Where Nobody Knows Your Name: Life In the Minor Leagues of Baseball (21 page)

Since 2005, the Indians have been the Pirates’ Triple-A farm club, which means a lot of players have come through Indianapolis, made brief stops in Pittsburgh, and then, after showing potential, been shipped off to other teams.

In 2011, the Pirates, after eighteen straight losing seasons—a major-league record—finally showed some life. They actually led the National League Central Division briefly in July before tailing off badly to finish with a 72-90 record. For 2012, the Pirates had T-shirts made up for everyone in the organization that had one word on the back: “Finish.” Since many of the Indians wear Pirates gear to warm up in every afternoon, the word “Finish” was on the backs of their T-shirts throughout the season.

Like the big-league club, they played very well into the summer months and found themselves in first place in the IL West by a considerable margin as the weather turned hot. Their best player, without question, was their young left fielder, Starling Marte. At twenty-three, Marte had the look of a star. He could hit, he could hit with power, and he was a superb outfielder.

“If he gets close to it, he catches it,” Treanor said. “And most of the time, he’s going to get close to it.”

It wasn’t a question of
if
Marte was going to get called up; it was simply when. By late July he was hitting .286 with twelve home runs, sixty-three RBIs, twenty-one doubles, thirteen triples, and twenty-one stolen bases. In short, he was doing everything possible to get the Pirates’ attention.

The Indians were cruising along in first place when the Pawtucket Red Sox came to town on July 25 for a game that started at 11:05 in the morning. Triple-A teams occasionally play games with morning starts for one of two reasons: to give teams a head start on a get-away day when they have a long trip to make and have to play the next day in another city; or to bring schoolkids to the ballpark as part of a field trip. The early start means the kids can see the game and get back to school in time to be dismissed from there.

This was a school-field-trip morning start.

Baseball players—in fact almost all of those associated with baseball in any way—are not morning people. This is especially true when the game-time temperature at 11:00 in the morning is eighty-seven degrees and everyone knows it is only going to get hotter as the sun climbs into the noontime sky.

Whether it was the game time or the heat or the pitching of the PawSox’ Nelson Figueroa, the Indians had one of those days that are an inevitable part of every baseball season. They were sluggish the entire game, dropping behind quickly and slogging to a 4–2 loss.

During the game, Treanor got a message from Pittsburgh: Marte was being called up. He was to leave right after the game to join the team in Houston the next day. Treanor wasn’t surprised at all, even though he would miss Marte, with whom he had become very close
during the season. Marte had grown up in the Dominican Republic and had been raised by his grandmother, after losing both his parents by the time he was ten. Treanor, who had managed in the Dominican on several occasions during the winter, was comfortable speaking Spanish and had recognized Marte as special from the first day he had managed him. Marte called Treanor his “American
padre
.”

Marte doubled in one of the Indians’ two runs on that sweltering Wednesday but, like everyone else, wasn’t quite with it during the game. When he grounded into a double play in the sixth inning—a rare occurrence for him—Treanor noticed that he wasn’t quite giving his all going down the line.

As everyone trudged up the tunnel after the game, Treanor had an idea. As soon as the team was inside the clubhouse, he told everyone to wait a moment before heading for the showers or starting to eat the postgame meal. It was time for a talk—an impromptu team meeting.

Everyone sighed. They knew what was coming. Yes, it had been a morning start, and, yes, it had been a hot day, but the PawSox had played in the same heat at the same starting time. Yes, they were still in first place by a wide margin, but Columbus was heating up, and this was no time to take anything for granted.

Treanor went through all that and mentioned that he understood this was a tense time of year. The July 31 trading deadline was coming up, and everyone in Triple-A was on pins and needles because trades meant movement—sometimes to another organization, sometimes up to the major leagues. It also sometimes meant watching others move up while you stayed put. He understood that everyone in the room was full of hope—and trepidation.

Finally, he turned to Marte.

“Starling, in the sixth inning, did you run as hard as you could to first base on that double-play ball?” he asked.

Marte shook his head. “No, sir, I didn’t,” he answered.

Treanor nodded. “You know that isn’t acceptable,” he said. “We don’t jog down to first base ever.”

He paused for effect, then added, “So, tomorrow, you aren’t going to be in our starting lineup.”

The clubhouse was completely silent. The players were clearly stunned. They all knew that Marte played hard about 99.9 percent of the time. This seemed harsh.

“I waited about thirty seconds,” Treanor said. “Looked around at all of them. Then I said, ‘Starling, the reason you aren’t going to be in the lineup is because you’re going to be in Houston. You’re going to be in the lineup there for the Pirates.’ ”

This time the silence lasted only about a second before the news sank in with everyone. Then the clubhouse exploded. Everyone forgot how exhausted they were.

When the hugging and celebrating was over, Marte came to find Treanor.

“Thanks, Padre,” he said.

“Run everything out in Pittsburgh,” Treanor said. “And don’t come back.”

Marte led off for the Pirates the next night against Houston left-hander Dallas Keuchel. He drove the first major-league pitch he ever saw over the left-center-field fence in Minute Maid Park for a home run. He became the first Pirate to homer on the first pitch of his major-league career since Walter Mueller did it—in 1922.

Treanor was certain that Marte would follow both his instructions: He would run every ball out. And he would not be back.

Five days after he got to tell Marte he was going to the majors in front of all his teammates, Treanor had a very different experience. It was trade deadline day, and Treanor wasn’t at all surprised when he got to the ballpark to learn that one of his players had been traded. The Pirates were legitimately in the pennant race with a record of 59-44. They trailed the Cincinnati Reds by three games in the National League Central but were tied for the wild card lead with the Atlanta Braves. Not surprisingly, they were looking to make a deal or two to strengthen themselves for the season’s final two months.

They had traded with the Miami Marlins to acquire the first baseman Gaby Sánchez in the hope that Sánchez might add some
power to their lineup. The price had been a draft pick and, as he was described in every story about the trade, “minor-league outfielder Gorkys Hernández.”

Hernández was twenty-four, another player who had been signed out of South America—Venezuela—as a teenager, going to the Detroit Tigers as an eighteen-year-old. He had been traded to the Atlanta Braves and then, in 2009, to Pittsburgh in the trade that had sent Nate McLouth to the Braves. He had reached Indianapolis in 2011 and had a solid year and had briefly been called up to the Pirates in May, where he was used primarily as a defensive replacement: he’d had only twenty-four at-bats in twenty-five games and had gotten two hits before being sent back to Indianapolis.

It was a few minutes before the players were supposed to go out to stretch prior to batting practice when Treanor got the call telling him that Hernández had been traded to the Marlins. The problem was the Marlins hadn’t told the Pirates where they were sending Hernández. It could be Miami, or it could be Triple-A New Orleans, or it could even be Double-A Jacksonville. Things were so chaotic in south Florida that no one seemed certain what was going to happen to anyone next, much less the fate of a “minor-league outfielder.”

Treanor hung up the phone and went to find Hernández, who was in uniform, ready to go out and stretch. Hernández was no longer a member of the Pittsburgh organization, so he couldn’t go out and take BP with his now-former teammates. Treanor waved him into his office. Hernández, knowing what day it was, knew something was coming—he just didn’t know what it was.

“I figured it was a trade of some kind,” he said later. “I was nervous. I mean, they can send you anywhere.”

Hernández’s nerves weren’t just focused on his baseball future. He and his wife had a two-year-old daughter and were expecting their second child in early to mid-September. Traveling anywhere at this point—much less trying to pack and/or find a place to live—was going to be just about impossible.

“Gorkys, you’ve been traded to the Miami Marlins,” Treanor said, figuring there was no point beating around the bush. “Right
now, I don’t know where they’re sending you. The general manager has your cell phone number, and they promised they would call as soon as they know.”

Hernández was a little bit stunned, not so much by the trade—he’d been traded twice before—as by being told he was supposed to sit and wait to be told where he was going to go next.

“I’m a little bit confused at that moment,” he said. “I could tell Dean was confused too.”

Treanor was more angry than confused. Telling a player he was traded or even that he was being sent down was one thing. Telling him he’d been traded to nowhere was another. “Never happened to me before,” he said.

Hernández walked back into the clubhouse and told his ex-teammates what had happened. When Treanor had called him in, most had figured he was being traded. When they asked where he was going, he gave them the same confusing answer Treanor had just given him.

There was nothing anyone could do. Good-byes were said quickly. Everyone else headed out the door and up the tunnel to the field. Hernández was left in an empty clubhouse. He called home and told his wife what was going on. He was going to be getting on a plane soon; he just didn’t know where the plane would be going.

“She was very calm,” he said. “Calmer than me.”

He took off his uniform, showered, and was walking back to his locker when he saw his phone ringing. It was Michael Hill, the general manager of the Marlins.

“Gorkys,” he said. “I’m sorry for the delay getting in touch with you, it’s been kind of hectic here. I want to welcome you to the Marlins.”

Hernández told him it was no problem and waited. “The team is in Atlanta,” Hill said. “We need to get you on a flight so you can meet them there as soon as possible.”

Hernández felt his heart rate go up. He was going to the big leagues, not to New Orleans or Jacksonville or anyplace else.

“If I have to leave my family now, I want to do it to go back to the
majors,” he said after hanging up with Hill. “An hour ago I had no idea where I was going to be. Now I know I’m in the major leagues.”

He sent Treanor a text, and Treanor passed the good news on to the players. After batting practice, when Hernández had left for the airport, Treanor sat in his office and smiled.

“Well, I’ve lost my two best outfielders in five days,” he said. He paused for a moment and smiled. “I couldn’t be happier.”

HOME SWEET HOME

While players like Marte and Hernández were making the giant leap from Triple-A to the majors, Chris Schwinden was just happy to be back in Buffalo.

Schwinden had just endured thirty-seven days that were tumultuous even by tumultuous minor-league standards. Following his one-day sojourn in Toronto that was followed by the eighteen-hour odyssey that took him from Pittsburgh to JFK Airport … to a gas station in the Bronx … to the side of the road on the New York State Thruway … to a motel in Binghamton … and finally to the mound at Coca-Cola Field, Schwinden had spent a week back in Triple-A before getting called back to the Mets for a third time in under five weeks. Three days later he had gone from the major leagues to unemployed—when the Mets stunned him by designating him for assignment, meaning Schwinden would be on waivers for ten days, and if someone didn’t pick him up, he would be released.