Big League Dreams Ch. 03

Big League Dreams: Chapter 03

I started this story a while ago, before COVID-19 and before the likely contraction of baseball's minor leagues. So, it exists in a fantasy world where these things didn't happen. I hope that the quality of the story allows you to ignore that. Also, while I never specifically say what baseball organization is featured, it is based on one team, which is pretty obvious, especially if you have read some of my earlier stories. But I've taken liberties with locations of minor league teams, and my descriptions of the minor league cities and towns are completely fictional.

I'd suggest reading the prior chapters to understand what's going on. As with all of my stories, they are not submitted until completed, so the chapters will appear every few days. Thanks for reading!

The next year was another crossroads year for me. I had a strong spring, and even pitched in a couple of major league exhibition games, allowing my parents to see me pitch for the first time as a pro on TV, although my appearances were late in the game when both teams had removed most of the major leaguers from the lineup. I hoped to have a full year at AAA, and if I was lucky, I might even get a shot to pitch in a major league game that counted. But if I didn't have a good year, I might get sent back down, and at my age, I was getting to the point that I ran the risk of getting released so that younger, more highly touted prospects could take my roster spot. At that point, I'd have to pray that some other organization was interested in me, or finally get a real job.

At the start of the season, I was penciled in as a setup man—one of the guys who pitched after the starter was out, but not the closer. At least I wasn't supposed to be a "long reliever," which would have meant that I would only be used if the starter had to come out earlier than expected, and I hoped that my success during the season would prevent me from ending up only getting mop up work, when the game was so far lost (or occasionally, if we had a huge lead), that the manager wouldn't want to waste one of the successful pitchers. Ending up in that role for any length of time did not bode well for a long career.

Back when my dad was younger, the setup man role was also not prestigious. The glamour guys were the starters and closers, but over the years, as analytics began to demonstrate starters' decreasing effectiveness the longer they pitched, and pitch counts took on more importance to preserving arms, teams began to rely more and more on effective set up pitchers. The big money for relievers was still for the closers, but you could have a long and lucrative career if you were a reliable pitcher in the 7^th or 8^th inning, and occasionally close a game.

I had been happy when I got moved up to AAA to reunite with Teo, who appeared to be working his way up the ladder, too, and occasionally got mentioned when big league jobs opened up. Not only had he been successful in the minors, but being Hispanic and fluent in Spanish was a plus. We also had a great pitching coach, Bobby Parker, who had spent five years on the big league team before injuring his shoulder and turning to coaching. He was a keen student of all aspects of pitching, including the physical, mental and analytical parts, and like me, was a college graduate, from Vanderbilt. We hit it off immediately, and I planned on taking as much wisdom from Bobby as possible for as long as he was my coach.

The city where our team was based had seen better days, back when there were active factories and mills, but there was a large college outside of town which provided some jobs, so it wasn't completely depressed. But there was a glut of housing in some neighborhoods, so I was able to rent a small one bedroom apartment in an ungentrified neighborhood for the season, on a month to month basis, for a reasonable price. The landlord, an older widower named Marco Balvetti, had been a machinist in his youth, and was a big baseball fan who rented the apartment to ballplayers each season. He was a nice guy, but private, so it wasn't like having the Pullmans around, which was fine with me at that point.

Our team looked to be strong. We had a bunch of the guys I played with before, including Roscoe Brownlow, Jamari Post, Caden Burris, Fonzie Arroyo, Al Balboa, Luis Correa, and Ramon Cardenas, who we all expected to be called up soon, some highly ranked prospects who I only knew from spring training, and a handful of veteran guys, who were considered "AAAA" players (although you would never say that to their face)—guys good enough to play in the majors, but not regularly, and who were stashed at AAA to fill in when the big team needed short term injury replacements. I think it was the great baseball writer Roger Kahn who once wrote something like the lowest level minor leaguer was better than any player that most people had ever seen, and I realized that even a fringe major leaguer was better than almost any minor leaguer, so I treated these guys with respect, and never made fun of them behind their backs, like some of my teammates. I did observe that a few of them really didn't want to be with us, and were a little standoffish. I was not on the top prospect lists, but was considered to be someone who, if things broke right, could help a major league team's bullpen. Which was a fuck of a long way from "organizations need a lot of arms," a phrase that I often considered getting tattooed on my arm, if I wasn't afraid of getting something tattooed on my arm.

We were not quite clicking early in the season, as Teo and Bobby tried to figure out the right mix on the field and on the mound. We were winning more than we were losing, but not as much as we had expected, and were hovering around third place. I was doing OK in my setup role, mostly retaining leads, or keeping us in close games when we were losing, although like most pitchers, I did have one game where I couldn't get anyone out. Bobby kept me in longer than he should have, telling me later that he wanted to see me work out of it, but it was still embarrassing. But maybe he was right, because it didn't happen again that season.

And it was then that I met Erin Connolly, a stereotypical, red haired, fair skinned Irish beauty. To be fair, Erin's family emigrated from Ireland in the 1800s, but she looked the part. I met her the way ballplayers often met women, in a bar, after a game, and while it wasn't the same instant infatuation I had felt with Jillian, I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. She was sitting at a table with two men and another woman, and from the second I set eyes on her, I watched to see whether there was any indication that she was with any of the men in the group. Or, I guess, the women.

I was drinking with some of my teammates. We had won our third in a row, I had pitched effectively in the first and third games, we were in second place, and had a rare day off the next day, so we were drinking pretty heavily.

"Earth to Ray," Roscoe said to me as I continued to stare at the redheaded beauty at the table across the bar. "Dude, are you still with us?"

I nodded, "Yeah, dude. All good." I took a swig of my beer and turned to stare again.

"Shit, Ray. Either stop starin' or go over and say something to her."

"What are you talking about?" I responded unsteadily.

"Here we go again," said Jamari Post.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Brownlow responded, "Dude, it's like that super hot chick you met in that bar playing pool. The one who hustled you. You're looking at her the same way."

"No, I'm not."

"Bullshit," Jamari replied. "And then you were banging her the rest of the season."

Memories of Jillian flooded into my drunken brain, and I felt surprisingly warm all of a sudden. "One thing I do remember from that night, Jamari, was leaving with Jillian, while you were passed out on a table with, shit, what's his name. Oh yeah, Tyler Parks."

"Whatever happened to him?" Roscoe asked.

"Hurt his knee, and never made it back," Jamari responded. "Moved back to Cali, I think."

We all drank from our beers as we contemplated the knife edge that our careers sat upon, although I don't think either of my drinking buddies would have used that metaphor.

"Wait, Poole, stop trying to change the subject. Are you going to make a move, or are you just going to act like a stalker?" Jamari asked.

Eddie Bolton, who none of us knew before this season, but was a good guy, had appeared to be asleep, but woke up and slurred at me, "Who were you banging?" before his head slumped down on his chest again. We all laughed, but he didn't wake up.

At that moment, I noticed that the redhead stood up and went to the bar, and I could see that she looked incredible in a pair of tight jeans. It was time to put up or shut up. I stood up, and when I stopped swaying, I headed toward the bar, hearing my so called friends whooping it up behind me.

I heard her order only one beer, which was strange, since she was with three other people, and I made it to the bar in time to say to the bartender, "Let me get that for you, and I'll have one of the same." The bartender, Gerry O'Sullivan, was a great guy, and a fan of the team, so he often didn't charge us for every drink. He eyed me in a funny way, and said, "Are you sure, Ray?"

"I don't need you to buy me a drink," the woman responded before I could answer.

"I'm not saying that you do. I'm just asking if I can," I replied with a smile, and felt like I had come up with a pretty good line under the circumstances.

She picked up her beer. "Suit yourself," she replied before turning and heading back to her table without another word. I stood there, watching her ass as she walked away and thinking that I just wasted money on a beer.

"Don't worry, Ray, I won't charge you for that. I tried to warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

"About Erin Connolly."

"Her?" I asked, motioning with my head toward the table where she was sitting, but now only with the other woman. I took a drink from the beer I had ordered.

"Yeah. She's here a lot, but I've never seen her leave with anyone who tried to pick her up."

"What's her story?"

"Not really sure. I think she works at the college. She might live in the neighborhood."

"Thanks for the intel, Gerry."

"Any time, Ray. And congrats on the winning streak. I think you guys are gonna catch 'em."

"I hope so. And hey, let me know if you want tickets again."

"Thanks, Ray. I'm off in a few days, so let me check with my wife and see if she wants to go."

"OK. You have my number, right."

"Yep. Thanks."

I walked unsteadily back to the table sneaking a glance over at Erin, and was surprised to see her doing the same to me, looking away, as if she was embarrassed at being caught.

"Struck out, dude?" Roscoe asked.

"Never been known for my hitting, Roscoe," I responded, trying to laugh it off.

"Just gonna let her go?" Jamari asked, draining a beer.

I took a quick glance over to her table, and noticed that she was sitting there with only the other woman and considered taking another shot. There was something about her, beyond the fact that she was hot as fuck, that made me want to get to know her. But I decided not to take the risk of getting shot down again in public, especially after what Gerry had told me. "Yeah, guys. Gerry told me she never leaves with anyone from here."

"Not even a modestly talented minor league ballplayer?" teased Roscoe.

"Apparently not. But I guess that means neither of you losers would have a chance either." I took a drink waiting for the response.

"Fuck you, Poole," Jamari responded, laughing.

"What he said." Roscoe added, finishing his drink and slamming the glass on the table. He looked at his phone. "I'm done." He threw down a few bills on the table.

Jamari looked surprised. "Off day tomorrow, dude."

"I know. I'm fucking beat. And I don't think I'm getting laid here tonight."

Eddie woke up for a second. "What? Who's getting laid?"

"You are, Eddie," I answered with a smile.

"What? Really. With who?" Before anyone could answer, his head dropped to his chest, and he was out again.

Roscoe started to leave. "One a you assholes get Bolton home, OK?"

"He's on my way. I'll take him," I offered.

Jamari and I finished our drinks, paid the tab, woke Eddie up and wrangled him out the door. I stole another glance at Erin on the way out, and noticed that she was at the bar, talking to Gerry.

*

"Erin Connelly, who is this?"

"Ray Poole."

"That name isn't familiar. Are you in one of my sections?"

"No, Erin. I'm the guy who bought you a beer last night."

"The one I didn't ask for?"

"That would be the one."

"And now you're harassing me at work?"

I couldn't tell over the phone whether or not she was serious, but I figured I needed to find out fast.

"No, I just wanted to meet you."

"Who are you, Ray Poole?"

That she didn't hang up was a good sign, I thought. "I'm a pitcher for the team."

"Are you any good?"

I could sense that she was playing with me a little, and I figured I had nothing to lose. "Good enough for AAA. I hope good enough for the majors soon, but honestly, I don't know."

"Wow, a non-arrogant jock. I'm impressed."

"So we've already gotten past the part of the story where Lizzie realizes that Mr. Darcy isn't a jerk."

"What the fuck, Ray? A Jane Austen reference. From Google?"

"No, Erin, once upon a time, before I decided to try to throw a ball for a living, I was an English major. I even have a degree from a real college."

I could hear her typing. "I guess you do, Ray, and not a bad one at that." She paused. "So, you bribed Gerry with free tickets to get my name, Googled me, realized that I'm a TA in the English Literature department, and figured dropping a little Austen would get me into bed?"

"Erin, when you're a minor league ballplayer, all you do is dream. So, yeah."

She laughed out loud. "Very funny."

"And you asked Gerry about me, pretended not to recognize my name when I called, and pretended not to know that I'm a ballplayer."

"Busted, Ray."

One thing I've learned as a pitcher, is if the count is in your favor, you need to press the advantage. "So, would you have dinner with me tonight?"

"Wow. Tonight?"

"Yeah, we have a rare off day today, so I'm free."

"Well, Ray, I happen to be free tonight, too. How about I meet you at the bar at 7, and we can have a drink, and if you turn out to be more Darcy than Wickham, we can walk around the corner to the burger place. Best in town."

"I've been there, and you're right. And I'm definitely no Wickham—I have no interest in your sister, if you even have a sister. It's a date."

"I guess it is, Ray. And I only have brothers. Big, mean brothers. See you then." She hung up.

*

I was waiting at a table, facing the door when Erin arrived. It looked like she had come straight from school, because she was dressed more for work than she was for a date. Or, I thought, maybe she was not someone who went overboard for a date. Or, she did, and she didn't care enough about this date to make more of an effort. I guess the only way to find out was to see how things went. She still looked amazing. I stood up, and she came over and reached out her hand.

"I'm Erin," she said grabbing my offered hand. She had a strong grip, which I appreciated, and we sat down.

"Ray." She nodded. It was awkward, but I still felt something that I hadn't felt about a woman for a few years—not since my few weeks with Jillian. "Now, can I buy you a drink?"

"You can, but we're splitting dinner, OK?"

"That's really not necessary, Erin."

"Ray, we don't know each other, but Gerry might have told you that I have a nasty independent streak. I can't imagine in this era that any man thinks that buying a woman dinner means that he gets to sleep with her, but as I said, I don't know you."

"No, Erin—that's not why at all. No. I asked you out. I should pay."

She shook her head, her shoulder length red hair flying freely. "Nope. It's a deal breaker, Ray. Agree to split dinner, or I'm outta here."

"No pitcher ever likes to hear 'outta here,'" I replied laughing. "OK. You win."

"I usually do," she replied, smiling a big smile that lit up her face. If I was interested before, I was totally smitten now.

"Let me guess," I ventured. "High school athlete, but had to choose between academics and sports."

"Good guess. I played softball in high school, but knew I wasn't good enough for D-I. And I really wanted to go here. And since you've seen that I don't like to lose, I gave up the game for English Lit."

"Do you miss it?"

"Yeah. I play in a coed beer league during the summers, but it really isn't the same. Those were a few teammates I was here with last night."

"Me, too."

"I figured."

"You noticed, then?"

I could see a little blush rise on her pale cheeks. "How could I not. That tall guy you were with was hot."

I smiled. "I can get you Roscoe's number, if you want."

"Let's see how tonight goes. I'll let you know. Does he like Austen, or is he more of a Brontë kind of guy?"

"I think Roscoe is more of a Big Lebowski guy. Not that there's anything wrong with that."

"No, nothing at all."

"What are you drinking, Erin?"

"Just a draft beer, Ray. Thanks."

I got up and ordered two drafts from Gerry.

"I don't know how you did it, Ray, but good luck," Gerry said, as he passed me the beers. I dropped a 20 on the bar and waited for my change, leaving a few bucks tip before returning to the table.

I apparently passed the Darcy/Wickham test, and after the drink and some good conversation, we went around the corner for burgers. I liked the fact that Erin wasn't the kind of woman who only ate salad—she dug right into their Piggy in the Middle burger (a cheeseburger with a slab of pork belly and bacon onion jam)—but the only curves she had were in the best places.

Unlike most women I'd been with, we didn't talk too much about my baseball career or my chances to make the big leagues, although we did touch on that. Instead, we talked about our families, our childhoods and our hopes for the future. I found out that her area of specialty was feminist literary criticism, and she spent 15 minutes completely changing my understanding of Pride & Prejudice between mouthfuls of burger and fries, and slugs of beer. I found that I couldn't keep my eyes off of her face—the animated way she explained things, the way her eyes lit up when she was interested in something. Even the way she chewed was fascinating to me.

Eventually, though, dinner was over, and I had no idea what was going to happen next. We walked out of the restaurant, and she put her arm though mine as we walked back toward the bar.

"Where do you live, Ray?"

"About three blocks that way," I said, indicating toward my left. "You?"

"Two blocks that way," she replied, motioning with her head to the right.

"That's OK, I'll walk you home."

She stopped and took her arm out of mine. "Ray, I've lived in this neighborhood my whole life, and I don't need you to protect me."

That damned independence. I had forgotten. But we had a connection, and I figured I'd be honest. "I wasn't offering to protect you. I was offering because I hoped the night wasn't over."

She smiled at me, and I just about melted. "Ah. Well, Ray, the night is pretty much over, since whether or not you walk me home, you weren't getting an invitation inside."

My face fell in disappointment. "But I was going to do this," she said, leaning in to me and pressing her lips against mine. I felt a shock that ran straight to my cock, and I kissed her back, wrapping my arms around her and she did the same. We kissed for I had no idea how long, but I never wanted it to end. But eventually, she pulled away. "Not tonight Ray, but I'm definitely not saying never."