Chapter Four / Prudent Censorship
Russ the Intern worked for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer and was developing a league-wide reputation as a colossal pain in the ass. The story was that he was the nephew of the publisher, or the cousin of the sports editor, or some bullshit excuse like that, and had talked his way into an internship with the sports department. Worse, he wasn't into traditional intern duties - making copies, or fetching coffee or lying to the ex-spouses and girlfriends of sportswriters about their whereabouts. He followed the Mariners beat reporters around like a large, overfriendly, yapping poodle, even in the pressbox and the locker room.
Whatever pull he had, or whoever he was blackmailing, Russ the Intern was connected. So he spent his summer making the lives of the more grown-up (a relative term, at most) baseball reporters a living hell, asking inane questions, butting in on other people's interviews, and generally being a smartass. Stanton and Page hated him on sight; most people did. They'd tried locking him out of the pressbox at Safeco Field last weekend, but he had a key.
They hadn't thought that the Post-Intelligencer would let Russ the Intern accompany the team on road trips, but that was apparently the case. Russ the Intern spotted Stanton and Page and came over, all smiles. "Hey, guys! Great to see you!"
What Stanton and Page hated more than anything about Russ the Intern was that he was so goddamned nice; he hadn't yet picked up the coating of cynicism necessary for proper reporting attitude.
"Hey," Page said.
"Yeah," Stanton said.
"I heard they're going to try to deal Atchison at the trading deadline, is that right?"
"Who told you that?" Page asked.
"Um… Peter Gammons," Russ explained.
"Yeah. Baseball Tonight. We watch it too," Stanton explained.
"No, I was really talking to Peter. We e-mail each other every day. He tells me lots of stuff that isn't on the show."
"Uh-huh." Page said.
"He also said that the Astros were trying to trade Kevin Spooner to the White Sox."
"You know," Stanton said, "I think that I heard Paul Snow" - the color analyst for the Royals TV broadcasts - "say that last night, why don't you go ask him about it?"
"Good idea!" Russ the Intern said. "Be right back."
"Paul didn't say anything about Spooner," Page said.
"We got rid of him, didn't we?"
"There is that."
"I don't know what's more depressing, whether to think that he's lying to impress us, or that he's telling the truth," Stanton said.
"Probably a little bit of both. You eaten yet?" Page asked.
"I had a burger for lunch. What do they have today on the buffet?"
"Take a look."
Stanton expected to find barbecue. The Royals had a pretty good spread, nothing compared to what some places put in their pressbox to mollify the stomachs of the scribes. Some places had pretty good grub, others - Anaheim was one, Minnesota was another - had figured out that sportswriters ate with the thoughtless avidity of wolves anyway, and put any old thing out there. Kansas City was about in the upper half of American League towns in this regard; the barbecue was good but bland, Stanton thought.
Except that the barbecue wasn't there today. Instead, there were these… lumps, these gray triangular things in a red sauce. "What's this?" Stanton asked, to no one in particular.
"Tofu buffalo wings," Russ the Intern said. He had a plate full of them. "They're really good, you should try some."
"What are they doing here?" Stanton asked.
"I called ahead and asked for a vegetarian alternative," Russ said. "You don't need to be eating all that animal fat anyway, and it isn't environmentally sensitive, or kind to animals."
Stanton put his plate down and silently, uncomprehendingly walked away from the buffet. There didn't seem to be anything that even resembled food on it, anyway. He found his chair and sat down, putting his head in his arms.
"So you saw," Page said.
"It's an abomination. What's worse, they aren't sending up any drinks."
"What?" Stanton said. "You're kidding. Don't tell me, Russ the Intern is underage."
Page waited a long moment, then exhaled. "Yep. No barbecue, no alcohol. It's just not baseball."
It was the second game of the doubleheader, and Mario Gutierrez was on the mound for the Royals. Gutierrez was from the Dominican Republic; he was 22 years old. Apparently, the Royals farm system had done Gutierrez a disservice along the way. Gutierrez had minimal English language skills at best when he was signed at 18. Instead of parking him in the rookie developmental leagues down in Florida, the Royals sent him to a Class A league in upstate New York. Gutierrez ended up as the only Latin player on a roster that was composed mostly of sullen rednecks and smartass kids from the Northeast. As a result, the only semblance of the English language that Gutierrez could speak was what he had heard every day from his teammates. It was what Tom Wolfe termed "Army Creole", a language with about seven words, none of which could be printed in a family newspaper.
Stanton found this out after Gutierrez's first major-league start, a no-decision in Seattle the week before. Gutierrez pitched well in six innings of work at Safeco, giving up two runs and five hits in six innings in a game the Royals would lose by a 3-2 score in the ninth. "What was it like, pitching in a big league ballpark for the first time?" Stanton asked.
Gutierrez's face lit up in a big, happy grin. "Goddamn fugging exciting, man. I wish my fugging parents could be here to see me fugging pitch, shit, they'd fugging love it. I wish we fugging could have won, but those Seattle cocksuckers really bit us in the fugging ass in the ninth inning, man."
A little prudent censorship was in order. "Really exciting," Stanton wrote down. "I wish my parents could have been here," and that's how it appeared in the Sun the next day.
Fortunately, Gutierrez pitched better than he gave interviews. He hung in there against a disciplined, veteran Seattle lineup, pitching his way out of a bases-loaded jam in the fourth. The Mariners put the ball in play against him more often than not, but he seemed to find a way to get the strikeout or the double-play ball when he needed it. He pitched seven strong innings, giving up only four runs on ten hits. Not much of a performance by big-league standards, but at least he wasn't any worse than the current members of the rotation.
In the bottom of the seventh, the Royals took the lead. Darius Hawkins led off the inning with a bloop single to left-center, and then stole second. With two outs, Kwame Brooks hit a towering drive to right that bounced off the top of the wall for a double, scoring Hawkins.
The brief flare of optimism generated by this rally was quickly extinguished, though. Gutierrez gave up two walks to lead off the eighth and was pulled in favor of righthander Steve Curry. The Royals' lead lasted all of one pitch. Curry promptly gave up a three-run shot to light-hitting Mariners catcher Oliver Dawson. The remaining Royals fans begin to slink home.
"Why's everyone leaving?" Russ the Intern asked. "The Royals aren't that bad. I mean, not yet. Historically speaking. It's not like they're the 1962 Mets."
"Go away, Russ," Page said.
"Really, I don't get it. Nobody leaves this early at Safeco. Of course, it helps that we have a lot better team to watch than you guys."
"Whatever," Stanton said. He was hungry, and could have used a drink, and had about enough of Russ the Intern as he could stand.
"The other thing about covering the Mariners is that they're all great guys. I mean, you hear about ballplayers being hard to talk to, but they've all been very available, very helpful."
Stanton got a brainwave. "Hey, Russ?"
"Yeah?"
"You really need to go interview that Gutierrez kid that pitched tonight. He's a great interview. You'll love him."
"Really?"
"And while you're at it," Page added, "try and talk with Darius Hawkins."
"Oh, yeah, definitely," Stanton replied. "Very quotable."
The next big day on the baseball calendar was the trading deadline, which usually involved Kansas City trading its best players to contending teams in exchange for low-priced prospects. Josh Atchison was the best player on the Royals roster, which meant he was on his way out the door. No less than six contending teams had sent scouts to watch his performance. The deadline couldn't come fast enough for Atchison. He wanted to be traded off the Royals the way that a castaway wants to be rescued from a South Pacific atoll. However, it was considered bad form to actively seek such a trade, especially in the press, so Atchison had to be careful not to say anything to damage his prospects.
"So, Josh, how does it feel, playing your last home game in Kansas City?" Stanton asked.
"Stuff it."
"No, I mean it. What will you miss most? The fans? The weather? The fountains? The barbecue? Something. Anything."
"The idiots in the pressbox."
"Seriously. Come on, you owe me one measly quote. We may never see each other again."
"Bullshit," the pitcher said. "And you can quote me on that."
"Damn, I forgot my notebook. I'll never be able to remember that one."
"Look, Stanton. I like you. You're a stand-up guy, for a scum-sucking media weasel. But go away. I can't talk to you, I can't say one fucking word, and you ought to know that. And you ought to know why."
There wasn't anything he could say. Josh Atchison, on the mound, was about control. Control of himself. Control of his pitches. Control of the batters, really, making them swing at bad pitches and take good ones. But he had no control here. The Royals would trade him. They had no alternative. The only question was where. Atchison had no control over his destiny. He could be in Florida tomorrow as easily as he could be in San Diego. This was deeply disturbing, not having control. Unlike veteran players, he hadn't the seniority to veto a trade. They could send him anywhere.
"So, where do you think they'll trade you?"
The big question. "Not. One. Word. Seriously."
"The rumor that I heard was Philadelphia," Stanton pressed.
"Bullshit." Oh, God, no. Please.
"They need a hard-thrower like you to help them put away the Mets," Stanton said. "And I think I heard that they killed all the rats in the Phillies clubhouse that walked over from where they demolished the Vet. You know, they fumigated the whole stadium in the off-season and everything."
"Bite me, Stanton."
"Colorado needs another good pitcher. They keep losing them. The high altitude rots their brains. That, and giving up 500-foot homers every other inning."
"Do tell." Stanton didn't have a clue, Atchison thought. He knew a little something about the trade market. The Rockies were looking for right fielder Kwame Brooks, and that deal wasn't close to going through.
"At least you're not going to the Yankees," Stanton continued. "They have more pitchers than Cooperstown."
"You know, I don't much care anymore. I just want it to be over with."
"Can't be that bad. You'll still go play for a winner."
"I was a winner here. Or I would have been, if I had gotten anything like decent run support."
"That's true."
"Anyway, what do you know about it? It's not like they're going to trade you tomorrow to the Cleveland Plain Dealer for a copy editor to be named later and a stick of gum."
"You kidding? I'd love it. You think you're with a small-market club, try working for the number-two paper in Kansas City sometime. It's like coal mining, but with less dignity."
"Yeah, I'd hate to be a sportswriter. Free season tickets, travel all over the country, get to eat out on the road, stay in nice hotels, guaranteed job security. And you don't have to have an ounce of brains."
"Wait, I know. Toronto. Nice park, good defense behind you, but they pay you in Canadian dollars. They have ducks on them, you know. Last I heard, the Canadian dollar was worth thirty-five cents."
"Danny?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up. I got a game to pitch."
Atchison was determined to get in one last win, if only to impress the scouts. He was staked to a three-run lead early on. Darius Hawkins and center fielder Corky Owens singled to start off the game; Clint Murphy hit a three-run homer into the fountains a moment later, that gave the Royals a three-run lead. Atchison pitched well, almost heroically, but was pulled in the top of the seventh after giving up two runs. The scattered Royals fans in the stands gave him a standing ovation, and he tipped his cap in gratitude, and that was that. The game was turned over to the bullpen, which gave up the tying and go-ahead runs in the eighth. The Royals managed to tie the score again in the bottom of the eighth, which brought closer Todd Bowen out of the bullpen.
Bowen got the first two outs in the inning on a strikeout and a weak roller to Tommy Merrick at third. The Mariners' last hope was shortstop Chad Lovett, who got out to a 1-2 count but hung in like grim death, fouling off six straight pitches. This so frustrated Bowen that he began trying to work the corners, never a good strategy for him. Lovett hung in there and got the walk, putting the go-ahead run on base.
On the very next pitch, second baseman Joaquin Espinoza hit a little blooper to right off the end of his bat, falling in front of Brooks. With two outs in the inning, Lovett left first base under full steam, got to second quickly, and looked to see where the ball went. Seeing that Brooks hadn't yet gotten the ball in his glove, Lovett turned the corner and sprinted to third.
Lovett apparently thought Brooks was dogging it in the outfield. He was, but he was doing it purposefully. He'd caught Lovett off base, and now he scooped up the ball and fired it into third. Brooks had a cannon for an arm, and the throw should have beat Lovett to third base by five feet.
However, either Brooks either threw it a little too hard, or Merrick lost the ball in the lights. The ball ended up in the Mariners dugout, and Lovett trotted home with the go-ahead run. Closer Omar Bibby struck out the side in the bottom of the ninth to preserve the three-game Seattle sweep, and to extend the current Kansas City losing streak to seven straight games.
The Kansas City Royals officially had a fifteen-minute "cooling off" period after games during which media members were not allowed in the clubhouse. This was meant to keep out droves of reporters, but since most nights it was just Danny Stanton and Kerry Page, nobody gave a damn. They usually just wandered in whenever they wanted and talked to anyone who was willing enough to speak to them.
This time the doors were closed. Kerry knocked on the door, politely enough. Rob Burnette, the Royals trainer, opened the door about halfway and stuck his head through. He was not inviting the reporters in, though; he would have only opened the door a crack except that his head was as big as a melon.
"Go away, you two."
"Go away?" Danny asked, in mock innocence.
"Go away?" Kerry chimed in.
"It's a team meeting," Burnett said, his face darkening. "And if either of you two sticks his nose in this clubhouse, or even knocks on the door before I say so, you're going to wish you hadn't."
"Did that sound to you like he was threatening a reporter?"
"A gross violation of the First Amendment," Page agreed.
Burnette slammed the door shut, and that was that.
Page and Stanton walked down the hall to the visitor's clubhouse and got some quotes from the victorious Mariners. When they returned, the door to the Royals clubhouse was still closed tight. They sat down on opposite sides of the hallway, opened up their laptops, and started typing their stories.
"Why are they having a team meeting?" Page finally asked.
"I don't know. Nobody's talking."
"You think they made a trade?"
"They would have announced a press conference, don't you think?"
"Maybe."
"You gonna stick around?"
"Yeah. You gonna stick around?"
"Yeah."
They typed a little while longer. The door still wasn't opening.
"So we still don't know why they're having a team meeting," Page said.
"Could be anything," Stanton said.
Page checked his watch. "Y'know, Danny, they've been in there an hour."
"I know."
"You think there was a trade?"
"You already asked me that."
"You think maybe there was a fight?"
"Could be."
Another ten or so minutes went by, but the clubhouse door didn't swing open. Russ the Intern chose that moment to stroll up.
"What's going on, guys?"
"Stuff it, Russ," Stanton said.
"Shouldn't you be in the clubhouse? You know, interviewing players, instead of sitting on the floor playing video games?"
"Um, right, Russ. We were just, uh, leaving," Kerry said.
"But there are still a few players left in there," Stanton said, hiding any taint of mischief in his voice. "Knock on the door, they'll let you in."
Stanton and Page got up from the floor, and then retreated to a safe distance. Russ the Intern knocked on the door once, twice, three times. They saw a hairy paw, presumably belonging to Rob Burnette, open the door and drag Russ the Intern inside by his collar.
Stanton tried to run down the corridor to leave the scene of the crime, but he was laughing so hard he ran out of breath. Page was still standing in the corridor, doubled up with laughter. They could still hear Russ the Intern's outraged splutters, slightly muffled, but at a high volume nonetheless.
Stanton couldn't resist. In between gusts of laughter, he made his way back to the clubhouse door, which was standing open a crack. "Hey, Russ," he shouted. "Say hi to Peter Gammons for us!" And then Stanton and Page, still shaking with glee, went back up to the pressbox to e-mail their respective stories for the morning edition.
© Curtis D. Edmonds, 2004, all rights reserved
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