North Syracuse , New York - 1970
When she heard her son’s happy laugh, the woman left the olive-green duffel on the bed and crossed to the window overlooking the back yard. Below, her husband squatted next to their boy, showing him how to grip a baseball, and what the throwing motion looked like.
Both wore shiny baseball gloves and navy blue caps with the letters, "NY", sewn on the forepeak in white, gifts for the boy’s sixth birthday yesterday. As she watched, her husband strode away, twenty feet at least, turned to face the boy, and raised his glove to offer a target.
They were much alike, father and son, dark wavy hair, the same complexion and eye color, blue, and though the boy’s body was undeveloped, his arms were long like his father’s and his hands large for his age.
The boy cocked his arm, took a step forward, and hurled the ball. It went right to his father, practically on a line, and slapped into his glove.
"Wow! That was a good one. That’s the way."
Her husband moved closer. "Okay, catch it now."
He underhanded the ball, so it went toward the boy in a soft arc. The boy held his glove out awkwardly, not quite able to coordinate his actions well enough, and the ball passed the side of his glove and fell to the ground.
"Good try. Here, let me get a little closer." Her husband retrieved the ball and stood five feet away. "Okay, here it comes."
He swung his arm and released the ball, aiming it at the glove. The boy hardly had to move it at all. The ball plunked in - and bounced out.
"Darn!"
"Remember to squeeze when it hits the glove, Jim. Here, try again."
She loved her husband very much, but he simply didn't understand the need to protect their son's hands. Any kind of injury could destroy his chances before he even got started. Every time she brought it up, her husband would laugh and say the kid was way too young to start worrying about Carnegie Hall.
She frowned and went back to packing the bag. He had to be back in Georgia by tomorrow, and then he was going back to Vietnam .
Jim had never been happier. His dad was wonderful. He wished he’d come home lots more often. It was so much fun to play ball with him, and Dad gave him a new glove and a great Yankee cap, and they’d been to MacArthur Stadium to see Dad's old team mates play. He loved being out in the fresh air instead of inside practicing his piano lessons all the time.
He wanted to make his dad proud. He threw the ball again. It slapped into Dad's glove with a satisfying whack.
His dad yelled ‘good’ again, came over and squatting, chucked him under the chin, then lifted Jim’s cap and mussed his hair. Jim’s cheeks grew warm.
"You’ve got a great arm there, Son. You’re gonna be the greatest pitcher to ever play the game."
Dad looked at his watch. His expression changed and he stood, then bent over and scooped him up. Jim hugged his dad’s neck as he was carried inside.
A little while later, Mom and Dad came into the family room together. Dad had the uniform on, the light brown trousers and shirt and the cap with the yellow braid. He carried the green bag he brought with him when he came home last week.
Dad sat next to him, put his arm around. "Well, little man." He smelled like he did early in the morning and his hair was damp from the shower. "I guess it’s so long for now."
"Will you come home again soon, Dad?"
"I’m afraid its going to be a while, Son, but when I do it’ll be for good, how’s that?"
Jim looked at his mother. Her eyes were red and shiny. She didn’t want dad to go away either. "I’ll practice, and when you come home we can play again."
"It’s a deal." His dad ran his fingers through Jim’s hair and kissed the top of his head. "You’re gonna be the best pitcher ever,” he whispered. “I’ll be proud of you, Jim Stronge."
One day, long afterward, Jim came home from school and found his Mom on the couch, leaning forward with her hands tucked between her knees, crying. Worried, he went to her and she hugged him harder than ever before and cried a lot harder for a long time.
Finally, she slowed and stopped, and after that she made a snack for him. Then she went up to her room and he went into the parlor to practice. He wished he could be outside in the fresh air, instead of cooped up doing piano exercises, but Mom liked it when he played well and he wanted her to be happy, especially now that something was wrong, so he stayed at it extra long.
That night, Mom put a new picture on his dresser, of him and his dad at the Chiefs game. When she tucked him in, she sat on the edge of the bed and told him his dad had died and wouldn’t ever be coming home again.
Jim remembered his father's fingers mussing his hair. He was real. “He has to be somewhere, Mom.”
“Heaven,” Mom said.
After she left, he thought about it until his eyelids grew heavy. Just before he dropped off to sleep, Jim decided to keep practicing anyway, just in case Dad figured out a way to get home.
Thirty-three years later Yankee Stadium, The Bronx
It's the top of the ninth. We’re ahead by a run, but the Red Sox have men on first and third. Two outs. The kid on the mound is looking pretty tired.
Out in the bullpen behind the left field fence, another guy and I have been warming up off and on for the last two innings. I'm hoping I'll get the call. It will be the first step in my comeback, one final chance to keep the dream alive.
It doesn’t matter that the record book says I have two hundred career wins, or three twenty-win seasons, or that I’ve been a Yankee for nineteen years. The way things are today, if you can’t say something real good when they ask, “What’ve you done for us lately,” you’re in trouble no matter how long you’ve been around.
Yes, those are decent numbers, but my last two seasons have been spent on injured reserve, and now I’m reduced to this – hoping for a third-of-an inning of relief work.
I’m forty-one, way past my prime. Many say I should have quit a long time ago, but I can’t. No matter what the record book says, I’m not where I need to go; I don’t have my thirty.
To me, a thirty win season represents the pinnacle of baseball achievement. As long as I can remember, it’s been my goal. Who else has done it? Nobody since Denny McLain in 1968, and before him Dizzy Dean in 1934. The pundits all say it’ll never happen again. Believe me, nobody ever sacrificed more or worked harder to prove them wrong, but up to now I've always fallen short.
Something’s missing.
It’s not the money, or the fame. I got beyond all that long ago. It’s the human things. Somehow, my life got away from me when I wasn't looking. My mother, for example. She molded me and gave me the strength to do what I’ve done, but I’m a disappointment to her and she hasn't spoken a dozen words to me in the last fifteen years. And sure, I have plenty of money, but like the Beatles said, money can't buy you love, and the only woman I ever loved is married to someone else.
See what I mean? Somewhere, I got the idea that once I made it to the top, the rest would all work out. But I haven’t made it, and it hasn’t, and that’s why I’m still trying.
The phone in the “pen” rings. Eddie Walker, our bullpen coach, picks it up. Eddie's skin is the deepest ebony I've ever seen. He's in his sixties; too young to have played in the old Negro leagues as a youth, but he kicked around the majors into his forties, very unusual, so I know he must have had a special talent in his day.
Back when I was breaking in, Eddie showed me a little pitch he called his 'Vickie' because of the way his thumb and first finger split into a 'V' when he held the ball. He said if I could learn it, I could use it for my changeup. He was surprised when I picked it up in a matter of days, and more surprised when he clocked it at eighty-five miles an hour.
I was going good in those days, and we never did anything to develop the pitch further, until the year I hurt my arm. Now, the idea is to make the Vickie my new “out” pitch.
Eddie's got his wool jacket zipped all the way up. The nights are still cool in New York even though it's the tenth of May. His paunch is giving the jacket's zipper a workout. He points at me. His teeth flash in his ancient black face as he touches his left arm to indicate me, then nods and smiles.
"You're in, Jim."
This is it, the start of my comeback. I take a ride to the dugout in the golf cart, throw my jacket on the bench and walk out to the mound.
God’s voice booms down over the PA system: "Now pitching, Stronge. Number thirty-two, Jim Stronge."
I pick up the rosin bag. As I bounce it in my hand I look around. A slight breeze brings the smells of popcorn and beer and ballpark hot dogs out to me. Familiar smells. The smells of home.
On the mound, I dig my little trench in front of the pitching rubber while thirty thousand Yankee fans wait. This is the place I need to be if I want to hold onto my dream. It's time to deliver the goods and get my career back on track.
The hitter waits. Guiterrez, batting in the cleanup spot. He's hitting .338, second or third in the league. He hits for average and has power too.
A very tough out.
Butterflies.
Relax, I tell myself, the worst thing that can happen is he'll hit the damn ball. The nervousness disappears as I take my warm-ups. A veil of concentration settles over me, and I'm ready.
I start him off with a conventional fastball, keeping it down on the outside corner so it fades out of the strike zone. He has a notion, but takes it for ball one.
I bounce the rosin in my palm again. Here we go, sports fans. I check the runner at first, and then I let Guiterrez see the “Vickie” I've been working on. The white ball gleams on the way to the catcher, not spinning at all. I can almost count stitches.
At the last second the ball scoots to the left, out of the strike zone, and slaps into the catcher's mitt. Guiterrez takes again for ball two.
Damn! He was supposed to chase it.
Right now, I want my good old reliable curveball more than ever. Just thinking about it sends a twinge through my left shoulder, reminds me what I am, and why. The curve is gone forever.
Guiterrez backs out of the batter's box and slaps his bat into the dirt, raising a puff of brown dust. He steps back in, showing me his fiercest glare.
Two and nothing. He knows I've got to throw a strike. I deal the Vickie again. He waits, waits, and then goes after it. Whang! His bat makes the rich woody sound that only comes from solid contact. He's a little ahead of it though, and jerks the ball down the right field line. It's going to be deep. Maybe it'll hook foul. I turn to watch, stomach acid lurking just below my throat. A few seconds later the ball drops into the stands about thirty rows up.
It's fair, a home run.
By the time Guiterrez rounds second, our manager is halfway to the foul line. I swallow. That's it. My big second chance.
Three pitches and out.
Later, as I pass Eddie Walker’s office on the way out of the clubhouse, he hollers at me to come in for a second. Most of the other players have already left.
"Siddown, Jimmy," he waves at the rundown couch in one corner.
My father died when I was very young. I guess Eddie's about as close to a father as I'm ever going to come.
When I'm settled, he pushes the pile of papers aside and perches on the corner of his desk facing me, his large paunch shows through the pulled-out tails of his uniform shirt. He sighs as the weight comes off his feet. I wait while he re-lights a half-smoked cigar, exhales blue vapor toward the ceiling. He fixes his dark eyes on me, looks at me hard, figuring a way to start.
It's his way. I wait.
"You need a new payday pitch. Somethin’ with a little vigor to it." His voice is matter-of-fact. I wait for him to finish, but he just looks at the ceiling and smokes his cigar.
"What do you have in mind?"
He answers my question with one of his own. "You throw Guiterrez the ‘Vickie'?"
He would have to remind me. "I wish I had a string tied to the son of a bitch. I could of pulled it back before he creamed it."
He frowns and waves the cigar at me. “You'll have plenty of time to buy string. They're gonna release you tomorrow."
Ash falls off the cigar, drifts to the floor. Eddie doesn't notice.
The news shakes me up good. I've been afraid of this. I'm about to become a minor footnote in baseball history. What will life be like without the dream?
"Do you think I could get good enough with the Vickie to catch on somewhere else?"
"The Vickie? Who knows?" He shrugs. "Maybe. You picked it up quick. I think you’re trying to throw it a little too hard." He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, then over his short gray hair, drying it on his shirt, not caring that he leaves a dark stain. "I'd like to see you develop something better. Ain't sure you're ready for it, though."
“Not ready? What do you mean by that?”
He doesn’t answer, studies the cigar as he rolls it in his fingers. It’s one of the illegal Cubans he favors.
Okay, if this is the end of my career with the Yankees, so be it. I'll take it like a man. There are plenty of other teams.
I stand and hold out my hand for one final handshake. "Thanks, Eddie. Thanks for everything."
He pushes my hand aside, waves me back to my seat. "Siddown Jimmy, I got an idea."
Ten minutes later, Eddie scribbles on a scrap of paper. The story he's just told me makes me worry he might be starting to lose it.
He hands me the paper. "You didn't hear about the release from me, okay?"
It contains only the words, “Vigil T. Mann, Sunshine, Alabama - ask directions in Newbern."
I stick it in my pocket. Eddie’s advice is usually good, but this time I don’t think so. I won’t be taking it, but I don't want to embarrass him by saying so.
On the way downtown to my apartment, I think about what I'll do. Maybe I'll try the National League. I never liked the Designated Hitter rule, anyway. I decide to visit “AnnaLee” - my live-aboard sloop - which I keep near St. Petersburg , Florida. I can stay there while I try to catch on with one of the other teams.
It’s important to stay upbeat when you get set back. Once you start toward a goal you can't quit on yourself - no matter if the goal is big or little - you can't quit even once. If you do, it gets easier to let yourself quit a second time, and gradually the iron bleeds out of your will. A winner needs to be hard as steel inside.
I'll be back. I've always found a way before. I'll find a way this time too. I have to. I can't let it end like this. It will mean I've wasted my life, and the path my mother said was more important will have been the right choice from the beginning.
By ten the next morning I'm packed and ready. I’ve called my agent. He’ll contact teams. All I need to do is stay in touch. I’ve decided to make the run to Florida a road trip. My ten-year-old Blazer is downstairs in the garage. It's about time I put some miles on that truck.
I've got my hand on the doorknob when the buzzer goes. It’s a secure building. Curious, I peer through the viewer. It's Frank, my sister Rina's husband, the last person in the world I want to see today.
With a sigh, I pull the door open. “Hello, Frank.”
"Jimmy! Glad I caught you here. How are ya, bud?"
He pushes his way past my bags without so much as a glance at them. "Hey, got anything to eat? I missed breakfast, just got into town." He heads toward the kitchen. As he goes, he says, "You won't believe the deal I'm putting together, Big Jim. Tell you in a minute."
He's going to hit me up. It happens periodically. Why doesn't the guy understand? I'm a ballplayer, not a banker. I never put a penny into anything my money people don't recommend first. Still, he is connected to Rina. For that reason I'll listen.
Frank's a good looking man. Yet for all his smooth ways - the sleek black hair combed straight back, the expressive brown eyes - he's never been able to stay with anything long enough to see it through. He’s grown a thin mustache on his upper lip. It looks good on him.
He's great at using his charm and easy wit to get his foot in the door. Many of the positions he's been hired for seemed like wonderful opportunities, yet something always went wrong; an altercation with an important customer; a fellow worker who was impossible to get along with; a missed deadline; something, always something. Gradually his fear of success wore him down. I think he and Rina would have split up long ago if it hadn't been for their daughter, Rachael.
"I've got a deal in the works you can be a big part of, Jimmy." Frank starts again as he comes out of the kitchen with a quart of juice and a sweet roll. "Sporting goods. See? It's a natural. We'll call them, "Big Jim Outlets."
Frank is riding such a wave of enthusiasm he doesn't notice me roll my eyes. He just keeps going. "With you aboard, we'll be able to attract other investors to finance the startup. Then, with a little advertising and a few endorsements, before you know it we'll have a string of them from one end of the Expressway to the other." He motions in the general direction of the island, so he must mean the Long Island Expressway.
I try to keep my enthusiasm from bubbling under. "Okay, Frank. Where's this revolutionary idea supposed to begin happening?"
Apparently even that response shows too much interest. He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. "Come on. I'll show you. I've got a limo waiting downstairs." He almost stumbles over one of my bags, notices them for the first time. "Hey, you going somewhere Jimmy?"
Right now, over in the team offices, some clerk is probably typing up my release papers, the formal documents symbolizing my failure. I feel like yelling but I only mumble. "Somewhere, yeah."
He pulls on me again. "Well, come on then. This'll only take a while. I'll have you back here in no time at all."
I shield my eyes from the late morning sun as I scan the area.
"It's a natural," Frank repeats. This time, he waves his arm at a vacant storefront in a small shopping center in Happauge, halfway to hell and gone out on the Island . "A little advertising and a few endorsements, before you know it we'll have a string of them from one end of the Expressway to the other."
This has a decidedly familiar ring, like he's reading from a script or something.
There are a dozen store fronts in the center. Four that I can see are vacant, windows grey with dirt. A half-dozen cars dot the parking lot. That ought to just about cover the employees. It's a slow morning, real slow.
I wonder if the messenger service has arrived at my apartment with the release papers yet.
"How much will it take to get it up and running?" I ask the question but don't really care what the answer is. I already know mine.
Frank is a dreamer. If he's not touting a full-fledged get rich quick scheme, he's working on developing one.
"I've got it figured out to the penny." He pulls a small notepad from the breast pocket of his nicely cut blazer. He's wearing a bright white shirt and a flashy red tie, grey summer slacks and black Florsheim wingtips. Frank has always been a sharp dresser.
Numbers flow from his notepad. My eyes glaze over.
He quits talking, looks at me, his eyes filled with hope. He smoothes the mustache on his upper lip with his pinky.
"What about advertising and promotion?" I say to make it seem like I've been listening.
"That's where you come in, Big Jim. You're the ace that puts us over the top. You do a few ball signings and we'll have customers comin' out our ears."
How do I know he wouldn't make it on his own if I give him a leg up? It would be a way of helping Rina. No. I'd be throwing my money away. Even now, his eyes have that somebody-else’s-fault expression.
"Let me think it over on the way back to town. Okay?"
He slaps me on the back. "Sounds good to me, buddy. I'm gonna run with this one."
We get back to my place around two. By now, I've been listening to the hard sell so long I'm numb. For his part, Frank isn't quite able to hide his excitement. After I open beers for us, I sit on the arm of my favorite easy chair, the light from the window behind me.
"You'll have to run it by my money people. I never invest in anything without their blessing."
Even to me, the words sound harsh.
His face deflates, goes pale. He takes two or three shallow gulps of air as his wide brown eyes fill with pain.
He looks up at me. "But Jim...I thought..." He blinks a half dozen times. His hands shake. He clenches them together in his lap. "Jim, please. They'll laugh at a pipsqueak like me. You have so much. This is nothing to you."
"Frank, you're asking me to enter a business deal with you. The fact that you're my brother-in-law doesn't enter into it. That's family. This is business."
He sits there looking at me for at least half a minute.
"Why don't you think it's a good idea, Jim?" He says when he has control. He's taking it like a man. My respect for him grows.
"I didn't say that. I'll get you an intro to my agent. He'll take the idea from there. If they like it, I'll buy in."
That doesn't stop him for long. "If I find a way to get started, will you at least help with the grand opening by doing a ball signing?" He's trying to salvage something from the wreckage.
I take a deep breath, let it out with a sigh. "I can't, Frank. I'm under contract to a bookstore chain to do signings at their stores. I'm not allowed to do them anywhere else for the next two years."
Sure, when they find out I've been released, that deal will be down the toilet in a heartbeat.
Frank stands, holds his hands out to either side and lets them fall, slapping his thighs. He makes a face. "Some days you can't make a buck." He comes over and sticks out his hand. "Thanks for thinking about it."
His act makes me feel like the heel I probably am. I pull him to me and throw my arm around his shoulder. "Okay, thanks for understanding. How you fixed for cash?"
His face brightens. "Now that you mention it, I could use a couple grand. Could you make it five?" The light doesn't reach his eyes though, and he's still pale as a ghost when he leaves.
Five thousand dollars. It's not enough to assuage the guilt I feel over not helping him. I tell myself that if he comes to me with another deal, a sound deal, I'll do it. That makes me feel better.
Damn. Half the day is shot. The whole thing with Frank has me depressed. I look around the apartment.
I might not be coming back here, ever.
That jars me. I go into the bedroom, flop down on the bed and stare at the ceiling. Then I pick up the phone and do what I always do when I'm feeling low. I call Rina. She's the only one I can talk to, the only one who cares.
"Hello?" Her voice soothes, even from Atlanta .
"The Yankees released me."
Her voice loads up right away. "Jim? Is that you? What did you say?"
"Eddie told me last night. I'll get the official word today."
"I've been afraid... Don't worry, Jim. You'll catch on somewhere. I know you will."
It's just like her, always in my corner. I picture her, the way she looked that night we had dinner after my first major league win. Nineteen years ago; a long time.
There's a cobweb in the corner above my bed. I gaze at the near-invisible fibers for a long time before my eyes pick out the daddy longlegs poised among them, motionless, probably waiting for me to quit moving so it can go on with its life. I close my eyes.
"I wish you were here." The words are out before I can catch them.
I can hear her breathing at the other end. "I wish I was, too." Her voice is husky, the same way it was that night in the restaurant.
I hurry to cover myself. "I mean, because you always find a way to cheer me up."
"Yes. Sure. I'm a regular bucket of cheer." Sounds like she's down, too. "Actually, I'm pretty depressed myself. I think Frank is having another affair."
A shiver of hope tickles its way up my backbone. I know it's wrong, I should feel sorry for her, but I can't help it. I want her to be happy, but in a purely selfish way I want it to be me who makes her that way.
Her voice cracks a little, "I don't know how much longer I can take it."
"If you need to talk, I'm available. I'll be at the boat in a few days."
"Okay."
"By the way, Frank is in town. He asked me to help him put together a business deal."
"Oh Jim, you can't. He just isn't trustworthy enough. You didn't give him any money, did you?"
I think of the five thousand dollars. More than once I've promised her I wouldn't do that again. "No. I didn't."
"Thank God. Lately, when he gets hold of cash he..." She stops in mid-sentence.
"He what?"
Rina hesitates, then she says in a tiny voice, "He gets mean."
"What do you mean?"
"It's not a big deal. I'll tell you when I see you."
Okay. You probably already guessed so I'll admit it. I've never liked Frank. The very first time I saw him with Rina, I knew. The truth is I've always wanted her for myself.
Don't go getting the wrong idea about Rina and me. It's not like that between us. I mean it would be all right if it was, but it isn't.
It was Rina who got me going on the dream of winning thirty games. In a way, meeting her was a true turning point for me.
It’s hard to believe twenty-seven years have passed since that day. I know it sounds funny. How do you meet your own sister? But with us, that's the way it was.
... TO BE CONTINUED
Thank you for reading this excerpt. If you would like to continue reading The Vitaman Effect, beginning May 5, you may purchase it from the Kindle book store at Amazon.com . Print version will be released August 30, 2008.