I Always had a Good Arm

It was the seventh game of the World Series, my second game as a starter. I was standing on the mound in Yankee Stadium looking at my feet. I thought,

"I wonder what inning it is?"

*****

It's strange, standing in what felt like the center of the universe, I suddenly had a very vivid memory... It was the first time I had taken the pitcher's mound. I was 12.

I had normally played left field, not because I was a great fielder or all that fast, it was because I always had a good arm.

Two weeks earlier I had chased a ball into the far corner of left field, grabbed the ball, looked up, and saw the runner heading for third. His third base coach was looking at me and waving his arm like a windmill encouraging him to tag the bag, and head for home.

There were two outs, our pitcher had walked the first batter, and the second and third batters grounded out, but their fourth man up hit a sharp drive right up the middle. Our second baseman managed to knock the ball down, to save the run, but it was now first and third. That meant the tying run was on third, and a long single would win it for them.

I took three side steps and threw the ball home. I was maybe 180 feet from the plate. The ball bounced once on the baseline between third base and home plate, the catcher grabbed it just in time to tag the runner as he headed for home.

I couldn't hear him, but recognized the motion of the umpire...

"Y'rrr ooouttt"

It ended with my throw, the third out in the bottom of the ninth. The other team was so hopeful for about 200 feet of base running, and then it was over.

My team called me a hero, I had saved the game, I remember thinking...

"I just threw it as far as I could, and was only trying for the center of the backstop."

In the middle of the next week, our coach came by my house. He spoke to my parents, and they were all excited, I was going to be a pitcher.

"With that arm, he could go places!"

Over the next few days, he and his wife came by every day, I threw strikes right into his mitt. Never missed, he'd set up, hold the glove over the center of the plate... smack, right down the middle.

His wife came up with an idea. She would film me with their 8mm movie camera. She had figured out that by using film, she'd be able to calculate my approximate speed. She explained it to me, and it seemed pretty simple. An 8mm camera shoots film at 16 frames per second. They counted the number of frames from when the ball left my hand until it hit the catcher's mitt. Carefully checking they came up with 6 1/4 frames, which meant I was throwing the ball in the 78 MPH range. Another calculation, based on reaction time, meant it was equivalent to something like 95 MPH on a major league field.

I took the mound the next weekend, I looked at my feet. I brushed the clay on the mound with my toe. I was an outfielder, I was used to grass.

We were playing a team that wasn't very good. In fact, they hadn't won a game, and a lot of their guys hadn't even been on base.

I'm not sure if our coach knew that, and set me up for success, but as they say "man plans and God smiles".

You see, even the most awkward or timid player can hold a bat out. Yes, my pitches were fast and hard, but it was like they were coming out of a pipe, right down the middle. They weren't hitting the ball as much as I was hitting their bats. So every player on their team hit the ball, lots of slow-moving grounders, but they all made contact.

Eventually, the coach moved the infield way in and we were able to stop the onslaught of dribbling singles, but the damage was done. We were beaten by the worst team in the league behind my sterling pitching debut.

Our coach was baffled, but I heard one of the dad's on the other team say,

"Lucky thing that catcher never moved his mitt around, most of these kids can't hit an inside pitch if their lives depended on it."

All the effort to make me a pitcher was focused on my arm when I should have been taught some strategy too. It would have also helped if I had a catcher who moved the target around a bit, but that's not his fault. The next game I was back in the outfield and my pitching career was over... or so I thought.

*****

Back in the present...

I looked at the catcher, and thought,

"The crowd is pretty quiet today."

Somewhere the announcer was saying,

Don Larsen was the only pitcher to throw a perfect game in the World Series. That was back in 1956 against the Brooklyn Dodgers, that is until game one of this series... If the Claw can keep this up, this would be payback in spades. More than anyone could hope for.

Yes, this is it, folks, it's the bottom of the ninth, the count is 2 and 2... this could be one of those moments in history you'll look back on it and say, "I was there"."

Len, Len Dawson, our catcher, was an all-star, no that's not right, he was the league's all-star catcher for the last eight years, the best of the best, and a real student of the game. He knew every batter, what they went after, and where to pitch them. The problem was as far as anyone knew, I really only had one pitch, and it was why I was standing on the mound. He signaled for it and set up to the inside, but I hesitated,

I thought,

"This guy has fouled off two of these already. Obviously "the claw ball" wasn't working on him. Sure it was impossible to tell exactly where it would go, and it was slower, other than perhaps the occasional eephus pitch, (that's an off-speed pitch thrown in a very high arch) than anything anyone in MLB pitched, but this guy had gotten a piece of it... twice."

"You okay Claw?"

Len had called time and came out to the mound.

I was standing there talking to myself when he surprised me...

"Yeh, Yes, I was just thinking."

"Okay, thinking is good, but the ump called "play ball", luckily he didn't award a base, but instead mentioned you were taking too much time."

"Oh, sorry, I think I'm going to try something different."

"Different? Claw, now's not the time to experiment..."

He put the ball in my glove and said,

"Give me the claw ball on the inside", and jogged back to the plate.

He crouched, straightened his mask, got set, and was ready for an inside pitch.

The batter took a quick look, and saw Len line up to the inside...

That one thing made up my mind. It didn't matter if it was going to hurt. It didn't matter if I ruined my hand. After this pitch, I wouldn't be able to go another inning, hell, I might not be able to throw another pitch, ever. I wasn't exactly sure what inning it was, but I was fairly confident we were at the bottom of the seventh or eighth. We had a great young closer, who threw 95+ heat. I would leave it to him to finish this up, I had to try it for the team.

I took a breath...

this could work...

no one would expect it...

I put my right foot against the rubber, got set, and went into my wind up..."

*****

Maybe I should back up a little and tell you how I got here, to begin with...

As I mentioned, I always had a good arm. I loved to participate in sports where throwing was required. I told you about my pitching debut, a disaster, but I didn't tell you what happened after that nightmare... I decided, if I ever got another chance I would be ready. To that end, I wanted to have a variety of pitches to call on so I could confuse even the best batters.

After years of practice, I had developed not only a decent curve ball, but an accurate screw-ball, and slider. My arm strength, and motion, gave me a naturally good fastball, I just needed to move it around. I didn't stop there, when I grew some I was able to hold the ball between my index and middle fingers. Doing so allowed me to add a split-finger fastball that dove into the dirt just before home plate.

I taught myself, studied batters, practiced in secret, and had done it on my own. I was heading to college. My plan was simple; once there I'd "walk on" at open tryouts, I'd strike out everyone I faced, and be on my way. I had it all planned, I had thought of everything, except...

...On December 1, 1969, they held the first draft lottery for military service in Vietnam. Being born on September 6th meant my draft number was 006. That's not one less than James Bond, it meant either leaving the country, joining, or being drafted into the Army. I chose the Navy.

When I was discharged, any athletic career was over before it started. I had spent only six weeks overseas, but the last six months of my "Naval career" were spent in hospitals. Three cracked vertebrates, four compressed discs, and three surgeries to remove most, but not all, of the shrapnel in my back, meant I'd be a little broken, and setting off airport metal detectors, for the rest of my life.

Life went on and I did what I was programmed to do. I worked, dated, fell in love, got married and we had three children. I was reasonably happy, worked my ass off for 30 years, and like so many, got a divorce. In my case, when my wife met her "one true love and soulmate".

She tried to explain;

"You were my ticket out of my parent's house,

We were always great friends, but I was never really in love with you,

I met someone that knows me to the depths of my soul",

and so on...

I didn't want to be placated, I knew the truth and wanted her to say it. Sadly she never did. Perhaps she didn't really know the truth herself... Just like the bigger apartment we had to have, the house we couldn't live without, the car, the clothes, the furniture, that were all she needed to be happy... She just wanted something or in this case someone, shiny and new.

They were together for a little over six months when he met his "soulmate". She knew better than to try to contact me. We don't speak.

I kicked around for a few years and God must have chuckled just a little when he thought of what would come next...

At 53 I met, dated, and eventually married the most amazing, talented, and beautiful woman in the world, who happened to be 30 years old. I know what you're thinking, but even though I told her time and time again, that I was way too old for her. She never stopped loving me and I have to say, it was nice being loved unconditionally. Two years later she was pregnant with our son Robbie...

So, yes, at 55, I became a "new" dad... again.

I continued to work, while she did contract work from home. It paid well and gave her time with our little guy. Even though I felt we were doing okay; after a couple of years she mentioned she was concerned about money, and Robbie's future.

She said she looked into it and found that working full-time in an office (she is a software engineering manager), would nearly triple her income. It made sense, I suppose.

She accepted a position almost immediately (as if she had already decided). I became a "work from/stay at home" dad. My income took a hit, but I still made enough to cover our basic bills and any household expenses. Financially it worked out pretty well for us. It only took a couple of years to pay off the house and get a vacation place in the mountains. Life was very good.

Then something even stranger than all of that happened...

While having a catch with my then five-year-old son, my hand started to cramp. It felt like the center of my palm was getting tight, and somehow thicker. Every day after that it got a little tighter and a little harder to hold a ball. It seemed to be pulling on my fingers, causing them to curl inward as if I was trying to grasp something that wasn't there.

It got harder and harder to throw a ball, it didn't stop me, but it was painful and hard to do. Doing anything other than playing ball with Robbie became a chore, even if it didn't involve my hand. When I wasn't using it, I thought about it, when I was using it, it hurt.

I became a cranky bastard that wasn't fun to be around, but like most guys my age, I ignored it for almost a year, then finally had it looked at.

After a series of tests, ex-rays, and more tests, the doctor announced that I had one of the worse cases of Dupuytren's Contracture he had ever seen.

He tried to explain,

"The truth is no one knows what causes it, although it does run in families, typically with Scandinavian, or Northern European roots, and gets worse with age. While usually only affecting the pinky and ring fingers, all your fingers seem to be contracting. I'm afraid your hand will be permanently pulled into a semi-clenched fist, and there's nothing we can do about it. While we could try, so far surgery has only given minor relief and little improvement."

I thought knowing what was wrong was a first step to feeling better but my wife didn't take the news as well as I had hoped.

"I can't do this, I'm sorry, I love you... I knew about your back, and the limitations that bring, but now, having to watch you slowly fall apart; this isn't what I signed up for. How can I face my friends, and my mother, when my already old, and decrepit, a husband now has a claw instead of a hand?"

"Really, that's what you're concerned with, "what will my friends think, or say?"

Really? - I know your mother never liked me, or that we got married..."

"That's not true."

"HA! You can stand there with a straight face and say your mother likes me? That's bullshit and you know it... I know the truth, I even heard her..."

She gave me that look wives do so well, that says "really?" Without saying anything.

...So I continued;

"It was Thanksgiving, remember your friend from work came over because she was going to be alone for the holidays."

"Heather."

"Right, Heather, well she and your mother were in the kitchen looking at the family picture we got when we all went to your company picnic."

"I love that picture."

"Me too... anyway... Heather says, to your mom, "they're such a lovely family, and Robbie is such a wonderful boy..."

"Your mother hesitated, and didn't answer for a few moments...

But as I'm concerned there's only one thing a grandmother says when someone tells them their grandson is wonderful..."

My wife had to agree.

"...but that's not what your mother eventually said, she actually said out loud while standing in our kitchen...

"You should see my son's children"."

I stopped speaking and waited. To her credit my wife stood there with nothing to say, then she said something like,

"That doesn't mean she does like you."

"Really? Well, let me continue... when Heather said, "Wes takes such good care of Robbie and the house"."

"Your mother's response?"

"It's the least that deadbeat can do."

"I, I..."

She just stood there trying to rationalize such a hurtful statement, but I could see it in her eyes, she felt the same way.

We settled into a new normal, when he wasn't in school, I took care of Robbie all day, every day. She worked hard and even took extra hours to avoid being home with me, or going out in public with whom she, and her mother, now referred to as, "The Claw".

Her answer when I asked;

"We're just joking, it doesn't mean anything."

I could hear her, but I was never sure if she was thinking something even more hurtful. Honestly, it didn't matter. I hate to say this, but I didn't get angry, what I became was worse, I became indifferent. Even though I still loved her in some strange, impossible way to explain. I was hurt by her attitude and increasing effort to avoid being seen with me.

It didn't surprise me, nor, if truth be told, bother me all that much, when she, and her mother, announced that she needed a divorce. She spoke, with her mother standing behind her whispering,

"Go on, just say what we spoke about."

"I can't keep doing this, I can't pretend anymore. I can't live in the hope that your claw is going to miraculously get better, or that I'll somehow learn to live with it. Besides, now that you're working from home you don't make enough to do anything. What if something happened to me? How could you support Robbie?"

I laughed out loud...

"Let me make sure I understand... I cut back on my career so you could work full time. Even though it was a good financial decision, now you're judging me, as a person, not by all I have done up until this moment, or who I am inside, but by the appearance of my right hand.

You say your motivation is our son's well-being, and your solution is to break up the family? Do you even think before this crap comes out of your mouth?"

Even her mother didn't have an answer to that.

I didn't fight it, my indifference had prepared me. I was ready to leave. Besides, I actually got all I wanted... Unlimited time with Robbie.

I guess giving me custody was cheaper than a full-time nanny, or a 7 am-7 pm private school?

... that's not fair...

I'm sure it was because she knew how much Robbie and I needed each other, and wanted our time together to continue... maybe... true or not, that's what I choose to believe.

Her mother moved in with her, "to be closer to Robbie", yeah, right.

Funny how things work out though, after the divorce, she found out "the little" I contributed was actually more than she thought. It seems while I wasn't making as much as I used to, I was still making enough to pay all the bills, including a first and second mortgage she took out to buy the car she had to have.

She was used to having no restrictions on spending, so everything she made just disappeared.

She had closets, yes plural, of clothes and shoes. Boxes of watches and jewelry she said she needed to make the right impression at corporate events... blah blah blah.

That was then, now she had two mortgages, and all the household expenses, when she asked her mother for help, her loving mother told her;

"I don't have enough money to give you any."

"What do you mean, you're living here rent-free and driving a car I pay for? What do you do with your investment, pension, and retirement checks?"

"Oh that all goes into an account for your brother and his children."

"What?"

"He doesn't make what you earn, and the kids go to that expensive private school..."

"You're living off me and giving your money to him? You have got to be kidding, I need some help here or we're going to lose everything... and starting today we are going to cut way back."

Her mother actually said;

"You need to learn how to stand on her own two feet."

In the end, she was so far behind, she had to sell the house and the cabin, just to break even with some money in the bank. She smiled when she told her mother she had found a nice two-bedroom apartment in Studio City, with great schools, that would be perfect for her and Robbie.

Her mother asked,

"If it's only two bedrooms, where am I going to sleep?"

"You're just going to have to learn how to stand on your own two feet mom."

Her son didn't have room for her, so her mother had to get her own place, they don't speak much anymore.

****

I was glad Robbie had his own room and the apartment was in a very good school district. As for me? I found a nice back house on a huge lot, off Chandler, in the Valley. The backyard was in pretty bad shape, but the owners were my age, and never used it. They had a little porch to sit on that had a nice view of the mountains, and that was all they needed.

They laughed when I asked if I could fix up the yard to play ball, and joked saying,

"Anything you do to the backyard will be an improvement, haha, fix it the way you like and you can use it all you want."

They had a landscaper who basically cut the weeds. He was more like someone who just cleaned up, so I didn't ask for his help. I wanted the grass to be like a baseball diamond infield, so I rented a lawn tractor with a rototiller attachment, used another attachment to "rake" out the clumps, and leveled and smoothed the whole yard, adding a layer of topsoil.

I got one of those spray things that spread seeds and liquid fertilizer evenly, I use Kentucky Bluegrass, the same as the big leagues, and watered it every other day in the beginning, then twice a week to keep it healthy. The grass came in thick and full. I bought a ride-on, mulching, lawn mower to cut it level and smooth, and left the clippings to nourish the grass.