Tool Six

 Part 2 of 2

  

Alex sat in the coaches’ office adjacent to the Men’s Gym, waiting for his 7:15 AM appointment to arrive. Big Denny Thornton had called him at home and insisted on meeting first thing Wednesday morning. He was ten minutes late. At last the door pushed open and Thornton Sr. walked in. “Big Denny” was an appropriate tag for this man. He towered over Alex and he was built like an NFL lineman. His bald head glistened under the fluorescent lights. This was the first time Alex had seen him without a baseball cap. Thornton sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. Neither man offered to shake hands.

“Good morning, Coach. How was your evening?” Thornton’s voice dripped sarcasm.

“I think you know the answer, Mr. Thornton. Look, I am really sorry. I just lost my cool. Did Denny tell you everything that happened?”

“Well, yeah. Sounded to me like just a little horseplay. Ya know, boys will be boys.” Big Denny smiled.

“Anyway, I am sorry, and I intend to speak to Denny and apologize face to face. I hope we can put this behind us.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do. You know, Alex, hitting a student-athlete is a pretty serious thing. Know what I mean?” He waited quietly, fully in charge now. “That sort of thing can cost you your coaching position, probably even your job. You have a wife, two little girls, a mortgage. This is not a good time for a teacher to be out of work. Am I right?”

Alex could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. “Okay, Mr. Thornton. What is it that you want?”

Big Denny smiled again. “Well, now that you ask, the Major League Baseball draft is coming up in early June. My son, as I’m sure you know, is not college material. His dream, his best shot, is to be drafted by a major league team. If he goes high in the first round, the signing bonus will be pretty sweet. It’s what we’ve been working for since I signed him up for T-ball.”

“And? What do you want from me?”

“Scouts will be calling you, asking for your input. They don’t want to talk to Walker anymore, they all know his situation. But they will listen to you, Alex. What you say can go a long way. Know what I mean?”

“And just what would you like me to say?”

Thornton opened a manila folder he’d carried in with him, removed a neatly printed sheet of paper and placed it in front of Alex. It was a bulleted list of talking points and, as Alex skimmed it quickly, it became clear that the purpose was to paint Dennis Thornton, Jr. as a person of the highest character, a paragon of virtue. Regular church goer, Sunday school teacher, regular helper at the local rescue mission, volunteer for the suicide prevention hotline. The list went on.

Alex dropped the list on the desk and locked eyes with Big Denny. “Is any of this real?”

“Now, Coach, you know as well as I do that perception is reality.”

“Yeah, well let me share my perception, from what I hear around campus. I hear your son likes to smoke a little weed while he enjoys a cold beer or two. And I hear he pays a couple of bright kids to write his papers for him. And then there’s the big one, the girlfriend who was a little bit pregnant, which I’m told you paid to take care of. You want me to go on?”

Big Denny’s smile was gone. “Now you listen to me, you little pissant!” He paused to regain composure. “You just keep this list handy when you talk to those scouts. And…nobody in the principal’s office or the school district ever has to know that you whacked my kid upside the head with your damn scorebook and called him a son of a bitch.” He lowered his voice and continued. “Do we understand each other?” Alex did not respond. “All righty then. Thanks for your time, Coach. Let’s stay in touch.” He pushed back the chair, rose and left the office.

Alex stared at the piece of paper Thornton had left. So that was it. Just say all the right things when scouts called and life would continue apace. He could keep his teaching position, succeed Walker Bateman when he retired, and have a long and fruitful career at Valley Vista High.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone with the flow, or just turned his head. He’d been well aware of Denny’s party boy behavior and his academic short cuts, yet never said a word. Hey, if the kid could throw shutouts and his batting average hovered around .450, why rock the boat? And what about Coach Bateman? Alex had gone along with the tacit agreement among the coaches to let Walker ease into retirement. And had he done enough to help the old man, other than an attempt to connect him with an AA sponsor?

The phone rang, startling him out of his stupor. It was Leo Haynes, head of scouting for the Chicago Cubs, one of the true gentlemen of the grand old game.

“Alex, my young friend. It’s Leo Haynes. How the hell are you?”

“Just fine, Mr. Haynes. How’s everything with you?”

“Top of the world, Alex, top of the world. And how is my old friend, Walker Bateman?”

“He’s…well, I’m sure you know this. Walker has been better.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard. Very sad. I have tremendous respect for that man. He is one of the giants. Please give him my best regards.”

“I’ll do that, sir.”

“Listen, Alex, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I need to talk to you about young Denny Thornton.”

Alex glanced down at the list on his desk. “Well, what can I say that you don’t already know? He’s the real deal, Mr. Haynes. A genuine five-tool player. There isn’t a thing he can’t do on a ballfield.”

“Ah, yes, yes indeed. But that’s not what I need to know. What is the young man like off the field? What kind of student is he? What kind of a citizen? Let me shuck it right down to the cob, Alex. If I convince the Cubs to spend a million or two to sign this young man, will I regret it? Is he likely to buy a Corvette and get arrested for driving a hundred miles an hour while under the influence? Is he likely to wind up punching out drunks in strip clubs? Or cold-cocking his girlfriend in full view of the security cameras, like whatshisname, the football player? I know all about the five tools, Alex. I need to know about Tool Six. Character! He either has it, or he does not. That’s what I need to know.”

And there it was, right to the point. Leo Haynes was living up to his impeccable reputation. Straight questions requiring straight answers.

“Mr. Haynes, listen, something urgent has come up. I’m going to have to call you back. Can I catch you around noon? Or maybe early afternoon?”

“Hmmm…okay, Alex. I’ll look for your call around noon today.” He gave Alex his mobile number and hung up.

Alex walked out of the office, down the hall, and out onto the quad that stretched from the Men’s Gym to the stately Main Building. He watched the students coming and going, laughing and talking, on their way from one class to the next. Several of them called out to him with a cheery “Hi, Coach.” He loved this old campus with its eclectic mix of buildings that ranged in style from classic Spanish-Moorish to the ultra-modern Science Building. From the day he decided to become a teacher, his dream had been to wind up right here at Valley Vista High. He was living his dream.

The sun in his eyes felt like God’s flashlight. What had Leo Haynes called it? Tool Six? Haynes certainly had it. Walker Bateman had it too, in spite of his present condition. Alex thought back to his teenage years when it seemed he’d constantly been at war with his own father. Coach Bateman had always been there for him, counseling him to be patient and to see things from his father’s point of view. Alex’s dad did not understand the obsession with sports, or his desire to become a teacher. Dad’s vision was of Alex Wayne, M.D., or Alex Wayne, Esq.

He remembered Coach Bateman’s words: “Be a scholar. Be a learned man. Whatever you choose to do, work hard and be the best you can be. Your father will be proud.”

Alex took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed his wife’s number at work.

“Hi, babe. How’s it going?” Jill’s voice was bright and positive, as usual.

“Oh, it goes.” Alex could not match her upbeat mood.

“What did Big Denny want this morning?”

“Not much. Just a little blackmail.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I just need to tell the scouts that his son is a saint and no one will ever know about the incident on the bus.”

They chatted a while longer, rehashing their discussion from the night before, a discussion that had extended into the early hours of the morning. Jill closed the conversation with conviction.

“Do what we agreed to, Alex. We’ll get through this together.”

Alex looked at the phone for a few seconds before he dropped it back into his pocket. He went back into the gym, down the hall and into the office. He paused to look at one of the framed pictures that covered the walls. It was the varsity baseball team from his senior year, 2001. In the yellowing photograph, Alex was standing in the back row, next to Walker Bateman. A hell of a lot had happened since that picture was taken, events that put his little dilemma into perspective.

It was 8:15 now. Hopefully the principal would be in his office. Alex looked at the phone on his desk. He picked up the handset and punched in the four-digit extension. Principal Albert Mullins answered on the second ring.

“Hello, this is Al Mullins.”

“Good morning, sir. This is Alex Wayne.”

“Hey, good morning, Alex. Congratulations on that league championship!”

“Thank you, sir.” He took a quick breath and continued. “Sir, the reason I’m calling, I have something important to tell you, something you need to know. Can I stop by your office for a few minutes?”

“Oh uh, let me check my calendar.”

Alex turned toward the picture on the wall as he waited. Be the best you can be? I’m trying, Coach. I’m trying.

_____

 

 Tool Six

 Part 1 of 2

 from Spitball, The Literary Baseball Magazine

 

Alex Wayne stood in the third base coaches’ box and flashed the simple sign that said hit away. The batter, Denny Thornton, nodded and grinned. With the count two balls and no strikes and the bases loaded, the pitcher had to come in with a strike. No way would he risk walking in the go-ahead run, even if it meant pitching to the league’s best hitter.

The pitch was on the outside corner at the knees, not a bad pitch at all. Denny dropped the bat head on the ball with his beautiful compact swing and drove it into deep right center. The ball clanged off the chain-link fence as the outfielders chased after it. All three base runners scored and the Valley Vista High Braves took a four to one lead. Denny stood on second base pumping his fist and soaking up the glory while six or seven scouts in the grandstand scribbled rapidly in notebooks and on scraps of paper. It was a familiar scene, one Alex had witnessed many times over the past three seasons.

The next batter popped out to short left field, ending the top of the seventh inning. Now the Braves needed just three more outs to clinch the league title.  Alex looked around the dugout and then climbed the steps to scan the bleachers and the grandstand. Where the hell was Walker Bateman, the Braves head coach? He remembered seeing him leave the dugout after the top of the fourth inning, no doubt heading to the men’s room to take a nip from the flask he carried. These absences were becoming more frequent and lasting longer. Alex had grown accustomed to taking over and managing the team until Coach Bateman resurfaced. He decided to let his pitcher, Teddy Sullivan, start the bottom of the seventh, but at the first sign of trouble he would have to make a change, with or without Bateman. A three-run lead could evaporate in an instant in high school ball.

Damn, Walker. Where are you? Alex scanned the area again. The league championship on the line and you take a powder. It was a sad state of affairs for a man who was a legend in the high school coaching ranks. Walker Bateman had sent many players on to success at the college and pro levels. Now he was in his last season, sliding into retirement at age sixty-five. It was only the last few years—Alex tried to remember when, exactly—that Coach Bateman’s drinking had gone off the rails. He’d always been known to enjoy a drink, but his wife Martha had managed to keep him in line. When he lost Martha, he lost control. His players, who once revered him and were proud to report they played for Walker Bateman, now referred to him (behind his back, of course) as W.B. It stood for whiskey breath.

The umpire called “play ball” and the bottom of the seventh got underway. Teddy Sullivan promptly walked the first batter on five pitches; he was running on fumes. Alex called time and walked slowly out to the mound. The infielders trotted in to join the meeting.

“Okay, Teddy. We’re gonna make a change. You pitched a great game, son.” Teddy handed Alex the ball. “Denny, I want you to close it out for us. Teddy, you’ll go to shortstop.” He handed the ball to Denny.

Denny Thornton lifted the ball above his head and looked toward the grandstand where his father was sitting next to the group of scouts. All eyes in the group around the mound turned toward Dennis Thornton Sr., “Big Denny” as he was known, who—after a dramatic pause—flashed a thumbs-up. The pitching change was approved and all the scouts scrambled to break out their radar guns.

“Okay, Coach. I got this.” Denny flashed his cocky grin and got ready for his warm-up pitches.

The players trotted back to their positions and Alex headed for the dugout. Geez, what if his old man said no? What then? He had encountered obnoxious, intrusive dads before, but never anyone quite like Big Denny Thornton. The man was intent on reliving his glory days through his son.

Little Denny got the first hitter to pop up to second base and then struck out the next two with his low-nineties fastball. Game over and a league championship for the Braves!

The players celebrated around the mound and Alex let them enjoy the moment. Then he rallied them to line up and shake hands with their opponents. As he chatted with the opposing coaches, he could see Big Denny holding court with the scouts up in the grandstand, basking in his son’s latest moment of triumph.

Alex directed the team to pack all the gear and load it onto the bus for the two-hour trip home. He assigned two of his seniors to make sure everyone got a sack lunch and a carton of milk, and then he turned his attention to finding Coach Bateman.

“Hey, Teddy.” The player trotted to his side. “Do me a favor, hustle over to the men’s room and see if Coach is in there.”

“Yes, sir. No problem.” Sullivan jogged away in the direction of the low concrete structure that housed the restrooms. He entered the men’s room and a few seconds later, emerged and gave an urgent wave. Alex double-timed it across the grass to where Teddy was standing. “He’s in the stall, Coach. I think he passed out.”

“Okay, thanks. Go on back to the bus, and don’t say anything. Okay?”

“Sure, Coach.”

He knew it was pointless to ask the young man to conceal the situation. The team was well-aware of Walker Bateman’s problem. Alex went into the men’s room and bent down quickly to see that someone was, indeed, sitting in the stall. He banged on the door, loud enough to draw attention. “Coach? Coach Bateman? You okay in there?” No response. He repeated the pounding and called out again. Still no answer. Alex was worried now. He saw that the sink was situated next to the stall and that he could get a foot on it and hoist himself up to look over the partition. As he pulled himself up and looked down at the man sprawled across the toilet, Bateman’s eyes snapped open.

“Jeezus! What the hell are you doin’ up there?” He looked at Alex as if he were a crazy man—or a pervert.

“Game’s over, Coach. Time to get on the bus and head for home.”

“Well, hell. Did we win?”

“Yeah. Congratulations, Walker. Another league championship.”

Bateman unlocked the stall door and walked out on shaky legs. He was tall and lean and his face was deeply tanned from too many hours in the sun.

“Are you going to be okay, to walk to the bus?” Alex resisted the urge to take his arm and steady his progress.

“Hell yes, I’m okay.” He straightened his cap and adjusted his thick wire-rimmed glasses.  “Did Sullivan finish the game?”

“No. I brought Thornton in to close.”

“And his old man approved?”

“Yep. Gave us a big thumbs-up.” Alex smiled.

“That son of a—”

“Come on, Walker. Let’s go home.”

And with that, they started across the grass to where the bus sat waiting at the curb, the engine running, the entire team watching their progress. Alex held great affection for this man who had been such an important part of his life. He felt a lump in his throat as they moved carefully toward the bus. It was the longest walk he could remember.

_____

 

The bus rolled along the freeway heading north through the light traffic on a Tuesday evening. The sun was setting on this early-May day and Alex hurried to finish posting all the stats in the official scorebook before darkness fell. Walker Bateman leaned his head against the window and snored softly. Alex thought back to the years when he had played varsity ball for Coach Bateman. What a great experience that had been. In his mid-thirties now, Alex still maintained contact with many of his old teammates. They had taken great pride in wearing the Braves’ uniform.

There were just two more games left in the season and then Coach Bateman would fade into the history of Valley Vista High, leaving behind a trophy case full of memories. Alex had been assured that he was in line to succeed his old coach and mentor. This had been his dream since coming onboard six seasons ago as assistant coach. He flexed his neck and shoulders and then reached back with his left hand to massage the knotted muscles. The stress of the game and finding the old man passed out in the men’s room had taken its toll.

He thought about the handful of scouts at the game that day, guys he’d known for a long time, several of them going back to his playing days. How did they stand the constant travel, running around the countryside, everyone looking for the same thing? They all wanted a genuine, blue-chip, five-tool player; a kid who could run, throw, field, hit, and hit with power. Those elusive five tools!

You wouldn’t think it would be that difficult to find, given the number of kids playing the game, and yet it was hard, damn hard. They generally settled for players missing one or more of the big five, hoping they would grow and develop power, or learn to hit the curve ball, or suddenly gain a step or two of foot speed. The search went on and on, looking for the next Mike Trout, or the next Bryce Harper.

Now the scouts were sure they had found their man and his name was Dennis Thornton, Jr. No question about it, at six two, one hundred and eighty pounds and still growing, young Mr. Thornton was a five-tool guy. But in Alex’s mind, a question mark remained. Would he become the next Mike Trout? Or would he squander his talent and opportunities on—what had Tug McGraw called it?—“wine, women, and bong”?

Alex closed the scorebook and tried to relax.

_____

 

“Hey! Hey, knock it off back there!” The bus driver was staring intently at his rearview mirror, shouting to a group of players seated near the back of the bus. “Come on, you guys. Knock it off.”

Alex spun around in his seat in time to see wadded-up lunch bags and milk cartons flying back and forth across the aisle. “Hey, you heard the man. Cut it out.”

The trash continued to fly along with the laughter and shouted put-downs. Alex jumped up from his seat, the large scorebook still in his hand and strode toward the back of the bus. The trash fight stopped quickly.

“Look, you guys are going to pick up all this crap. Nobody gets off the bus until it’s cleaned up. Got it?” Alex waited a few seconds and then turned around—just in time to be hit in the forehead by a tightly wadded lunch bag thrown by none other than Denny Thornton. The young man broke into his patented grin.

Alex drew the scorebook back with his right hand and slapped a hard backhand against the side of Denny’s head. “You son of a bitch!”

It was dead quiet on the bus. The right side of Denny’s face turned bright red. The grin was gone. “You callin’ my mom a bitch, Coach?”

Alex froze for a moment, then turned to the young men seated around him, ignoring Denny Thornton. “You guys heard me. I want this mess picked up before we get off the bus.”

He moved back down the aisle and took his seat behind the bus driver. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. Oh my God! What have I done? Coach Bateman continued to snore in the seat next to him.

_____

Coming soon: Part 2. What is Tool Six? And does Alex Wayne have it? Don't miss the conclusion.

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