Lordy," said Clubhouse Guy with a grizzled half-smile, revealing a piece of prune caught between the spaces of his front teeth, "what I wouldn't give to be your age again." Clearly relishing the thought, he continued, "That was a time, let me tell you. You couldn't tell to look at me now, but was I a rambler. Sweet with the ladies. The other fellas didn't room with me. They roomed with my suitcase. You're a married man aren't you?"
Bragging about your prowess was a locker room pastime, even for an old fart like Clubhouse Guy. Smooth thought nothing of it. "Yeah," he said with a sigh. "I'm married."
"What's her name?"
This was a sore subject with Smooth. His wife, the former Mrs. Crystal Cassidy, had recently informed him she would no longer answer to her married name. Henceforth she wished to be called Crystal Chrysalis-chrysalis, as in butterfly pupa. This was on the advice of Butch, her "spiritual guru." Smooth suspected Butch and Crystal were having an affair.
He muttered her name and Clubhouse Guy replied, "And you love Crystal don't you?"
Smooth's uniform and cleats lay in a heap on the floor. He'd skip the shower today. One AB and a belly flop, in his mind, didn't earn him the right. He began to pack his duffle. His civvies hung in the cubicle: crisp-pressed slacks, silk shirt, leather jacket. He was not a flashy dresser-no tattoos or diamond studs or heavy gold chains. But he liked to keep it together. He slipped on his slacks.
"Yes," he said, not really interested in the discussion but continuing with it anyway, "I suppose I do. What's it to you?"
"And you've got kids, right?"
"Right. Little Steve and Stevie."
"Little Steve and Stevie?"
"Little Steve. He's two. And Stevie, like Stevie Ray Vaughan only she's a girl. She's ten. Or eleven. I think."
"Okay, Steve and Stevie. I know you love them."
Smooth thought about it. "I love my kids but I don't know shit about them."
Clubhouse Guy stopped his creaking and leaned forward in his chair. That half-smile returned. The prune piece, fortunately, was gone. "Now's your chance," he said with relish.
"I want to play ball," protested Smooth.
"Play ball with them."
"Get real, old man. He's two and she's a girl."
"So? You didn't see 'A League of Their Own?' I just love the fanny on that cute little Madonna." Clubhouse Guy smacked his lips and a thousand wrinkles danced. "I could bury my nose between her thighs and die a happy man."
A disturbing mental picture of Clubhouse Guy and Madonna occurred to Smooth, and he quickly dismissed it.
e first day of the rest of your life. You've got a new lease on life. To get right with your children. To repair relations with your wife."
This last caught Smooth like a sneak punch. He didn't say anything to Clubhouse Guy about his wife problems. Did he know about Butch too?
"I can see what you're thinking," said Clubhouse Guy. "You're thinking how does he know about my wife? Look, I've been around this game longer than Carter has pills. You're a ballplayer. It goes with the turf. Every man in this locker room has woman problems. You got a girlfriend your wife doesn't know about?"
"No," answered Smooth.
"Don't lie to me. I'm too old. More than one? Three, four, eight?"
"Naw," said Smooth, "just one. I'm old fashioned in that way."
Smooth's girlfriend was named Bobbie Sue-just that: Bobbie Sue. He met her at Boobies, the nationwide restaurant chain where he met his wife, though they were at different locations. Crystal was at the Boobies in Fort Lauderdale and Bobbie Sue was at the Boobies in Dallas. Both were working as Boobies waitresses when he came in after a game and picked them up-not at the same time, of course. Bobbie Sue had since become president of Boobies International, a worldwide association of Boobies Girls who had graduated to careers in the business world.
"You must be psychic," said Smooth.
"Aw crap I've lived, that's all. I've lived. I'm an old man. I've seen it all and then some. I've seen the greatest players of all time go through what you're going through. Nobody gets to choose how they go out, not the Babe or Willie Mays or Mark McGwire when his time comes. Not one of them. And let me tell you this, when it's all said and done, baseball isn't shit. It's nothing. When you've lived as long as I have you'll know the truth of what I'm saying. Let me tell you what's important in life. What's important is-oh sonofabitch! Look at that! You see that! Oh my god! Fucking A! He did it, he did it!"
Clubhouse Guy was spitting prune bits out of his mouth and his rocker was creaking back and forth so fast Smooth thought he was going to have to call the trainer to administer CPR. The walls around them shook as in an earthquake, and from inside the clubhouse they heard the crowd roaring.
It was the bottom of the ninth and the Giants were batting. They had chased Maddux and loaded the bases, John Rocker charging in from the pen. Up came Larree ("That's two e's, man") Cash, the arrogant yet supremely gifted slugger who smacked a 2-2 Rocker fastball into the water for a grand slam walk-off. Final score: Giants 4, Braves 3.
Smooth watched as his teammates-his ex-teammates-mobbed Cash at home plate. Fans were chanting "LAR-REE! LAR-REE!" He was happy for them all, he really was, although he wished they would have waited another minute so Clubhouse Guy could have finished what he was saying. What was more important than baseball?
Getting laid?
A good soak with a Cuban cigar as fat as your thumb?
Cherry Garcia ice cream?
Smooth wanted to ask Clubhouse Guy the answer, but the old fart was creaking his rocker back and forth and spitting purple slime with such boyish glee it seemed a shame to disturb him. In a minute the guys would come running down the tunnel and the reporters would be yapping at their heels and there'd be a big party, Clubhouse Guy croaking and philosophizing to any and all. Smooth didn't want any part of it. He no longer belonged, not there anyway.
He took his bag and left. No long, sad goodbyes for him.
He slipped out the clubhouse door down the hallway that led to the players' entrance and exit. The security guard was jumping around like everyone else, and nobody paid any attention to him. The daylight surprised him. It was like how he felt after leaving a darkened movie theater when it was still the middle of the day. He set his duffle down, put his shades on, and turned up the collar of his jacket. There was a breeze blowing. Of course, this was Frisco. What did Clubhouse Guy say? The first day of the rest of his life? Some of the things he said made sense, but not that one. He wasn't buying that crock of shit for a second. Unsure where to turn, Smooth let himself get swept away by the crowd of fans streaming out of Big Phone Bill. It felt good to be outside again.
Chapter Two:
The Pecker Picker-upper
(9/30/00)
(In the last chapter of Playground Pop, Smooth Cassidy played his final baseball game, stumbling over first base and being jeered by the crowd. This installment takes place later that same night, with Smooth seeking solace in those familiar ballplayer comforts: booze and broads.)
They were at Boobies, the well-known ballplayers hangout, and Smooth was on his way to getting stinky. He was about halfway there.
"So here I am, dug in against Greg fucking Maddux, and he throws me two heaters back to back. Okay, I say to myself, deal me in. See what you got. So then he brings some off speed slop. Off speed!" To express his disgust Smooth hit the table with his fist, rattling the two double shot glasses and the bottles of beer he had emptied earlier. "Don't be a wuss, man. Challenge me. Let's rumble. Give me yours and I'll give you mine and the last one standing, wins. The Rock against Stone Cold Steve Austin. Know what I'm saying?"
Across the table Chunky Clark took a sip from a warmed-over Miller Lite he was nursing. Out of uniform Chunky looked more like a squat, prematurely balding tire salesman than the bullpen catcher he was. He and Smooth were best friends-"the peanut butter twins," some of the guys called them. (To which one or the other usually replied, "Fuck off.") They roomed together on the road and when things weren't going so well for Smooth at home, which was most of the time, Chunky let him sleep on the couch at his Foster City condo.
Now his friend was tuna. The Giants had UR'ed him earlier in the day and his chances of catching on with another team were "nil and none," as Clubhouse Guy liked to say. Smooth was in total denial about this, but he was talking about his feelings and for Chunky, who was a great believer in talking about your feelings, that was a good sign.
"I think so," said Chunky. "It's like Reggie Jackson."
"Reggie Jackson?"
"Yeah. Reggie struck out one thousand four hundred ninety nine times."
Smooth's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "How you know that?"
"I saw it on a bathroom wall once and it always stuck with me."
"What kind of bathrooms you hang out in?"
"Listen. Reggie struck out all those times but he was up there swinging. You're not going to hit a homer every time, you're going to strike out or you know, do a faceplant in the dirt. But take your cuts. Go down hacking. That may be why you feel frustrated. You got cheated a little bit."
"Frustrated? Honey, do I look frustrated?"
Their waitress had arrived to clear off the empties. She looked like a brunette version of Pamela Anderson, spilling deliciously out of a skintight white tank top with "Boobies San Francisco" printed across the front and squeezed into a pair of teeny-tiny pink shorts that barely covered her ass.
"No, you look thirsty. Another round?"
"You bet," said Smooth. "Bring me two more double Stolis with a beer back. Only this time, hold the beer. I'm getting stinky tonight."
Chunky belched. "Destination Stinky, here we come."
"Chunk what about you? "
"I'm good."
"Bring him another. Thanks hon, and hurry back." He shot her a sly smile and she returned it. In a black leather jacket, goatee and sideburns that came down below his ears, Smooth was a charmer with the ladies.
After she left, his eyes following her as she went, he said, "I don't feel cheated. I feel great. You've been watching too much Oprah."
"Oh horseshit-"
"It's a drug, man. I keep telling you. Lick it before it licks you."
Chunky, it was true, was an Oprah junkie. Sometimes during slow-moving day games he would sneak a miniature battery-operated television into the bullpen and watch. He was especially fond of the spirit segments at the end of the program.
"So what are you going to do?"
"I already told you. I got a call into my agent. He's probably working the phones right now with two or three clubs."
"Look, if you get caught short-"
"You worry like an old lady. I'm fine. The Giants are on the hook through the end of the year. My contract's guaranteed."
"You call Crystal? Does she know?"
"Yeah I called her. Left a message, she wasn't home. You know what? I think I figured out something today."
"You did?" said Chunky in a hopeful tone.
"Yeah. I was pretty down after the game. After I left Big Phone Bill I just walked and walked around the city, with no direction sewn."
"That's home."
"What?"
"Home. It's a Dylan song. No direction home. "
"Whatever," said Smooth. "Anyway, it gave me a chance to think. Remember when I was with the Cubs?"
"Sure. You lockered next to Sammy. You and him were tight."
"Right. It was gravy. Except for all those damn writers always pushing on me to get to him. But I don't mind, see, because I am on a flight path to the moon. I am seeing the ball like it's a big fat water balloon and covering second base like I've got wheels under me and management is telling everybody in sight that Smooth Steve Cassidy is their second sacker for the next millennium."
He paused to make sure Chunky was still with him. With the crowd in the bar and all the people talking and the twenty-eight television screens showing sports, sports and more sports and music pounding away on the sound system and the three hundred groupies all dressed for close arm combat and the Boobies girls streaming by like extras in a Russ Meyer movie, it was easy to get distracted.
"Then you know what happened?"
"What?"
"Crystal gets pregnant. Our first kid, our first kid together anyway. She's walking around on air while I'm secretly pissing my pants. I don't say anything, of course. But while I've got my ear to her tummy and we're painting the nursery and all this crap I'm thinking to myself, 'Uh-oh man, am I in deep shit."
"Boy were you wrong," said Chunky.
"No asshole. I was right."
"You were?"
"Fuck off you little twerp," Smooth said. Adding to the confusion was Pamela Anderson, who chose that moment to arrive with the platter of drinks, accidentally spilling them on Mister Chi, who jumped to get out of the way, allowing Smooth to brush past him through the crowd out the door.
"What's wrong with my boy?" Larree Cash asked Chunky, who was so upset by the swift turn of events that he actually finished his beer.
"Hmmm," Larree said after Chunky told him. "Hmmm." Three of his homies said "Hmmm" just like him. "I know what my boy needs. My boy needs to have his pecker pickled."
"You mean a pecker picker-upper?" said Chunky.
"Precisely."
And that is how it happened. In the middle of Boobies, with the runway models looking on and Pamela Anderson scrambling to wipe up the spilled shooters and Mister Chi swearing in Cantonese about how he should have spilled Smooth's blood on the floor with the drinks, Larree Cash flipped out his cell phone and made the call. He was that kind of guy.
* * *
A pecker picker-upper, in baseball terminology, is when a ballplayer arranges "a date" for one of his teammates who is feeling down. Players are also known to merge the two concepts with the shorthand term "pecker-upper." In this case, the arranger of the pecker-upper (Larree Cash) did not happen to inform the arrangee (Smooth) about the special delivery being sent to his Nob Hill Arms suite at the top of exclusive Nob Hill.
In fairness, though, Money did not view this as a dirty trick. In his mind he was doing his ex-teammate a favor. And if you had seen Smooth lying fully-clothed on his bed staring blankly at the ceiling, as depressed as a man can be without formally crossing into comatose, you might have agreed.
Cash called a service and asked for a certain girl who was previously engaged. All the usual girls were booked due to a bankers convention in the city. But there was one possibility, he was told.
"Put it on my tab," Cash said, and clicked off his phone.
That one possibility, name of Ramona Quarantina, the child of an Afro-Cuban dancer and a White Plains, New York systems analyst, arrived at Room 685 a few minutes after ten. In his distressed state Smooth yelled that he didn't order any room service. Ramona replied she wasn't room service-at least not that room service.
Angry at being disturbed, certain of a mistake, he crossed the room in his stocking feet and swung open the door. "What the-" he stopped, caught breathless.
Standing before him in the hallway was the most beautiful African American woman he had ever seen.
Or not.
Smooth couldn't be sure. Ru Paul or...Lisa Leslie? Vanessa L. Williams or...Ru Paul?
While he was trying to decide Ramona breezed past him into the room. "Nice place," she said.
He followed quickly behind. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"My name is Ramona," she said in a soft Spanish accent. "Ramona Quarantina. I am a sex worker, and I am the very best."
As a veteran big leaguer well-schooled in the ways of ballplayers, Smooth knew the score. "You're a pecker picker-upper."
"I beg your pardon."
"Who sent you? Tell me. Chunky Clark?"
In pink platform shoes and a micro-mini skirt that might have made a Boobies Girl blush, Ramona stood over six feet tall. Her body seemed all legs. Yet her bearing was regal, even dignified. As to the he-she question, Smooth could not get an accurate handle. With a feather boa curled stylishly around her neck it was impossible to determine if she had an Adam's apple--a dead giveaway, he knew, in cases like this.
"I'm sorry, I cannot say. Even if I could say I do not know. But I do know you are paid in full. Quit staring at my neck. It's making me nervous."
"Tell me you're not a cop."
"I'm not a cop. But I can be one if you like. I can also be a French maid or a Baywatch lifeguard. Those are popular choices."
The phone in the room rang. Smooth picked it up. "Hello," he said. "Oh, hi." The tension in his voice rose with each utterance: "You are?" "They are too?" "Now?" "No-no, I'll come-"
The conversation ended. He set down the phone, mumbling "they're right. They're all right. It's all coming to a head."
"I can do that too. It's my specialty."
"Huh? No, no thanks. My wife is downstairs. In the lobby. She's coming up."
"Here? To the room?"
"Yes, here."
"Excellent," said Ramona. "She want me to do you while she watches? She want me to do her while you watch? She want to do you while I watch?"
"No, no. None of the above. She's bringing our kids."
"That's disgusting. What do you take me for? Your children. You should be ashamed. Or arrested. You're sick."
"She wants to have a family discussion."
"At ten o'clock Saturday night?"
Smooth shrugged. "Some things can't wait, I guess. You'll have to leave."
And then, a knock at the door.
"Someone's at the door," said Ramona.
He froze. How can that be? As soon as he sets the phone down Crystal and the kids have ridden the elevator six flights up and are now at the door?
The knocking grew louder.
"Here, I'll get it."
"NO!" he shouted, stirred into action. "I'll get it. You hide in the closet."
"Absolutely not. You insult me and my profession."
"Okay then, under the bed."
Smooth peered out the peephole. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.
It was Bobbie Sue.
"Honey bunny it's me," she said, pausing briefly from her knocking. "I know you're there. What's all the shouting? I heard they released you, and I just had to come see you."
"Who is it?" whispered Ramona. "Your wife?"
"Uh, a friend."
"I got here soon as I could sweetie," Bobbie Sue continued. "Open up, open up."
"Yeah, right."
Let's see, thought Smooth. A sex worker of undetermined gender was in his hotel room, his girlfriend was outside the door, and his wife and kids were on their way up for a heart-to-heart talk. And people wondered why he wanted to stay in baseball?
To be continued...
Kevin Nelson is the author of thirteen books, including four on baseball history and humor. He also wrote "The Daddy Guide," a guide for new and expectant fathers. The father of two children, he lives in the Bay Area. This is his first novel.
Content in DADMAG.com is meant to be distributed freely to interested parties. However, any excerpts from the stories in DADMAG.com must credit DADMAG.com. Copyright 2000, DADMAG.com, LLC. All rights reserved. Site Development - Andexler.com
