"KELSO'S SWING" CHAPTER 43
When Kelso pulled up to his parents' house in the early evening after five hours of hectic delivery driving, he spotted a dusty compact along the curb and guessed it was another of the many ex baseball players visiting his father before he died. He also guessed the car belonged to a “bird-dog” who drove all over the vast area scouting ball players and reporting to a head scout who had the authority to sign them. Scouts drove the big shiny boats.
But when Kelso walked through the door, his stomach flip-flopped. Standing at the dinner table in outrageously patterned slacks, shiny brown tasseled shoes, and a golf shirt was Jesse Krugh, a stumpy left-handed pitcher who never made it past AA ball and played against his father in the low minors and supposedly never got him out. A junkballer, he weathered over 20 years in the bushes as a player and player/coach, which meant he also made out traveling schedules and sometimes drove the bus. Later, he became a bird-dog and reported to head scout Bulldog Bailey, an ex catcher who also languished in the minors for two decades. Bulldog Bailey looked like a bulldog, while Jesse, cue-ball bald, with a grotesquely bent left arm and bulgy excited eyes, appeared to be the happiest man alive, doing what he loved
He literally jumped at Rick with his gleaming smile, pumping his hand, squeezing his shoulder. This man had visited Ray back when Rick was around 14 and already considered a prospect and “phee-nom.”
At the table, Ray sat in his bathrobe looking pale and peaked, his once blacksmith forearms shrinking rapidly. Jesse didn't drink but Ray nursed a Martini and Kelso had a beer. Jesse made sure to ask Rick about the business and his other job and praised him for taking no money from the store. Kelso did not want to talk about himself around Jesse, for the reminder of this man and Bulldog Bailey was something he was trying to extract from his memory for almost 15 years. The reminder of these two men was like an inflamed wisdom tooth so excruciatingly painful he'd kill to have it ripped from his jawbone.
Kelso had several offers to play pro ball out of high school, none too large, the highest a $12,000. bonus, more than enough to sock away for a rainy day, and the $500 a month to start out in the low minors--plenty for a guy who didn't care about money, just loved the game. His drawbacks were an average arm that would not allow him to play shortstop at a big league level and a temperament so explosive and volatile that most scouts worried he'd eat himself alive. He was too intense, too tough on himself, too embroiled in the highs and lows to endure the mental rigors of playing 150 games a year, year after year.
His father wanted him to go to college, as he had, claiming Rick, like Ray, was a “late bloomer,” needed to fully mature mentally and physically before going off to play ball. Rick was itching to go. His mother felt he should go play, find out about himself. Ray had already explained to her that although Rick was not the best “prospect” in the area, he was the best ball player, and from over-hearing scouts at his game knew he was not alone in this assessment. It was already written in stone he could catch up with big league heat at the plate and would only have to wait on breaking balls and off speed stuff to climb to the majors.
Kelso ended up going to college, where an heralded coach tried to coach him. Tried to discipline him and mold him into the type of crewcut Eagle Scout players he recruited, and whom never made waves and said the right things and rooted for team mates even if they were on the bench. But nobody could coach a kid who was so fundamentally sound and whose personality was already veering toward the roguish ways of a rebel, the anarchist who went his own way and took a few team mates with him, which meant boozing and hanging out in poolrooms instead of classrooms and study halls,
Kelso ended up punching out this very important coach who was regularly consulted by scouts and had sent many players to the big leagues. Kelso was kicked off the team and out of school and now nobody would take a chance on a kid labeled a “psycho.” So the psycho was cast adrift into baseball oblivion, his nose-dive from a lifelong dream suddenly kaput. His father could not talk to him. He locked himself in his room and refused to see his friends, not even Marstrulavich, who was working his way through college as a janitor.
Angry, bitter, confused, he raged at his father's suggestion of getting him a try out with scouts he knew, wanting none of his help, wanting out of his shadow. This was when Jesse Krugh showed up at the house. He told Ray about Bulldog Bailey, who was signing young LA prospects for a new big league expansion team and, out of respect for Ray, he would get Rick a tryout. Many of the players Rick had competed against would be there. He hadn't touched a ball or bat in months. He was already questioning whether he was up to it, and whether his own sanity would be jeopardized. He realized there could be other ambitions and horizons in his life, but after aiming so high and for so long he wondered just what would grip him with the passion and desire baseball had; or his torment at each failure and dread of the biggest failure of all—not making it to the majors.
He showed up at the ball park out at UCLA. Bulldog Bailey's under-bite lent him the look of a feral dog. He was one of those drill sergeant types. He was on Kelso immediately, did not like the way he wore his socks and his cap and while pounding him grounders verbalized old school motivational tactics as other infielders all around looked on in shock.
“I thought you was a ball player, like yer old man. He was a tiger, a battler. What are you—a pussy?”
And: “You ain't half the ball player yer old man was. Jesse told me you could play, kid. I ain't seen nothin'. You're no ball player.”
Kelso found himself strangely lifeless, as if his legs and arms had no feeling. He hit into two double plays, lollygagging down the line, not knowing why, booted a grounder, struck out, disgraced himself in front of players who were staring at him strangely as he cowered in the corner of the dugout, gnashing his teeth, so gorged with rage at himself and whatever else was out there that he walked off toward the end of the game, tossed his bat, glove and spikes into a trash can, as well as his jersey, jumped in his VW bug and drove wildly through the streets as he considered smashing his car into a pole or concrete barrier to end it all.
Instead, he joined the army the next day.
And now here he was, a hundred years later, so it seemed, right back where he left off as Jesse sat at the table retelling stories of Ray's exploits in the bush leagues when they played for peanuts and endured untold hardships but loved every minute of t, because they were in love with baseball.
Kelso hardly ate, said next to nothing while his mothere stared at him with eyes wet and so tender and heartbroken Rick had to turn away. After dinner ended and they walked Jesse to the door, she left father and son at the dining room table. Rick needed a vodka and a cigar badly, and he needed a blast of cocaine, too. He had difficulty meeting his dad's eyes, and when he finally did, there were tears in Ray's eyes. He grabbed Rick's arm.
“I'm sorry, son,” he said in a voice weakened by his condition. “For ruining your baseball career. You were gonna be better than me, but I was too critical, put too much pressure on you, I was too concerned with making you like me, and not letting you be yourself, and I should've let you sign...”
“Dad, cut it out. You did the best you could, the only way you knew how. You always put me first. I know a lotta kids never had that. You were always in my corner. I wouldn't trade you for any dad in the world, so cut it out.”
Ray hugged his son with what little strength he had left in his body. He kissed him on the cheek. “I wouldn't trade my son for any boy in the world. You're the best. I love you.”
Before Kelso left, Ray tried to give him the World Series ring he wore on his left hand, but Rick wouldn't take it. His father had been trying to give it to him for ten years. He told his father, “You earned it. I didn't.
But when Kelso walked through the door, his stomach flip-flopped. Standing at the dinner table in outrageously patterned slacks, shiny brown tasseled shoes, and a golf shirt was Jesse Krugh, a stumpy left-handed pitcher who never made it past AA ball and played against his father in the low minors and supposedly never got him out. A junkballer, he weathered over 20 years in the bushes as a player and player/coach, which meant he also made out traveling schedules and sometimes drove the bus. Later, he became a bird-dog and reported to head scout Bulldog Bailey, an ex catcher who also languished in the minors for two decades. Bulldog Bailey looked like a bulldog, while Jesse, cue-ball bald, with a grotesquely bent left arm and bulgy excited eyes, appeared to be the happiest man alive, doing what he loved
He literally jumped at Rick with his gleaming smile, pumping his hand, squeezing his shoulder. This man had visited Ray back when Rick was around 14 and already considered a prospect and “phee-nom.”
At the table, Ray sat in his bathrobe looking pale and peaked, his once blacksmith forearms shrinking rapidly. Jesse didn't drink but Ray nursed a Martini and Kelso had a beer. Jesse made sure to ask Rick about the business and his other job and praised him for taking no money from the store. Kelso did not want to talk about himself around Jesse, for the reminder of this man and Bulldog Bailey was something he was trying to extract from his memory for almost 15 years. The reminder of these two men was like an inflamed wisdom tooth so excruciatingly painful he'd kill to have it ripped from his jawbone.
Kelso had several offers to play pro ball out of high school, none too large, the highest a $12,000. bonus, more than enough to sock away for a rainy day, and the $500 a month to start out in the low minors--plenty for a guy who didn't care about money, just loved the game. His drawbacks were an average arm that would not allow him to play shortstop at a big league level and a temperament so explosive and volatile that most scouts worried he'd eat himself alive. He was too intense, too tough on himself, too embroiled in the highs and lows to endure the mental rigors of playing 150 games a year, year after year.
His father wanted him to go to college, as he had, claiming Rick, like Ray, was a “late bloomer,” needed to fully mature mentally and physically before going off to play ball. Rick was itching to go. His mother felt he should go play, find out about himself. Ray had already explained to her that although Rick was not the best “prospect” in the area, he was the best ball player, and from over-hearing scouts at his game knew he was not alone in this assessment. It was already written in stone he could catch up with big league heat at the plate and would only have to wait on breaking balls and off speed stuff to climb to the majors.
Kelso ended up going to college, where an heralded coach tried to coach him. Tried to discipline him and mold him into the type of crewcut Eagle Scout players he recruited, and whom never made waves and said the right things and rooted for team mates even if they were on the bench. But nobody could coach a kid who was so fundamentally sound and whose personality was already veering toward the roguish ways of a rebel, the anarchist who went his own way and took a few team mates with him, which meant boozing and hanging out in poolrooms instead of classrooms and study halls,
Kelso ended up punching out this very important coach who was regularly consulted by scouts and had sent many players to the big leagues. Kelso was kicked off the team and out of school and now nobody would take a chance on a kid labeled a “psycho.” So the psycho was cast adrift into baseball oblivion, his nose-dive from a lifelong dream suddenly kaput. His father could not talk to him. He locked himself in his room and refused to see his friends, not even Marstrulavich, who was working his way through college as a janitor.
Angry, bitter, confused, he raged at his father's suggestion of getting him a try out with scouts he knew, wanting none of his help, wanting out of his shadow. This was when Jesse Krugh showed up at the house. He told Ray about Bulldog Bailey, who was signing young LA prospects for a new big league expansion team and, out of respect for Ray, he would get Rick a tryout. Many of the players Rick had competed against would be there. He hadn't touched a ball or bat in months. He was already questioning whether he was up to it, and whether his own sanity would be jeopardized. He realized there could be other ambitions and horizons in his life, but after aiming so high and for so long he wondered just what would grip him with the passion and desire baseball had; or his torment at each failure and dread of the biggest failure of all—not making it to the majors.
He showed up at the ball park out at UCLA. Bulldog Bailey's under-bite lent him the look of a feral dog. He was one of those drill sergeant types. He was on Kelso immediately, did not like the way he wore his socks and his cap and while pounding him grounders verbalized old school motivational tactics as other infielders all around looked on in shock.
“I thought you was a ball player, like yer old man. He was a tiger, a battler. What are you—a pussy?”
And: “You ain't half the ball player yer old man was. Jesse told me you could play, kid. I ain't seen nothin'. You're no ball player.”
Kelso found himself strangely lifeless, as if his legs and arms had no feeling. He hit into two double plays, lollygagging down the line, not knowing why, booted a grounder, struck out, disgraced himself in front of players who were staring at him strangely as he cowered in the corner of the dugout, gnashing his teeth, so gorged with rage at himself and whatever else was out there that he walked off toward the end of the game, tossed his bat, glove and spikes into a trash can, as well as his jersey, jumped in his VW bug and drove wildly through the streets as he considered smashing his car into a pole or concrete barrier to end it all.
Instead, he joined the army the next day.
And now here he was, a hundred years later, so it seemed, right back where he left off as Jesse sat at the table retelling stories of Ray's exploits in the bush leagues when they played for peanuts and endured untold hardships but loved every minute of t, because they were in love with baseball.
Kelso hardly ate, said next to nothing while his mothere stared at him with eyes wet and so tender and heartbroken Rick had to turn away. After dinner ended and they walked Jesse to the door, she left father and son at the dining room table. Rick needed a vodka and a cigar badly, and he needed a blast of cocaine, too. He had difficulty meeting his dad's eyes, and when he finally did, there were tears in Ray's eyes. He grabbed Rick's arm.
“I'm sorry, son,” he said in a voice weakened by his condition. “For ruining your baseball career. You were gonna be better than me, but I was too critical, put too much pressure on you, I was too concerned with making you like me, and not letting you be yourself, and I should've let you sign...”
“Dad, cut it out. You did the best you could, the only way you knew how. You always put me first. I know a lotta kids never had that. You were always in my corner. I wouldn't trade you for any dad in the world, so cut it out.”
Ray hugged his son with what little strength he had left in his body. He kissed him on the cheek. “I wouldn't trade my son for any boy in the world. You're the best. I love you.”
Before Kelso left, Ray tried to give him the World Series ring he wore on his left hand, but Rick wouldn't take it. His father had been trying to give it to him for ten years. He told his father, “You earned it. I didn't.
