Las Vegas Gold (5 page)

Tabby had stood there without moving during her tirade. He stood for a few more seconds. Then he growled, “I don't throw no baseballs without a contract. I tol' ya awready.”

“Your contract will be ready, and you aren't going to throw any baseballs until I tell you to, even after you've signed it. Now go away. We're busy.”

She signaled to Kenny to shut the door, which he did, slamming it against O'Hara's leg as he backed away. To his credit, Tabby said nothing as the door closed in his face.

“Wow!” said Willie Fontana, with incredulity showing in his face. “I'm supposed to coach that character?”

“Yup. And you be just as nasty to him as I was. Tabby is one of my major projects. I'm going to civilize the miserable so and so or bust a gut trying. He's not going to turn our clubhouse into the sullen one he left in LA. I hope you'll all get on his back whenever necessary until I give the word to ease up.”

The coaches looked at each other and grinned. The only one who spoke was Kenny, rubbing his knee where the door had slammed into it. “Go to it, Molly baby. Best of luck.”

“One more thing. I'm not ‘Molly baby' to anybody, not even my father. Let's keep this summer friendly, but not condescending. I respect you, all of you, and I expect respect in return.”

“I apologize. I didn't mean to be talking down to you.”

“Apology accepted. Now forget it and let's get on with business. Willie, you were asking about the Spanish players we're expecting in camp.”

Two hours later, Molly went looking for Tabby O'Hara. She found him lying in the sun, a Gold cap pulled down over his eyes.

“Get up,” she said, poking him in the ribs with her toe. You're supposed to be doing calisthenics and stretching drills. Come on. I want to see you in my office.” She turned away, back to the clubhouse. O'Hara followed about five minutes later. When he walked into her office, again without knocking, she was sitting at her desk studying a folder containing several sheets of paper.

“You knock before coming through the door, whether it's open or shut. And you don't make me wait ten minutes when I tell you I want to see you.”

“You're one hard-nosed bitch…” he began, but Molly cut him off.

“That's one name you don't call me again in my hearing! Never! I'm the Manager of this team and you will give me the respect that goes with the job. Now sit down. Here's your contract. You'll want to look it over.”

Tabby obeyed without a word, took up the folder and skimmed through the document in less than five minutes. “Looks all right to me. Where do I sign?”

Molly leaned back and looked at him without speaking. Then she said quietly, “Shut the door, Tabby, will you please?” When he had done so, she spoke again quietly. “Tabby, can you read? I mean really read and understand what that contract says? You can tell me in confidence. That's one thing I can do very well—keep secrets.”

The pitcher said nothing. Seconds passed. Then he sighed. “You might as well know. I can read well enough to get by, but my schooling was pretty light. So what?”

“So how about letting me help you out here. Nobody but you and I need to know. I would guess you had a pretty rough childhood. Your old man a hard guy?”

She had evidently struck a nerve. The words came pouring out. All of Tabby O'Hara's anger and resentment that had pushed him from pillar to post for almost thirty years gushed out. Molly just listened without interrupting. When he finally stopped talking, the man was obviously close to tears.

“Thanks, Tabby. I meant what I said about keeping secrets. Tabby, you're a rich man now, you can buy pretty much what you want. But you can't buy what you really need—friendship. That's something you earn, every day. Will you let me suggest something?”

Tabby nodded.

“Make some friends on this team. Most of the players are going to back off from you for a while because of all the stories they're heard about you. You're going to have to work at being friendly. Smile a lot. Begin a conversation. Stay in the clubhouse after practice and games and chill with the players. Take two or three at a time out to dinner and pay for it. Make yourself agreeable. It's going to be tough, I'll admit. I'll be here when you want to talk to me.”

Tabby still said nothing.

“You man enough to make a real effort?”

He nodded, got up and walked away. This time he closed the door quietly. Molly sat deep in thought. Then she headed for lunch.

6

The change in Tabby O'Hara was unbelievable. He didn't become loquacious or even excited about life all of a sudden, but he began to make overtures of friendly behavior. He talked with other players as they ran laps, even volunteered to race a couple of rookies around the track as they circled the playing field one day and laughed about getting old when he finished last. One morning, several days into training, Kenny Boyce sauntered over to Molly where she was standing by the batting cage, watching batting practice.

“Don't know what you're doing with that wild man O'Hara, Molly, but he's not the same man I've heard about.”

“Why? What've I missed?”

“Well, a little earlier this morning, I was watching Willie run some infield drills and Tabby was pitching for them.”

“That in itself is a change,” interrupted Molly.

“Yeah, well Tabby tore a strip off a young rookie first baseman, Smiley, I think it was, for not hustling back to first for a double play throw from second. Willie ran the same play again and the kid showed some good hustle, and Tabby walked over to him and said something like, ‘Now that's the way a Major Leaguer plays this game.'”

“You're kidding! Tabby O'Hara paid a compliment?”

“Yup. And Willie told me O'Hara took a couple of the younger pitchers out to dinner last night and talked pitching with them.”

“Just plain amazing. I made a helluva lot better speech than I thought. Maybe I should have recorded it, in case I need to use it again. I can hardly believe it.”

Later in the day, Molly walked by Tabby as he was playing long toss with third baseman Digger Hazen.

“Tabby, come in to the office a minute, will you?”

He followed her into her office. He actually waited for an invitation to sit down. “You having some fun with spring training?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Some of these kids are pretty good. And Fontana is working me pretty hard. Never thought I'd like that.” He gave a sheepish grin. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

“Forget it. I just hoped I could get you feeling better about yourself, and about what we're doing here. What I really wanted to know is, how do you feel about going a couple of innings in the first exhibition game against the Mariners next Tuesday? Your arm up to it?”

“Yup. I've been throwing all my pitches and they seem to be working okay. Got a tip or two from Bobby Joe. He's a real smart catcher, knows pitching real good. We'll work okay together.”

“Great. I'm glad to hear it. We'll pencil you in for Tuesday's start. I'll tell Willie Fontana. He'll probably want to spend some time with you between now and then. You getting along okay with him?”

“Yeah. He's the best pitching coach I've worked with so far.” Tabby walked out the office door, whistling as he headed for the clubhouse. Molly leaned back in the creaky office chair and shook her head. Miracles, she thought, still happen.

* * *

The first game as a team against the Seattle Mariners began early on the Tuesday afternoon. For the first few innings, Molly fielded the players she had temporarily decided would be regulars, intending to replace them with the hopefuls as the game rolled on. Since they were the visitors, the Gold batted first, but the first three batters were too eager and they went down in order.

Then Tabby O'Hara took the mound to throw his first pitch for his new team. It was a 90-mile an hour fastball right where Bobby Joe Comingo called for it. The umpire raised his right arm and yelled, “Strike!” He said the same word eight more times, and the inning was over. Tabby skipped back to the dugout like a ten year-old and accepted the congratulations of his teammates with such grace and enthusiasm the print media people couldn't type comments on their laptops fast enough.

Bobby Joe was first up in the second and he caught a fastball on the sweet spot of his bat. It was last seen disappearing high over the short right field fence, a home run in any ballpark. Tabby was first out of the dugout after the big catcher crossed the plate, catching him in a big bear hug and waltzing him around in a circle. The next two batters flied out and the Gold again took the field.

The first Seattle batter grounded out to first and Tabby was right there to offer congratulations to Jerry Lyons, the first baseman. More furious typing from the press. The second batter popped weakly back to Tabby. The third worked the count to two and two and Comingo came out from behind the plate to talk to Tabby. The media—and the crowd—held their collective breaths to see how this scenario would work out, remembering Tabby's behavior from the previous year when a catcher tried that move. Even Willie Fontana leaned forward in his seat on the bench.

Bobby Joe put his arm around Tabby's shoulder and the two walked behind the mound. Their body language told everybody they were not in agreement, but finally Tabby gave in, shrugged his shoulders and stood watching the catcher trundle back behind the plate. The signal was given, Tabby wound and pitched, and the ball flew out toward the gap in center right field. Nobody would have bet a plugged nickel the ball was anything but a home run. But they hadn't reckoned with Domingo Martinez. The rookie center fielder ran the ball down, reached up as it was about to go over the fence and caught it in the web of his glove. He was so tall he didn't even have to jump.

What happened next was totally unexpected. Tabby rushed toward Bobby Joe Comingo and gave him a kick in the backside—not a hard one—and yelled, “I tol' ya' that was a stupid call!”

The catcher turned around and gave him a big grin. “Yeah! Yeah!” he replied, making believe to throw a punch at Tabby. “And when was
your
last stupid decision?”

By that time they were at the bench and young Martinez was just trotting past second, flipping the ball to the umpire standing there. When he reached the dugout, there was Tabby, standing waiting for him. He grabbed
him
in a bear hug and bounced him up and down a couple of times on the dirt in front of the dugout. Everyone on the bench could hear him, “Kid, for every catch you make like that this year, I'll donate $100 to your favorite charity. Just tell me who to write the check to.”

Domingo shot back, “My favorite charity is the Domingo Martinez Have Fun Club.” A big grin covered his face. “That means I have a hunnerd dollar meal on you.”

“You're on. Just say when and where.” Tabby's grin was just as big.

Tabby O'Hara had truly joined the Las Vegas Gold.

7

The rest of spring training and the Arizona League Exhibition season went better than expected. The won-lost percentage, for what that was worth, was above .500. Molly used as many players as she could to make final decisions as to who stayed and who went to the various minor league clubs. By the last week before the regular season began she had her fixed lineup playing every day, and the decision as to the utility players and designated hitters had been made. She found managing a Major League club in action was not much different from the pro women's league she had been used to, and she received good support from her entire coaching staff. The comment that pleased her most came from bench coach Kenny Boyce. His thick, ginger-colored moustache framing a big smile and his blue eyes twinkling, he walked off the field with her one day after an exhibition game in which they had laced the Padres 8-3. Kenny said, “Molly, girl, this is going to be one fine season. I feel it in my bones. You are doing everything right. Keep on and damn the press.”

The West Coast papers were full of stories about the actions of Harry Mendoza, the pitcher the Gold had traded to the Dodgers for Tabby O'Hara. Mendoza had all but refused to pitch. He would go one inning and then take himself out of the game, complaining about a sore leg or a sore neck or some other minor injury. He refused to run wind sprints some days, and other days ran only a few, and those slowly, at a trot. Other days, he didn't show up at practice at all. Finally, the Dodgers gave up on him and offered him his outright release. He took it and his agent immediately went looking for another team willing to hire him. So far, no luck. His antics on and off the field scared other GMs away.

Molly had Sparky Hooper issue a press release near the end of March to announce the names of the 25 players who had made the team, and those who had been sent to the minors or given their release. She had already spoken to those who were not to be on the team. Bobby Joe Comingo had a lock on the starting catcher's job, with Gratzi Harango, an eager second year pro who had been with the old Las Vegas 51s, now moved to Vancouver, working hard to learn the job as his back-up. Gratzi was a natural, and the pitchers liked him as a receiver.

The infield was made up of former free agents, all of whom Molly had personally scouted and chosen. Thirty year-old Jerry Lyons, a .300 hitter and a good fielder who had played all his career with the Blue Jays, was at first. Horatio Littleton, known as “Tubby,” a former Cardinal, was a second baseman who could turn a double play with the best of them, and whose batting average over eight years stood at .283. Shortstop Danny Johnson was long and lanky, had a good range, and an arm almost as accurate as a sniper's rifle. Why the Red Sox had let him go was a mystery. Digger Hazen, another long-time pro who had played with three different teams, a year older than Johnson at thirty-one and thus the oldest of the infielders, was like a vacuum cleaner at third. How he had escaped from the Oakland A's into free agency puzzled many baseball people. The consensus was his salary had gotten too large for the A's to handle, but the Gold had not hesitated to sign him to a five-year contract for a total of forty million dollars.

In the outfield, rookie Diego Martinez was undoubtedly the star attraction. He was flanked by Corry Van Dyk, a one-time Yankee, in left and Porter Kipping, for the last few years with the Tampa Rays, in right, with his great throwing arm still throwing strikes to the plate eight years after becoming rookie of the year. All three could hit, run, and make impossible plays look routine. Steve Hostetler, for many years a stalwart with the Braves, signed as fourth outfielder and elder statesman on the team. He could have played as a regular on many teams, but the contract offer was good enough to snag him, and Molly promised him playing time every week. The outfielders felt good about having a day off from time to time, and all four got along well together.

Horace Mayhew, nearing the end of a long career with seven different teams, was to be the regular left hand designated hitter, and the right hand DH would be rookie Judd Matthews, who could hit, but whose fielding still left many things to be desired. Third base and outfield coach Jerry Haley was working with the youngster on his fielding. The three utility infielders and benchwarmers were all experienced players in the twilight of their careers.

Molly was especially pleased with her pitching crew. To begin the season she was going with just four starters, like the old days. Tabby O'Hara was obviously the ace of the staff. The other right-handed starter was Damaso Gonzalez, who had gone 14-10 with the White Sox the previous season, his seventh full season in the Majors. The two southpaws were T.Y. Hollinger, 12-8 the previous year in Triple A, and Connie Armstrong, 16-5 the previous season, a Cardinal his entire career. He had decided to test the free agency pool and was happy with his decision. In the bullpen, Lynn Meriweather, a journeyman reliever with three former teams on his resume, was the long man and spot starter. Lefty Kenny Styles, also a well-traveled journeyman, and right-handed Quincey O'Donnell, a rookie, were the set-up men, and a right-handed rookie nobody had ever heard of, Mac Driscoll, had won the closer's job hands down. The previous year he had been playing in Double A ball as a starter because he had a 100 mile an hour fast ball he didn't hesitate to throw wherever the catcher called for it, along with an 85 mph curve. Willie Fontana had taught him how to throw a slurve, a combination curve and slider, and Driscoll had caught on quickly. In three weeks, he was comfortable with it. His supreme self-confidence without being cocky gave him the right temperament to be a closer. Two veteran pitchers rounded out the list: Jimmy Brandon and Freddy Greeley, each playing with their sixth or seventh teams.

Molly called a team meeting on the day before the team broke camp to head north to Seattle to open the season with a three-game series against the Mariners. “Hey guys,” she began, “I hope this is the first and last team meeting until we win the League Championship.” The players broke into smiles and applause. “I don't expect I'm going to be doing a lot of work this summer. I believe, after what I have seen during the last month, this team is not going to take a lot of managing. That's fine by me.

“But,” she paused, “I won't hesitate to speak up when I think it's necessary, and when I have something to say, you'd better listen. I want you all to know you are good enough to win this league, hands down, UNLESS,” she paused again and looked around, “unless you get too cocky or over-confident, and throw your chances away. And I'm not going to let that happen if I can help it. We have a six-month long season about to start. Everyone is going to get playing time; some of you won't get as much as you may want, but I'll do the best I can.

“One more thing.” Molly looked around again and waited until she had everyone's attention. “Watch what you say to the media. They're going to be curious about me as a woman managing a Major League Baseball team, and I don't want to read or hear any negative comments—even if you didn't make them, but said something that could be twisted. Leave me out of your interviews.” She paused again. “I know I'm a curiosity, but I'll take care of the matter, and any controversies that arise.

“Oh yeah. This is important. No bench clearing brawls. I mean that. I'll say it again: no, and I mean absolutely none, NO bench clearing. Anyone who leaves the bench to take part in a fight will not only be fined, but also benched. I'm very serious. If one of you pitchers accidentally hits a batter and he charges the mound, you are to turn your back and walk away toward second base. It takes a brave man to do that, but that's exactly what you are to do. No exceptions! I'm the one who will look after it. I don't expect to get into a fight,” she stopped as laughter broke out, “but I'll look after any such situation. Also, if one of you gets hit, same thing. No fights. You get up and take your base if you can. If you can't, signal the bench and we'll take it from there.”

“Why, Molly? Why this ‘no fight rule'?” That came from Bobby Joe Comingo. “Just askin', not arguing.”

“Because this is a baseball team, and maybe we'll teach the league a thing or two about team discipline. I don't want any retaliation pitches, either. Don't be afraid to pitch inside, and I will back you up if you accidentally hit somebody. I expect there are other ways to take care of a pitcher who throws at one of you. I intend to win the American League Championship and get into the World Series, and with the quality players standing in front of me, your ability and your team self-discipline is more than good enough to do it.” She stopped and looked around at the assembled group of athletes.

“Did you know Jackie Robinson had a section in his contract not to complain if people spat on him? Whining and complaining and fighting get you nowhere but trouble.”

“Any more questions?” There was silence in the room. “Okay. See you on the plane tomorrow.” And she turned and walked away toward her office.

Horace Mayhew, standing next to Digger Hazen, grunted, “Huh. Never heard nothin' like that before, an' I played for some tough managers.”

“That's some kind of woman,” Digger replied. “This is going to be a different kind of team, a different kind of season. I can hardly wait to see how things turn out.”

Neither could the rest of the team, the fans or the media.