Pray for Rain:
A College Baseball Story
by Jason Wuerfel
Warning:
This is a novel about college life and collegiate baseball. The characters walk, talk, and act like college kids. Therefore, be warned that this book contains profanity and sexual content.
All characters and events are a product of the author’s imagination and in no way represent anyone or anything that happened in real life. All such relations to real people or events are strictly coincidental.
Pray for Rain: A College Baseball Story
by Jason Wuerfel
Copyright © 2005 by Jason Wuerfel.
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Jason Wuerfel.
For Sarah - my editor, my best friend, and the love of my life.
Acknowledgements
I would like to sincerely thank everyone who helped in the creation of this story. You are all very special people and your help meant more to me than you know. I put my heart and soul into writing this story because it is a subject I deeply care about, and I appreciate how you respected me and my writing even while I was forcing it down your throat. An extra thank you goes out to my wife, Sarah, my parents, and my former teammates at the University of Michigan, Alex and Eric, for their support and helpful analysis, suggestions, and revision.
I would also like to humbly thank everyone in the Michigan baseball family whose interest in my project inspired me to continue to write even when I was unsure of myself. Michigan baseball is my second family and I love and respect everyone associated with it. Thanks to all the coaches at Michigan who took a chance on an undersized small school catcher. Thank you for teaching me how to play the game right, how to take pride in the way I play, how to compete, and how to be a man. Thanks to all my teammates who believed in me and became some of the best friends I will ever have. Thank you for showing me what hard work and dedication really was, when we were forced to grow up fast under the pressure of college baseball. Lastly, thanks to all the parents and alumni for your unconditional support. I could not have made it through without you.
Foreword by the Author
I had the best time of my life playing baseball and majoring in English at the University of Michigan from 1999-2003 and I had a difficult time dealing with graduation and the end of my athletic eligibility. I had four years of fall, spring, and summer baseball stuck in my head; memories of people who were good friends for a day, a summer, a year, or four years. Then, suddenly, I could no longer add to those memories – baseball was a chapter that was over in my life and there was nothing I could do about it – so I started writing. I found that as I created characters and made up this baseball story I could lose myself and transport back to Michigan for one last day under the sun. So I relived that day over and over again, coming back as much as I could, and a couple years later I had a novel.
I hope everyone who reads this story will enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it, but first, a few caveats: I did not create any characters as mirror images of people I knew in college or through baseball. The plot is another creation of my imagination and the behavior of the players, fans, coaches, and administration in no way mimics how things are run at the University of Michigan. I created the circumstances only because I thought it made a good story. I wrote it as a story, so please read it as a story, and know that I have nothing but love and pride for my alma mater – Go Blue!
Prologue
Until Next Year
For all sad words of tongue and pen
The saddest are these: "It might have been."
-John Greenleaf Whittier
They called me Squat. No, not just because of my physical appearance, but because I never played. Yeah, I can admit it now, I didn't see the field very often, but I was a Wolverine just the same - a Michigan man - and that's something no one could take away from me with a stupid nickname. Besides, the statistics aren’t what we talk about now when we get together again at alumni golf outings or reunions, those things turn to dust and fall away like the hair that used to be on my head. No, what we remember are our times together, the friends we had, and the friends we’ve lost along the way. That’s the true value of being a part of something like Michigan baseball; it’s how you feel when you’re with your teammates, like you’re something bigger and better than yourself.
I think it’s only now, many years later, that I can reflect and realize how lucky I was to be part of such a great tradition, and how great of a time I had, even though I was a whiny bitch while going through it. Those are things you don’t get a grip on until you’re done. Then, on the day I woke up and realized that my baseball career was over, all I wanted to do was run out and tell every high school kid I could find, “Be an athlete. It’s the best decision I ever made, and it will be the best decision you will ever make, too.” You’ll find everything you need in athletics, and the experience can’t be replaced. You might be too busy gasping for air, bleeding or throwing up to notice at the time, but those things build character.
I’ve made the best friends of my life through baseball, and the most valuable things I know, I know because of my experiences in baseball. High school baseball and summer travel teams helped me get into shape, meet people, and find a girlfriend. College baseball taught me the value of teammates and hustle, but also how to be humble, and how to handle failure and adversity. Heck, during one of my summers playing baseball I even found religion. It was in my senior year that I finally learned how to deal with pressure situations, so now any work deadline is a breeze. There isn’t a place on earth where I have ever felt as much passion as I did when I was on the baseball diamond; it’s where I could love and hate others with more intensity than I’ve found possible anywhere else. Man, do I miss it.
It’s tough for me to explain, but trust me, if you haven’t experienced that level of competition, it’s hard to find anything that compares. No matter how intense your intramural flag football team was, or how competitive you are at video games, you still aren’t close. After you feel the intensity of the college game, it’s tough to go back to normal life, where, compared to collegiate athletics, it seems like no one has the same passion. Many ex-collegiate athletes deal with depression after their careers are over, I know I did. There is nothing we can do better in life than the sport we played, and it becomes frustrating not to be able to integrate that skill into everyday life. It becomes a hole where nothing else fits just right. This is why as great as the experience of college athletics is, and as much as it does for a person, nothing can prepare you for how to deal with the day it’s over.
After my last game, I woke up with those words revolving around my head for weeks, “It’s over.” I guess it hit me so hard because I had such problems looking past my playing days. I just couldn't do it. It was impossible for me to look ahead and say, “You know what? Someday I’m not going to be able to play this sport again.” I know now that if I would have said that to myself, I never would’ve been able to put all of my effort into baseball. If I really believed one day in the near future the day would come when I could no longer wake up and strap on my cleats for the rest of my life, I wouldn't have been able to push myself as hard as it took just to make the team.
The rulebook states that after four years of competition you’re no longer eligible to play. You don’t get cut. You don’t get fired. In fact, you don’t get anything except for a handshake and a “good luck” from the coaching staff. You promise to stay in touch and then you walk away. It isn’t that you’re suddenly not good enough to play, it’s just the rules. Four years, and then you’re history. Out with the has-beens and in with the soon to be has-beens. The most tragic part about the end of an athletic career is that everyone's career, barring a championship, ends in a loss.
I first saw the end coming the moment my junior year was over. When I saw the look on the faces of the seniors, it started to click in my mind that their pain wasn’t very far from being my own. It was the first time I realized the real heartache after the final game wasn’t that one last tally in the loss column. The real heartache was the dispersing of friends, the ending of an era, and the knowledge that the one day you’d have to wake up and tell yourself, “It’s over,” had finally arrived.
*****
Don Archie leaned forward in his chair and spit out a cheekful of sunflower seeds before continuing with the broadcast. “That makes two outs and the excitement continues to grow here in St. Paul where the Wolverines are up by two runs and are one out away from their tenth conference tournament championship. Carl Beckman, the Gopher second basemen will walk to the plate with men on first and second. He will either be the winning run or the final out in this elimination contest. Harold, your thoughts?”
The overweight man sitting next to Archie cleared his throat before speaking into the microphone. “Beckman is two for three on the day with two singles and, according to his teammates, he likes to put sugar on his Lucky Charms cereal in the morning. I mean, it already has marshmallows in it, I just don’t get why anyone would need that much sugar.” Harold’s hands swirled around his head while he talked, motioning like he was sprinkling something and then spooning cereal into his mouth.
Don shook his head before asking, “What would the Wolverine Broadcasting Network do without you and your useless information?”
“I’m not sure, Arch,” Harold said with a laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. Most people don’t use sugar on Lucky Charms. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”
“It was a rhetorical question.” Harold shrugged and Archie swallowed hard before turning his attention back to the game. “While we bicker up here in the booth, John Cooper has pitched a gem of a game today. It looks like Cooper will stay on the mound for the Wolverines to face Beckman even though he has hit him hard twice today and closer Michael Merlin is ready in the bullpen.”
“You can say that again,” Harold said with a grunt. “Coop has always had trouble with two outs. I’m surprised Coach Witherton isn’t going to go with Merlin to finish this one off; the guy has been absolutely lights out this year.” There was a radio silence as Don put a hand over his microphone and muttered, “asshole,” toward his partner.
“Thanks for the jinx, Harold, really swell.” Archie sighed before continuing. “John Cooper is now staring down Beckman and looking in for the sign. Cooper wheels and deals a get-me-over-curve for strike one. That’s a big strike, folks. Two more and the Wolverines can call themselves champions. Harold, your thoughts?”
“It reminds me of a funny story about Cooper, Don. As Michigan baseball lore has it, Coop got diarrhea so bad on the spring trip his freshman year that he crapped his pants on the mound during his first collegiate start.” Harold pointed to his backside while talking, and then refolded his arms.
“My God, Harold, only you could make people change the station when the conference championship is on the line.” Don’s icy stare didn’t have an effect on Harold’s lackadaisical demeanor, especially after twenty-six years of broadcasting together.
Don steadied himself and said, “Beckman digging in again as Cooper winds and throws a fastball is called ball one off the outside corner. Man, that was close and the Michigan fans wanted that one. The look on Cooper’s face says he didn’t like the call either. Wow, it would have been nice to get that call.”
“You can say that again,” Harold said.
Archie ignored him. “Cooper looks in for the sign with a one and one count. He checks the runners, and here he comes to the plate. It’s a curveball and it catches the corner for strike two! Yes sir! Michigan is now one strike away and this stadium is rockin’. The next pitch will mean the season for the Wolverines! Harold, what do you say now?”
“Coop really snapped that one off,” Harold said. “One strike away.”
Don leaned forward for the next pitch. “And here it is, this could be the last pitch of the Big Ten tournament. Coop wheels and deals a high hard one. BECKMAN SWINGS AND CONNECTS! BECKMAN LIFTS THE BALL TO STRAIGHT AWAY CENTER. THE CENTER FIELDER BEN MARKER TURNS HIS BACK TO GIVE CHASE. THE RUNNERS ARE ROUNDING THE BASES, IF THIS FALLS TWO WILL SCORE. BECKMAN DIGS FOR SECOND, HE THINKS IT’S DOWN. MARKER IS LOOKING UP AND THIS BALL IS…”
Harold groaned and Archie muttered a few cuss words under his breath before returning to the microphone. “And in desperation the Michigan center fielder Ben Marker climbs the wall for one final stretch, but the wind will give this ball a gentle shove over the fence and Beckman has his first home run of the season. I say again, a walk-off three run homer by unlikely hero, Carl Beckman, will bring a bittersweet end to the Wolverines’ season and launch the Minnesota Golden Gophers into the NCAA Regionals next weekend.”
Harold scratched his head and said, “Sugar on the marshmallows, who knew?”
“What a heartbreaker for the Wolverines,” Don said with his palm planted on his forehead. “The Wolverines, whose trying season this year gleamed brightly with hope after upsets against Ohio State, Penn State, and Illinois in their first three games here at the Big Ten Tournament. But two straight losses to Minnesota will have Michigan looking back for answers and forward for promises as they hope to return a veteran squad next year.
“And while Minnesota begins their celebration at home plate, the Wolverine players and prideful fans can only sit and think of what might have been.”
Harold closed his eyes in response, the impact of the moment finally hitting him. The program cut to commercial and they both looked down on the field, trying to get a visual reaction from the players who had just begun to experience the most heartbreaking time of their lives.
*****
With my view from the bullpen, I saw Coop hang his head motionless as he stood on the mound. Our starting catcher stared blankly at his back, suddenly unsure if the bonds of friendship gave him the status necessary to approach. There were tears in the eyes of even the toughest guys on the field. Ben Marker in center field took off his hat and glove and quietly fell to his knees, trying to turn back time with his mind.
On the plane home the seniors reminisced about their time spent initially as followers and eventually as leaders of the team. They talked openly about the combination of four or five years of early morning lifting sessions, grueling running over rough terrain and under stopwatches, late nights of studying crammed after intense practices, sacrificing free time for extra practice and summers away from home to play the game they loved. It had all been done with the fear that at any moment the head coach would take it all away with the words, “You’re cut.” It was tough to watch them come to grips with the fact that their time as a Michigan athlete had come to an abrupt close.
Before I knew it, the men I had matured with over the most difficult years of my life were shaking my hand at the year end banquet and trying to convince me how good our team was going to be the next season. Then they each took their turn at the podium, some laughing, some crying, as they shared stories that made us all proud to be Wolverines. As hard as it was to listen to their stories and realize I wasn’t going to share the playing field with any of them again, I knew my senior year was going to be a much tougher experience. A year away, I remember thinking, my time at that podium is only a year away.
Part I:
The Roster
University of Michigan Baseball
Top Returnees
Name Pos. B/T Ht Wt. Yr./Elig. Hometown
Michael MerlinP R/R 6’2” 200 5th/Sr. San Diego, Cali.
John CooperP R/R 6’3” 210 Sr./Sr. Detroit, Michigan
Ben MarkerOF S/L 5’9” 185 Sr./Sr. Chicago, Illinois
Tom Kindleman1B L/L 6’4” 225 Sr./Sr. Dallas, Texas
Wes RothIF R/R 6’2” 180 Sr./Sr. Kalamazoo, Mi.
Lou Whitley 3B R/R 5’11” 210 Sr./Jr. Cincinnati, Ohio
Paul Varner OF R/R 6’1” 190 Jr./Jr. Marquette, Mi.
Chase WarnerP L/L 6’1” 195 Jr./Jr Appleton, Wis.
Wilson JackP L/L 6’4” 180 Jr./Jr. Boston, Mass.
Bill HumP R/R 6’0” 190 Jr./So. Kalamazoo, Mi.
Glen SchmalzIFR/R 5’7” 160 So./So. Royal Oak, Mi.
Don FranklinP R/R 6’4” 215 So./So. Dayton, Ohio
Top Incoming Freshman
NamePos. B/T Ht. Wt. Hometown
Paul Walker C R/R 6’0” 210 Fort Wayne, Indiana
Albert McKinley 1B L/L 6’6” 235 Chicago, Illinois
Pete Alger OF R/R 6’0” 160 Saline, Michigan
Tucker Howard P L/R 6’2” 190 Los Angeles, California
Chapter One
Coop and the Squatster
"Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former."
-Albert Einstein
I’d move back into my apartment each fall feeling the same false hope that I could actually score some playing time during the upcoming year. This year would be different though. I was a senior and I stepped foot on campus like I was important for the first time. The only snag was the surprising resignation of our entire coaching staff, which had been replaced by some alumni guy who was coaching a Division II team in Grand Rapids, Michigan. But I didn’t let it affect me, at least not initially, because first I had to deal with my dumbass roommate, All-American starting pitcher, John Cooper.
*****
Click.
“Hello, Wolverine fans and welcome to another edition of Wolverine Sports Magazine. I am your host, Joe Macino, and boy, do we have a loaded show for you today. First, we will review last year’s football season and then give you a preview of this year’s squad; a superior recruiting class promises to help bring another national title to Ann Arbor. A little later on, Coach Harnick will offer his opinion regarding Michigan’s championship chances. Then, we will run down last year's sports highlights and lowlights, as the Wolverines made another strong push for the Director's Cup, awarded yearly to the best athletic program in the nation. Also included in this edition, we will check in on baseball, where some off-season coaching changes promise to bring the Wolverines back to prominence on the diamond this coming spring. All of this and more, when we come back on Wolverine Sports Magazine.”
John Cooper blinked away from a television induced coma, rubbed the laziness out of his face, and staggered over to the kitchen. He stood up too fast and his knees buckled so he reached out to steady himself on the nightstand by the couch. He paused for a second to let his dizziness subside, tugged on the waistline of his stained sweatpants, and plotted his course for refreshment. His sticky hands reached for the refrigerator door, hoping that there would be something edible inside. The door creaked open and he squinted against the light of the fridge. He was the first of his roommates to return for the school year and the fridge was empty except for a few miscellaneous pieces of fruit, fruit cups, canned fruit, and eggs, all unused and clearly ruined by a summer of neglect.
Coop stood up straight, scratched his bare, unwashed chest, and slammed the fridge door shut. He looked around the kitchen, and then around the rest of the apartment, surveying the situation. He wiped the counter by the sink with his pointer finger, and brought what he found close to his face. An unhealthy film of dust had settled over the entire apartment during its summer vacancy. Coop and his roommates threw an end of year party the night before they went home for the summer. Coop planned on his roommates cleaning up the mess, but it looked like they had thought the same thing about him.
Coop walked back over to the TV to see if the baseball portion of the show had started yet, but all he saw was the oversized head of Coach Harnick. Coop brushed some stale potato chip crumbs off the couch and sat down. The air conditioning had been broken since they left the year before and John’s sweat made the couch stick to his skin. He peeled his back away from the couch and leaned over to turn on the standing fan positioned in the corner. He pushed each button a few times before he saw it wasn’t plugged in and realized he was going to have to get up to turn it on.
He shook his head and said, “It’s not that hot, I guess,” and laid back down.
“We have some tough teams on the schedule this year” Coach Harnick said on the television, “and we have a lot of potential, but potential is just a French word for someone who hasn’t done anything yet.” Roy Harnick liked to play it safe on camera, but the way he carried himself, and the stupid smirk on his face, said he was anything but modest. “Do we have a good recruiting class? Yes. Do we have a better team than last year? Maybe. But right now it doesn’t matter what kind of players we have, what really matters is what kind of team we are by the time we take the field when it really counts.”
“Bullshit, Harnick,” Coop yelled at the television. “I haven’t even heard of two of the teams on our schedule. I’ve heard this same crap out of you since I was twelve, just be a man and tell them how bad you’re going to kick the crap out of them!”
Coop glanced at the clock. The football review and preview had taken two-thirds of the show. Not surprising since Michigan football generated an ungodly amount of money for the athletic department.
The interview with Coach Harnick ended and Joe Macino looked into the camera before it broke away to a commercial. “Up next on Wolverine Sports Magazine, the Wolverine baseball team has a new sheriff in town, and he has the track record and the determination to take this program to the next level. After the commercial we will have interviews from returning All-American John Cooper as he talks about his new coach Tom Nichols. Next on Wolverine Sports Magazine.” Joe Macino disappeared from the screen and a poorly made local commercial appeared in its place. Coop sighed, thought about getting up to go to the bathroom, but decided against it after realizing how far away it was.
Then Coop heard a key slide into the lock of the apartment door. He listened as the person holding the key accidentally locked the door instead of unlocking it and slammed into it face-first when he tried to turn the doorknob. Coop got up from the couch, walked over to the door, crossed his arms, and prepared a smirk.
*****
Coop was standing there waiting for me when I opened the door and I knew from the look on his face that he had been listening to me in the hallway. “Wipe that stupid look off your face,” I said.
Coop laughed. “How’d that feel?”
“Shut up and help me with my crap.” I turned around, propped the door open with my butt, and grabbed two of the black trash bags I was using to move my stuff. Then I turned back to the door, sucked in my stomach, and tried to squeeze through.
I looked at Coop and grunted for help when I couldn’t fit. “Don’t just stand there, dumbass.” Coop’s smirk turned into a full-fledged grin when he saw me struggling with my stuff. He had a reputation for being a lazy bastard, but he didn’t mind what people said about him as long as he didn’t have to work. He crossed his arms and watched me struggle with my bags.
“Lose any weight this summer?” he asked with a chuckle. He grabbed one of the bags away from me and tossed it into the center of the room.
“Yeah,” I said between breaths. I rested for a second to answer his question, “Never go south for summer ball, man. Holy shit, it’s so hot down there, much too hot for a northern boy like me.” Then I turned back to the hallway to grab some more of my stuff. John was holding the door for me when I turned away, but when he heard Wolverine Sports Magazine come back on the television he let the door go in order to get a better view. So while I was putting a trash bag under each arm the door was swinging shut behind me. I turned around just in time for it to slam into my forehead. With no free arms to help me balance, I tipped over and fell hard on my butt.
"Damnit, Coop, you son of a bitch!” I yelled when I got on my feet and into the apartment. “Now my left eye is all blurry and I’m going to have a goddamn bruise on my forehead the size of your ego.”
"Shut up!” Coop yelled. “Holy shit Squat, can't you see I'm on TV?" He snapped his neck back to the TV. I gave him the finger in response, but I walked around behind the couch so I could see the TV, too.
“I had a great year last year,” Coop said on the screen. “The talent is here on our team, we just need someone to help us realize our potential. There is no doubt I will have another great year next year, and I would love to help win a championship for Michigan before I go pro." I groaned and Coop shot me a dirty look.
On the television Joe Macino paused to make sure Coop was finished talking before asking his next question, "Are you already saying that you don’t plan to spend your senior year in the Maize and Blue?" Coop watched himself puzzle the question for a few seconds.
"What professional club wouldn't want me? I’m 18-4 since entering college and it’s not like I’ve had a ton of run support.” He tried to hold in a laugh, but failed. “Look, school is always going be here, my arm isn't. There are some big bucks waiting for me out there and I mean to squeeze those teams for every cent I can while I can still throw over 90." Coop smiled into the camera. Lying on the couch on the other side of the TV, Coop smiled back at himself.
Coop was a cocky bastard, but he was right. The money he would see after his senior year would be way less than the money he would get after his junior year. College players don’t have any leverage on the negotiations if they can’t use the threat of returning to school the next year.
"Well John, I would like to shift gears here," Joe Macino said. "Let's talk about the new coaching staff."
"Okay."
"What are your first impressions?"
"To tell you the truth, Joe, I haven't had time to sit down with all of them yet."
"How about Coach Nichols?”
“I talked with him briefly on the phone after the press conference, but that’s it.”
“What was that phone call like?”
“It was a little awkward. After being in college for two years, and having the same coaching staff during that time period, it was different to hear a new voice talk Michigan baseball. I am a little nervous about the changes that might be taking place in the next few months here, but I’m sure they’re all for the better of the program. It’s a difficult situation when it’s my last year to play college ball. There needs to be trust, understanding, and communication in a player-coach relationship, and that type of relationship is tough to establish in one year. I just felt like I was getting a handle on the type of people my former coaches were before they parted ways with the university.”
“You mean resigned?”
“Yeah, I don’t know much about it, but I think we’ll be all right this year. I just know I’ll do my part. And I’ll try to help the new coaches get adjusted any way that I can.”
“Alright John, best of luck to you and the Michigan baseball team on the diamond this coming spring. Thanks for stopping by.”
“Hey, dick-face!”
Coop looked at me with a sigh. “What?”
"Nothing. Don't worry about it, I got it.”
"Good, because I wasn’t going to help, anyway." Coop closed his eyes and I chucked a trash bag at his face, scoring a direct hit.
Coop groaned and grabbed the bag. “Oh, I thought you were serious.”
“Shut it, egghead, and take the bag to my room.”
Coop nodded and grabbed the bag at his feet. He walked toward my room and opened the door, but as soon as the door opened, he dropped the bag and covered his nose.
"Oh my God, Squat. Are you kidding me? If there was a loving God in heaven he would not let such a scent exist." I frowned, picked up a bag and threw it at Coop's back. "Ouch, you fat bastard. Don’t be so sensitive."
"Kiss my ass, Coop,” I said. “Just pick up my shit and throw it into my room if you can't stand it."
Most of the guys on the team didn’t understand why we roomed together; Coop was tall, skinny, flamboyant, insensitive, and one of the top players in the nation. I, on the other hand, was short, overweight, thin-skinned, and spent most of the baseball season picking splinters out of my ass on the bench.
"R.J., listen man, you know me. I didn't mean any harm. It's just that your room smells."
“You suck ass at apologies.”
“Yeah, I know,” Coop said, adding, “have you heard from Kindleman?"
"No, you?" We walked back to the living room and sat down on the couch.
"I haven’t heard anything, do you know where he went to play this summer?" Coop asked.
"He played for the Torrington Twisters in the New England League. We send a couple of guys out there every year because old man Witherton has a good relationship with the owner; I think they played in college together." I paused after mentioning the name of our old coach.
Coop grunted. “So much for that.”
“Yeah.” I didn’t really want to talk about it. "Anyway, I heard it’s pretty good baseball, but there is pretty good baseball everywhere. I played down in the M.I.N.K. league this summer. It stands for Missouri, Iowa, Nebraska, and Kansas. There’s a team or two in each state. It was great competition.”
Coop nodded. "How did you play?"
"Alright, I guess. I mean, I played as well as I could since I almost melted during each game. The first two weeks I was down there it did nothing but rain, so when the rain finally stopped, it was over a hundred degrees and we had a schedule full of double headers. I swear sometimes my head was baking in my catcher's mask."
"That's rough man."
"You're telling me. One day, when it was over a hundred degrees, I was standing on first base after getting a single when the guy batting behind me hits one in the gap. So here I am, barreling from first, rounding second and picking up the third base coach. He is waving his arm for me to go home and I think 'Oh my God, my entire body is going to explode,' but at the very least I score with no play at the plate."
Coop tried to look interested. "That’s great."
"Well, there were already two outs, and the next batter hits the first friggin’ pitch on the ground straight to the first baseman and the inning is over. So here I am, throwing on my equipment and running on the field just in time to feel like I was getting heat stroke."
"Wow.”
“I felt like I was going to die. Did I mention it was over 100 degrees?”
Coop looked down at his chest and then back at me when he realized I was done talking. “I’m glad you liked it.” I knew I had a tendency to ramble, so I decided to change the subject.
“So how about the team this year?” I asked.
“Which one?”
“I meant the football team, I think I know how we’ll do.”
Coop grunted. “I’m so sick of the damn football team. They get all the coverage. I don’t know when the university is going to figure out that there are good players on the other teams, too.”
I punched him in the arm. “Don’t be bitter, hot shot. Just because Wolverine Sports Magazine put you at the end of the show doesn’t give you a reason to act like a jackass on TV.”
Coop shrugged. “Whatdaya mean?”
“Whatdaya mean, what do I mean? I mean nice friggin’ interview.”
“What about it?”
“Wow, you really are a dick, aren’t you? First of all, you aren’t exactly rushing to make a good impression on our new coaches.”
“Who cares?”
“Second of all, the guys are going to rip you a new one. Or how about the fact every scout in the nation who saw it just wrote ‘complete asshole’ on your scouting report? That can’t help your draft status.”
Coop reached down his pants to scratch himself. “The only thing I’m worried about is what agent to sign with. This Michigan alumni guy said he could get me over three hundred thousand if I go in the top five rounds.”
“Is that it? A monkey could get you more money than that if you go that high. Shit, you should hire me as your agent, I could get you millions.”
“Too bad I don’t know a monkey.”
I grabbed a napkin off of the counter and scribbled some notes before saying, “Screw you. Just sign this if you don’t believe me.” Coop grabbed the pen and scribbled his name. “Ha,” I said, “now that you’ve signed this contract I’m officially your agent.”
Coop snatched the napkin out of my hand and thrust it in my face. “Put this in the bathroom on your way out,” Coop said. “We don’t have any toilet paper.”
“I forgot how much of waste of space you are,” I said. When Coop didn’t respond I said, “Listen, I’m beat, I’m going to take a nap.” I grabbed the napkin, got up, and walked to my room. Coop sighed and called after me louder and louder until I slammed my door shut.
“Aw, Squatster, man, don’t worry about it. Aw, come on man, don’t walk away. I’m sorry! I said I’m sorry! DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT MAN, WE’RE UNTOUCHABLE THIS YEAR, ANYWAY! YOU HEAR ME SQUATSTER? INVINCIBLE! BIG TEN’S, REGIONALS, SUPER REGIONALS, COLLEGE WORLD SERIES, BABY! YOU HEAR THAT, SQUASTER? ALL THE WAY MY FAT LITTLE FRIEND!”
Chapter Two
Benji and Shakes
"A slick way to outfigure a person is to get him figuring you figure he's figuring you're figuring he'll figure you aren't really figuring what you want him to figure you figure."
-Whitey Herzog
I was roommates with Coop and Tom Kindleman, but the teammate I connected with the best was Benjamin Marker, our fearless center fielder. I guess I liked him so much because he was a lot like me; he didn’t have a scrap of talent in his whole body. However, he managed to out hustle and out work every guy on our team year in and year out. The guy was just flat out fun to watch play the game. It was incredible how Benny could overcome his talent handicap on the baseball field, and yet he could never get rid of his social anxiety. I guess that’s why I thought it was hilarious when I heard he had to sit through a five hour car ride with a guy more socially inept than he was.
*****
Benjamin Marker yawned, tightened his grip on the wheel, and squinted down the dark, deserted road in front of him. He looked at the clock, trying to focus through tired eyes. It read 2:30 in a neon yellow tint. He had been driving for five straight hours now, not including the two hours he got lost trying to pick up Albert. All together, Benny had been up for close to thirty hours straight, preparing his things to move into his new apartment, and his body wasn’t used to going very long without proper rest.
Benny felt his eyelids start to close and he slapped himself in the face, making the freshman sitting next to him jump a bit in his seat. Albert, sitting on the passenger’s side of the ’85 Ford Ranger’s bench seat, watched Ben out of the corner of his eye.
Albert’s voice cracked a little as he asked, “Want me to drive?”
Benny shook his head and said, “Sorry about that, sometimes I get into a trance while driving, almost like I’m sleeping.”
Albert shifted in his seat and Benny rushed to rephrase. “Well, I guess it isn’t quite like sleeping, per se. I just zone out once and awhile. It’s easy when you’re just driving down the freeway and no one else is on the road.”
Albert nodded slowly and Benny gave up trying to explain. Benny rubbed his cheek where he had slapped himself and then he ran his hand up to the side of his head and massaged the temple in slow circles before returning both hands to the wheel.
“Is your head alright?” Albert asked when he saw Benny wincing.
“Yeah,” Benny said, “it’s just a headache. It’s what you get after spending most of your life running head first into outfield fences.” Benny did a double take after finishing his sentence. Across the dark interior of the car he could see Albert’s face twitching like it was being electrocuted.
“So,” Albert said. His lip twitched nervously again.
“Uh,” Benny said, searching for words. “Are you glad to be starting college?”
Albert cleared his throat and stuttered a bit while saying, “I’m really excited.”
“What classes did you register for?”
Albert shook his head. “I’m not sure. I’m gonna hafta check my schedule when I get my computer set up.”
“You have a computer, huh? Are you into video games?”
“Not really, I just use it for school.”
Ben gripped the wheel a little harder and the leather made a squeaking noise under his white knuckles. “What position do you play, again?”
“I play first base,” Albert said.
Benny nodded. “Our first baseman is going to be a senior this year. You should have a few solid years of playing time after he graduates.”
Albert made some noises like he wanted to talk, but nothing came out.
After a few seconds Benny said, “What?”
Albert’s voice shook in rhythm with the twitching of his face as he said, “I thought the first baseman graduated.”
“No,” Benny said. “We graduated a guy named Max. He played a little first base, but mostly he DH’ed. Tom Kindleman is our starting first baseman. He can swing it pretty well. He struggles a little bit defensively, but he’s a good stick in our line-up. He’s a great guy. He’s a bit slow upstairs, but hey, he’s from Texas.” Ben trailed off when he noticed the expression on Albert’s face. Ben watched as he twisted his lips and eyebrows, trying to register the information.
“Didn’t you ever check out the website?”
“No.”
“Shit, Al,” Benny said as he reached over to slap him on the knee. “There aren’t many people that can just step in on a Division I level and contribute right away, I don’t care what sport they’re playing. It’s just a year, and you’ll probably get red-shirted anyway, which means that you will have four full years to be a starter.”
Albert looked at his feet and grimaced.
Benny sighed. “Albert, I don’t want to sound harsh, but you need to suck it up. We have a few guys on our team that will eat you alive if they see you feel sorry for yourself like this. Besides, Kindleman will be gone next year and you will be the only first basemen on the roster. Besides that, who is to say that Tom won’t go out and break an ankle right before the season? But you have to realize that the coaches are going to keep recruiting good players behind you. In order to keep the program moving forward they are going to try and replace you with someone that’s even better. You can’t rest on your accomplishments at this level.”
“Yeah,” Albert said, his gaze drifting from his feet back to the open road. “Maybe I should have gone to junior college.”
Benny shook his head. “Over Michigan? No way.”
“Well, I got drafted in the 36th round this year by the Montreal Expos and they told me I should go to junior college.”
“Of course they did,” Benny said with a sigh. “If you go to junior college and become a superstar between now and next year’s draft, they can still sign you. As soon as you step foot in the classroom of a four year university, major league teams lose their rights to you until you turn 21 or until after your junior year.”
Albert’s legs were now trembling as he replied. “At least I would have known that I was going to start this year.”
Benny didn’t hear Albert’s last comment because he was busy staring at his trembling legs. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just this thing I got.”
“Thing?”
“People have always teased me about it, but it’s no big deal. It doesn’t affect me anywhere except socially. I think it helps me concentrate a little better at the plate. Kids in school used to call me ‘Shakes.’”
“Shakes?”
“Yeah, Shakes. Shakes McKinley.”
“That’s not bad,” Benny said. “Hell, it even has a little ring to it.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, I think. I think you’ll be all right with that, Shakes. Jesus, when I was a freshman they called me 'shit for brains'.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. It’s a good thing that Hansen came along and acted dumber than I did. I would’ve been stuck with that nickname for life.”
“They still call this Hansen guy 'shit for brains'?”
“Yeah, but most people just call him Squat.”
“Squat? Is there a story behind that?”
“Yeah,” Ben chuckled, “he’s a catcher, he’s short and stubby, and he never plays. He gets ripped on a lot.”
“That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”
“It’s a harsh world, Shakes, it’s a harsh world.” The orange night sky of street lamps in Ann Arbor glowed in the distance and a familiar sensation rushed back to Benny’s bones. Turning on his blinker, Ben slapped Albert on the back and said, “Home sweet home.”
Chapter Three
The University Towers
“I’m going to play with harder nonchalance this year.”
-Jackie Brandt
If Coop was the most talented guy on the team, and Benny was the toughest, Michael Merlin was definitely the coolest. I can’t think of anything bad I can say about the guy. However, he had some serious issues he never dealt with until his senior year. Even then, instead of looking at his lifestyle and making a decision to change, he thought all he would have to do was change his company, but it didn’t quite work out that way.
*****
“What a fucking cluster-fuck,” Don Franklin said as he maneuvered through move-in day traffic. People were scattered all over the roads and sidewalks as far as Don could see. Driving around Ann Arbor during an average day was hard enough, but driving through Ann Arbor on move-in day was a death sentence. The liberal minded urban developers who planned the area thought it would be better to discourage driving by cramming in a bunch of high density housing and no parking spaces. If that wasn’t enough to worry about, the students at Michigan were notorious for walking in front of traffic. An average of two students were killed by the campus buses each year.
Don honked the horn at a pair of students carrying a couch across the street in front of his car. “Fuck, can you believe this shit, Smalls?”
“Well, what did you expect DFF, it’s move in day,” said Glen Schmalz, called Smalls by most, from the back of Don’s 1992 Chevy Blazer. Smalls coughed and a cloud of dust flew up around his head. “It smells awful back here.”
“Well, that stuff has been sitting back there for a month, what the fuck do you expect? You’re the one that didn’t want to take all your stuff out of here when we were done playing summer ball. And don’t call me DFF, I’m a sophomore now. No more stupid freshman nicknames.” Don slammed on the gas and swerved at the couch-toting pair in front of him, adding a loud honk to the screeching wheels as they drove by. Smalls looked out the back window as they flew past the two mouthing the word “sorry.”
Smalls coughed again. “Are we there yet? I’m going to choke to death back here.”
“Quit your whining, the apartments are right here. Look, there’s Merlin’s car. He must have already moved his stuff in.” Don flipped on his left turn signal and waited until the oncoming traffic dispersed before turning into the parking lot.
*****
Michael Merlin smiled from the balcony of his apartment as he watched his two new roommates drive in. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them back up he took a pull off of his beer and looked out over downtown Ann Arbor. This was Merlin’s first year staying in the University Towers, but it was his fifth year on campus. It was a little more expensive than a typical college apartment, but nothing in Ann Arbor was cheap. The life of a commuter at U of M was a hard one, and Merlin took a drink for all of those that tried to find a place to park around campus on a daily basis. That is what made below average apartments close to campus so expensive.
“Supply and demand,” Merlin said out loud. “Thanks, Economics class.”
Merlin could see freshmen herding in and out of a bookstore below, and he got a sudden feeling like he didn’t belong. Merlin red-shirted his freshman year, making a fifth year possible, but he always planned on getting drafted and leaving school early Unfortunately, his bad habits didn’t make that possible. It was only at the point when his friends graduated and moved away that Merlin saw that he was going to have a change in his life whether he liked it or not.
Merlin hated change. He was a creature of routine and addiction. Once he got used to something, he could never understand why someone would want him to do something different. That was one of the reasons the coaches decided to red-shirt him his freshman year; he wouldn’t listen to what they had to tell him. They wanted him to make some major adjustments in his pitching motion, they said he threw across his body too much and didn’t use his lower body enough. They said that if he continued to pitch with the arm action that he had, it might cause a serious injury.
He sighed at the memory and took another drink, pondering what a fifth year meant. One more chance to prove to the pro scouts that he could make it at the next level. Talent had never been an issue for Michael. His problems stemmed more from unreliability, or as his teammates called it, a serious drinking problem. He had a dynamite season on the field the year before, but self-destructed in the draft when the major league teams all received a police report with his name on it. After that, he knew he needed to straighten out in order to realize his dream, and the two sophomores pulling into the University Towers’ parking lot were a big part of his plan.
Merlin’s roommates from the year before were a big part of his problem, and even though the thought of two new people sleeping in his apartment made him feel uncomfortable, he knew it was necessary. His roommates from the year before didn’t play much, and with the end of their baseball careers imminent, they knew that it wouldn’t hurt the team if they went out and partied nights before morning lifting, before practice, even before the games. Merlin, whose drinking problems started during high school, couldn’t help but tag along.
Merlin heard the elevator make a loud noise as it hit his floor and he threw the beer over the railing in a panic.
He turned around as Don was walking through the open apartment door. “Merlin, what the fuck is going on man?”
Merlin shook his head. “Don ‘Fucking’ Franklin, how was the drive?”
“Not bad, our junk is a little rank from sitting in the back of my fucking car for the last month, but we didn’t have to drive very far.”
“I can see that your language has cleared up over the summer there, DFF,” Merlin said with a smirk.
“Dude, quit that DFF stuff, I’m a sophomore now.”
“You’ll always be Don ‘Fucking’ Franklin to me.” Merlin laughed. “Where’s Smalls?” Merlin walked out the apartment door to see all five foot seven inches and a hundred and sixty pounds of Glen Schmalz struggling with a thirty-eight inch television by the elevator.
Merlin walked over to help him. “DFF, how about helping your roomy carry in some of your stuff?”
“Well, it’s his TV,” Don said under his breath, still inside the apartment.
“Here Smalls, let me help you with that.”
“Thanks Mike, good to see you.” Merlin bent down to pick up the TV, carrying half of it backward into the apartment. “Where’s Don?” Smalls asked after setting down the TV.
“I’m in here,” Don said from inside one of the rooms. Merlin shrugged and suggested they get the TV hooked up. A few seconds later, Don walked out into the living room with a terrified look on his face. “Merlin, dude, there are only two fucking bedrooms in this place.”
Merlin sighed and finished connecting the cable to the back of the TV before answering. “I told you about that last year Don, I just don’t think you were listening. Besides, it’s not like you’ve never been over here before.”
“I don’t think we have ever been over here before, Mike,” Smalls said while straightening out the TV.
Merlin laughed. “Well, why did you sign the lease without checking the place out first?”
“You told us it was a great location,” Franklin whined.
“I think you were drunk at the time,” Smalls said.
Merlin shrugged and said, “Oh well, I’m the fifth year senior here. You two are shackin’ up in the smaller room, I’ve already moved in my stuff.” Franklin shot a look at Smalls, but Smalls just shrugged and told them he was going back to the car and unload more stuff. Franklin tossed him the keys to the Blazer and plopped himself down on the couch in front of the TV.
“C’mon DFF,” Smalls said. “Get the lead out of your ass, man. We got a lot of stuff to move in.”
Franklin got up out of his seat and Merlin plopped down in the same spot. “I’ll save your spot, DFF.”
“Blow me,” Don said as he walked out the door.
Merlin laughed and turned his attention to the television where Coach Harnick was blabbing on and on about football. Then Joe Macino turned his eyes into the camera and said, “Up next on Wolverine Sports Magazine, the Wolverine baseball team has a new sheriff in town, and he has the track record and the determination to take this program to the next level. After the commercial we will have interviews from returning All-American John Cooper as he talks about his new coach Tom Nichols. Next on Wolverine Sports Magazine.” Merlin put down the remote, walked to the fridge, and grabbed a beer with each hand.
Chapter Four
Hunt House
“Courage is the art of being the only one that knows you’re scared to death.”
-Harold Wilson
We had an interesting freshman class that year, to say the least. Hanging around the freshman was a surreal experience because we could see so much of ourselves in them. It was almost like for every one of us leaving, there was someone coming into the program just like us. I looked into their eyes and saw the same emotion I remember feeling when I was in their position. At the beginning of a college career, it’s almost like there is an entire life left to live that has just begun.
*****
Pete turned off his alarm and rubbed his eyes softly and slowly before sitting up in bed. He squinted through the sunlight that was coming through the window in his room, then looked around and sighed. Trophies were piled high on his shelves and desks. Certificates of achievements littered any open spot on the wall. They read things like, “First-Team All-State Outfielder,” “Academic All-Region Basketball,” “First-Team All-Conference Quarterback.” Pete got out of bed and walked over to a Michigan flag he had hanging on the wall and traced the outline of the M with his finger. While looking at the flag he caught a look at himself in the mirror and turned to flex. He flexed his muscles in several different poses, but none of them made him look big. Pete was six feet tall and scrawny, something that made colleges unsure about signing him, but no one could argue his talent.
Pete heard a loud crashing noise from the floor below and he clenched his fists. His parents had been up since dawn, making sure that everything was securely packed away in the van and ready to haul. Pete already found it hard to sleep the night before moving into college, but his parents had kept him up all night as they made their own preparations.
“This is going to be great,” Pete mimicked his Dad’s voice into the mirror.“My boy going to college. I bet you are beside yourself with excitement.”
Pete’s thought process was interrupted by the sound of someone coming up the stairs and he braced himself for frustration.
“Peeeeeete,” his mother yelled, trying to be charming. “Pete, wake up, big day ahead of you, stud.”
“I’m up, Mom,” Pete said, getting a towel out of his closet. Pete’s mother burst into his room just as he was dropping his shorts to get ready to take a shower.
“Are you excited?” she asked with a large smile on her face.“Mom,” Pete said, trying to remain calm, “I’m getting ready to take a shower, can you give me a minute?”
Pete’s mother looked down to see that he had nothing but a towel covering his body and laughed. “Oh, Pete, I’m your mother for crying out loud.”
“Don’t be weird, Mom, just give me some privacy please.” Pete’s mom rolled her eyes and shut the door on her way out. Pete secured the towel around his waist, waited a few seconds for his composure to come back, and headed out into the hallway. He only got a few steps toward the bathroom before his younger brother Roger came barreling out of his room and ran straight into his legs.
Roger hugged Pete hard before pulling away and mumbling something under his breath. Pete knelt down to Roger’s level in order to look his kid brother in the eye. “Why are you up so early, Rodge?” Pete ruffled Roger’s hair before he noticed a tear streak down the side of Roger’s face; he had been crying.
“What’s wrong, big man?” Pete said. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“Pete?” Roger’s tiny voice said.
“What is it?”