The Second Chance

The Second Chance

  By Joseph DiMari

  Copyright 2012 Joseph DiMari

  Clausen could sense an uneasiness as Jelly, towel over his shoulder, hung up the phone after the muffled conversation and walked slowly over to him, his eyes never leaving the wet tiled floor, the left hand stuffed into his wrinkled pants in too casual a fashion. Jelly was not your hardest person to read when it came to emotions. And yet, Clausen couldn’t help a momentary smirk.

  “Jell, what’s up?”

  The trainer studied a particularly large daddy long legs making its way up the dull green wall. “Hansen wants to see ya. They told me to tell ya.”

  Clausen’s insides tightened as he analyzed the trainer’s expression, the shaky voice, the resigned tone. Was this it? All over? The final meeting with the owner, whose voice still echoed less than three years before, “I have complete confidence in Coach Clausen. Let there be no mistake. He is the leader of the Louisiana Bayous and will remain coach of this baseball team for as long as he so chooses.”

  But that was three years ago, an eternity for some in coaching, especially for those not meeting expectations.

  Hell, the Bayous had almost made the pennant in 2011. Sure, they’d slipped this year, but Morgan, their strongest pitcher, had been out most of the season. Guardio, their pinch hitter was in a cast and wheelchair after a drunk driver decided to do some instant body work on his Corvette. And the rookies weren’t stepping up.

  Two more years and they’d be back, though. Maybe even next year.

  He could tell himself that, but Clausen knew there was something missing in this team, in which he actually thought there was a latent greatness. Maybe it was him. His attitude of late. The feeling that they had about as much chance of success as a hold-up at a gun show.

  Clausen stepped into the darkly paneled front office, the secretary abruptly turning away from her computer monitor, the sweet, solicitous, bogus, smile he’d seen displayed before when he’d brought players about to be cut to Hansen’s office.

  “Go right in, Coach. Mr. Hansen is waiting.”

  Clausen nodded and unconsciously removed his cap, knocked and heard the muffled, “Come in.”

  Dick Hansen sat behind the heavy desk, ostensibly studying the paperwork before him, his reading glasses drooped half way down his nose. His pink jowls flapped loosely as he swiveled his head from one document to another. The desk and Hansen went hand in hand. Heavy, overly opulent, and impersonal. He remained focused on the paperwork a few moments longer.

  Finally glancing upward, meeting Clausen’s eyes, he gestured to his right.

  “Sit down, Hal. Be with you in a second. Goddam lawyers and their long-worded briefs. Enough to make a man want to get out of this business. Technicalities, these days. Used to be simple. Now, it’s all tied up in judicial tissue paper. Makes you crazy.”

  Hansen sighed, tossed his pen onto the desk and sat back, his deep steady gaze upping Clausen’s stress level another notch.

  Clausen would not speak first. It would somehow feel like defensiveness. Give it back to the portly putz. Let Hansen get to it without giving him an easy opening.

  Hansen drummed his fingers, his eyebrows rising in frank appraisal. “Guess there’s no way to say it but to say it, Hal. I’m initiating a search for another coach of the Bayous at the end of the season. Wanted to inform you first, before taking action.

  “I’d like you to resign. Give any reason you see fit. You’ve always been good with the media. Include that you plan to stay on till the end of the season. The rest is up to you.

  “Of course, you’ll receive full salary for the remainder of your contract - two years.”

  Hansen paused, allowing Clausen the chance to speak, but he remained silent.

  Hansen sighed, “Purely business, Hal. The distasteful part, of course, but you’ve been around. I don’t need to explain the system to you.”

  Another pause, then, “So, do we have an understanding?”

  Suppressing the bitter soup of anger, shame, and frustration rising within him, Clausen folded his arms and spoke evenly. “I understand perfectly. And, at the end of the season, when I make my announcement, it won’t be retirement I’ll be discussing, asshole, because I’ll be leaving this team for one reason and one reason only.”

  Clausen rose, strode to the door, opened it partly and turned to face the owner again. “That I’m eager for the opportunity to take another team to the World Series…after, that is, I’ve taken this one all the way…this season.”

  He opened the door fully, and an icy smile crossed his face. “After all, Dick. You know the system. And I’ll play it for all it’s worth. And you, my friend, will look the fool.”

  Clausen stared at his shoes sinking into the lush grass as he walked along the fence line of the field, detached from today’s practice, the crack of the bats, the thump of the ball into the catcher’s mitt, failing to stir that excitement, that aggressive emotion.

  He folded his arms behind him and absently looked at the sky. Why had he shot his mouth off? World Series. Right. They’d be lucky to go .500 this year. The only thing he’d accomplished was gaining a new enemy. Yeah, Hansen could be a real pain in the ass, but at least they’d been on tolerable terms. At the end of the season, he was certain that Hansen would do everything in his considerable power to see that Clausen never coached again, at least anything higher than college level.

  “Coach Clausen?”

  Clausen looked to his right, past the chain link fence. Keeping pace with him was a man about in his middle years of forty, slight build and sharp facial features. Even through the partially blocked view of the fence he noted the intense blue eyes.

  “Autograph days are every other Thursday. And if you’re a reporter, I don’t give unscheduled interviews.” Clausen tipped his cap and turned his back to the man. “Have a nice day.”

  “I admire you and the Bayous very much. I’ve followed them for years now.”

  Clausen lazily raised his arm to belt height and extended an index finger in acknowledgement and dismissal.

  The voice behind him, louder now. “I’m confident you can win the World Series this year…as you vowed you would. And, you were correct, you know. Mr. Hansen truly is - how did you put it - an asshole.”

  Clausen’s surprise turned quickly to anger. His head whipped round, “You print that and I’ll sue your ass, whoever you are. Now get the hell out of here!”

  Clausen strode off, not seeing the smile and the head shake of the man behind the fence.

  The gate opened promptly at six on Thursday evening to allow the short line of autograph seekers entrance to the playing field. The rookies and the lesser players stood in a circle like musk oxen ready to protect their young. The players of note, and there were not many these days, sat at tables, pens ready to sign everything from lamp shades to crumpled, hastily ripped out spiral notebook pages. Two security officers stood ready to eject anyone causing a disturbance, still sensitive to the last signing session, when a young gay male, enamored with one of the players, had become violent when the player had refused to sign a nude picture of him.

  Clausen stood by the dugout, his hands folded, absently knocking the dirt from his cleats, preparing to answer all of the unique, never-before-asked questions: How’s Morgan’s arm doing? Think we’ll win against the Angels? Could you sign it, ‘To my good friend, Bosco Humpddinger? That’s with two d’s. Thanks. Now win a few goddam games, so I can nail a cheap pennant to the den wall above my plasma television, for which I’m paying 20% interest on the credit card for at least four more years.’

  Maybe he should retire after this season. The whole scene was becoming
harder to face each day, it seemed.

  But, then again, anything remotely negative was magnified these days.

  “Hello again, Coach Clausen. You seem rather alone with your thoughts tonight.”

  Clausen, startled, looked up into the face of the man he’d seen behind the fence two days earlier. He opened his mouth to speak, but the man put up his hands in a defensive gesture.

  “Remember, you did invite me, in a manner of speaking, the first time we met.”

  Clausen sighed raising his eyebrows, managing a weak smile. “So I did. So I did. But, the same goes now as then. No interviews.”

  The man shook his head. “I’m not a reporter. But, I do have a question?”

  “Hey, Clausen.” A muscular dark-haired man loomed from the milling crowd. “You suck so bad, I thought I’d give you the only victory celebration you’ll ever see.”

  From inside his coat, he pulled a bottle of Budweiser, placed his thumb over the opening and vigorously shook it.

  Clausen backed away too late as the spray covered his face and uniform top with the foamy liquid.

  Two security guards rushed to the big man, wrestled the bottle away and began pulling him toward the gate. He turned, flashing a wild smile. “You’re lucky it was only beer. I was gonna piss in it!”

  Clausen headed for the locker room with Jelly ambling alongside, rubbing the coach’s sleeve with a towel. Clausen grabbed it from him, glaring at the trainer for his trouble.

  Alone inside the locker room, he threw down the towel and began unbuttoning his top, while avoiding looking into the large mirror on the wall.

  “Children. When it comes to sports, otherwise rational and mature adults lose all sense of reason, especially when they allow their identity to slip into the win-loss fantasy world of sports.”

  Clausen tossed his jersey on the bench, then turned to face the man at the door - the man he’d forgotten he’d been talking with outside.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are, but at the moment, I’m in no mood to discuss the philosophy of the fan.” He rested his right leg on the bench. “You’ve got one minute for whatever it is you want. And you want something, that’s no fantasy. Just a rule of life. Everybody wants something.”

  The man nodded. “A wise assumption.” He stepped inside the room, studying it for a moment with a strange, almost reverent expression.

  “Simply put, I have a proposition.” He reached the end of the bench where the coach stood, unbuckling his pants, then trying to free the stuck zipper. Clausen seemed more focused on the zipper than on what the man was saying.

  “You want to win the series. I can help.”

  Clausen snorted. “I suppose next you’re going to say you’ve got mob connections, which would be bullshit. You’re not the mob type. And they no longer have the power to fix a second rate tennis match, let alone the World Series.”

  The man shook his head. “Nothing like that. No. I’m saying that I can help you to win. Help you personally.”

  Clausen, in shorts and tee shirt, wiped his neck with the towel. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “My name is Byron Whitfield.”

  “And, Mr. Whitfield, how do you propose to help me take the series, personally?”

  “For reasons I won’t go into, you might say I have a special talent.”

  “Yeah, well talent’s pretty scarce around here lately. What might that be?”

  “To use that threadbare expression, 'Action speaks louder than words.' I'm afraid I'd have to show you - on the field, that is. And, I can assure you of one thing: We are talking about a game, the game of baseball. But what I can offer is no game. At this time, let's just say I can make certain guarantees. Guarantees that can and will take you all the way to baseball's pinnacle.

  Clausen stripped off his tee shirt, his loose stomach quivering slightly as he chuckled.

  “Well, Mr. Whitfield, you’re a dream come true. My, my. I suppose there’s some bargain involved, like, I turn in my soul afterwards, kinda like they used to save up green stamps. So many books for the gift of your choosing. Only, I figured a soul would be worth a hell of a lot more - no pun intended - than winning a few ball games.”

  Clausen pulled a fresh towel from his locker and flopped it over his bare shoulder. “Thanks for the humor. I honestly needed it. You’ve had your minute, I need my shower. Good night and good luck.”

  Clausen brushed past Whitfield, and at that moment, Whitfield reached out and lightly grasped Clausen’s wrist.

  “Jesus!” Clausen went down to his knees and grabbed at the bench to keep from falling on his face.

  “What the hell ya doin’ there!” Jelly stood at the doorway, his eyes wide with fright. “I’m gettin' the law right goddam now.”

  Jelly turned to leave, but Clausen held up his hand. “It’s okay. No problem. I just slipped and this fella helped. Just, uh, shut the door. And don’t let anyone in till we’re finished.”

  The old trainer slowly closed the door, all the while fixing the stranger with a frightened stare.

  Clausen stood up rubbing his neck muscles, his confidence more tentative now.

  “Okay. So I felt…something.” His mind went back to a televangelist show he’d briefly watched when surfing the channels one night. How each of the “subjects” there on the stage to be “cured” had collapsed at the touch of the so-called minister. Collapsed from some supposedly divine power channeled through the evangelist. Collapsed as the 800 number for donations flashed in the corner of the screen. Sometime later, he’d also watched a program showing how these divine channelers used the power of suggestion or outright trickery to convince those who wanted to believe.

  But this experience was one for which he’d been totally unprepared. It had been as though all of the billions of circuits in his body had blinked out for a millionth of a second, then turned back on again, like the flicker of a light bulb in a thunderstorm. No divine, no demonic, revelations. But a total and instantaneous shutdown, then restart, of his body.

  “I don’t know what just happened." He rubbed the back of his neck as he turned his head, studying the blue eyes for a long moment.

  “Be here tomorrow at seven thirty a.m. I’m not committing to anything beyond that.”

  Whitfield walked to the door, opened it to find Jelly bent over engaged in searching for something that must have fallen very close to the door. He smiled as he turned to Clausen. “See you in the morning.”

  Seven fifteen a.m. and Michaels, the back up pitcher, was working on his fastball as the rookies tried, mostly without success, to contact the hundred mile an hour leather missile.

  Clausen nervously riffed his cap before glancing at his wristwatch as he paced in the dugout.

  He'd been crazy to invite a complete stranger to practice, for God knew why. Upon reflection, he suspected this Whitfield had been sent by Hansen. Purpose: to make a fool of him in front of the players, a final separation from any loyalty they still held for him.

  He'd seen the looks on their faces, the disgruntled expressions from some. From others, the look of panicked crewmen aboard a sinking vessel. Yeah, today would be the final blow. Shrewd bastard.

  The dugout door opened, and Clausen turned to see the slim man stepping into the dugout. He was dressed in white running shoes and a blue nylon jump suit, a confident smile on his face.

  "Your trainer was a little reluctant to admit me. I don't think he likes me much." He breathed in deeply as he surveyed the ongoing practice. "Beautiful morning. A real baseball morning. Cool, with that faint warm breeze that tells you it will be a hot one later on."

  "Now that I've heard the weather report, just what is it you want? Why are you here?"

  "As I said before, Coach Clausen, I plan to help. To help a great deal."

  "Such as?"

  Whitfield's smile was broad, open, almost child-like. "You're a direct man, so I'll tell you straight away."
Whitfield paused as the pitcher zinged another past a hapless rookie. "Simply put, I will guarantee you eight home runs. Upon demand. Each at a time of your choosing."

  Clausen snuffed. "So next you're going to say you got this great pinch hitter just waiting in the wings. And you must have found out that we just lost ours to an accident. How convenient. Just who is this whiz with a bat?"

  Whitfield's expression dimmed a bit. "Why, myself, of course."

  Clausen laughed openly, shaking his head. "A middle-aged, what - 140 pounds at the most - refugee from some high notion private college administrative office is going to save the day?"

  Clausen turned serious. "I thought at first that maybe Hansen sent you, but not even he'd believe I'm dumb enough to buy this composted horse shit."

  Whitfield brushed past him, picked up a bat in the dust and walked quickly toward home plate.

  The pitcher saw him approaching and dropped the ball to the ground, raising his arms in confusion.

  "Hold...! Clausen stopped. "Okay. You wanta hit, then go for it. On one condition. You get hurt and it's on your head. Say it, and say it loud."

  Whitfield reached home plate and poked at it with the tip of the bat. "On my head."

  Clausen glared at the pitcher. "Throw to him. And goddam it, don't hold back."

  The pitcher shook his head and picked up the ball. "Sure about this, Coach?"

  "I said throw the goddam ball!"

  Michaels wound up and let go. The ball sizzled through space and thumped loudly into the catcher's mitt, as Whitfield swung much too late.

  Clausen charged to home plate. "Ah jee, you know, you're fantastic, but I can't have you showing up all the other hitters and shattering the confidence of my pitchers. Yeah, you're much too good for that." Clausen pulled the bat away. "Do me a favor. Try the Yankees, okay?"

  Whitfield smiled, and said evenly. "You didn't call it."

  "Call it?"

  "I said home runs. On demand."

  "You know, you're right about that," said Clausen with feigned surprise. "Yeah, go ahead. Center field wall. In fact, fourth tier of seats."

  Clausen roughly tossed back the bat. "And after this swing, you're gone."

  Clausen nodded to the pitcher. "One more time."

  Seeing Jelly emerge from the dugout, Clausen said tiredly, "As soon as he swings, make sure he gets out the door. And don't let him in again."

  The pitcher wound up and sent the ball curving radically toward the catcher's mitt.

  It never arrived.

  The feel of energy ripping through the grain of the baseball bat was palpable to the few in the stadium as they peered at the arcing ball, rocketing toward the center field wall, clearing it easily and striking a fourth tier seat with an echoing crack.

  Jelly worked his jaw, the empty space where his lower two front teeth used to be was emphasized by the corn yellow teeth surrounding the exposed gum. "I ain't never seen anything like that before. Nobody coulda hit on that curve. Or that far. How in the devil's hell'd he do that? How the..."

  Jelly suddenly backed away to distance himself, as the slim man in the blue jump suit turned, glanced at him, and walked over to Hansen.

  Whitfield looked back toward center field as he stood next to Clausen. "On demand. No satanic bargain. No heavenly one, either. Only money. A million dollars each. In cash."

  Clausen could only nod his head, the echo of the bat launching the ball still in his ears.

  Whitfield enjoyed Clausen's stupefied expression for a moment. "Then we have a deal. Seven home runs at the time of your choosing, seven million dollars."

  Clausen slowly turned to face Whitfield, his strength seemingly drained from the shock of the experience, but not quite to the point that he hadn't heard every word of the man before him. He swallowed hard. "You said eight. Eight home runs."

  Whitfield pointed to center field. "That was one. And free by the way. The rest will cost you. Do we have an agreement, then?"

  Clausen could only nod as he removed his hat, wiping the sweat from his brow, trying to fathom what had just taken place.

  "Welcome, friends, to the third and final game of the World Series, featuring the Minnesota Twins and that unlikeliest of teams, the Louisiana Bayous - the miracle organization that managed to rise from the ashes of last place in the league, to the world championship game you'll see today. Would you, could you, believe that just three short months ago…"

  Clausen could hear the announcer's muffled words echoing in the locker room, as he adjusted his cap in the mirror, the room emptying as the players headed for the dugout.

  The room, now quiet, he fastened his belt and gave everything a once over in the mirror. As he straightened his collar, he caught sight of a slim form moving behind him.

  "This is your big moment, Coach Clausen. The summit is in sight and fame is within touching distance. Extraordinary, actually, when you consider that not once did you ask for, or need, my services."

  Clausen closed the locker door and turned, a serious expression on his face. "Stating the obvious, Whitfield, you're about as strange as they come. And yet, there's something…familiar about you, that I can't quite define. There were a lot of times I could have played you, knowing it would be the sure thing to do. But something - some feeling - always kept me from doing it."

  His voice became more resolute. "But that changes today. You're hitting for Mathews. He's our weakest link, and I'm taking no chances."

  Whitfield sighed as he removed his jersey, then his tee shirt, prompting a confused expression from Clausen.

  "Before you make your final decision, Coach Clausen, you need to know all of the facts."

  Whitfield produced a single edge razor blade and sliced deeply into his left bicep, from shoulder to elbow.

  "Are you crazy, man! Why in God's name…"

  But, instead of a torrent of blood from the wound, there was only the slightest trickle, even as Whitfield spread open the incision, exposing what at first appeared to be white bone. The wound remained open as he produced a bar magnet from his pocket, showed it to Clausen, and placed it near the supposed bone. The magnet flew from his hand, and attached itself to the bone with an audible click.

  Whitfield removed the magnet, then approached Clausen, his left bicep in front of his chest. He was four feet from Clausen when the incision simply closed itself, healed over completely, leaving nothing but a few drops of blood on the arm, which Whitfield dabbed with a towel.

  Speechless, Clausen could only stare at the unblemished arm.

  Whitfield reached into a locker and pulled out a baseball. He placed it between his hands appearing almost as if he were praying. Applying force, the ball compressed, flattened, then disintegrated, bits of cork, rubber and yarn spewing from between his hands and fingers, leaving only flattened leather fragments when he showed his palms.

  Clausen shook his head. "Why…who...?"

  "I'm placing it all on the table now, so to speak. I did not come here to win games for you, nor to hit home runs.

  The fact is, if you hadn't hired me, you would have taken on another pinch hitter, a Walter Evans, two days later. Evans would have helped you to win, all the way to the World Series where we are now. And during the course of winning, you would have discovered that he was heavily using steroids. By that time, you were dependent upon him to win for you, so you looked the other way.

  You won the Series, but two months later, were stripped of the title when Evans was found out.

  And so, for all of those holding a love of baseball, of sports and fair play, your name was forever synonymous with disgrace.

  You, Coach Clausen, are getting a rare opportunity. A second chance. Up to this point you have won because of skill and confidence in yourself and your players. It was you who made this a winning team. You haven't needed me anymore than you would have needed Evans.

  Go with me, knowing what you know now. Or go w
ith Mathews. As far as myself, I'll be leaving soon. The only one who will ever know about me is you."

  Clausen stumbled to the dugout, his mind swirling with its task of making sense out of what he'd witnessed, what he'd heard, his strange trance-like appearance drawing stares from the players.

  He turned dazedly to his assistant coach. "Take over for me for a while, Al, I'm not feeling well."

  By the bottom of the eighth inning, Clausen had forced his mind to clear.

  In the ninth inning, the Twins scored two runs.

  With two outs in the bottom of the final inning, the Bayous were down by one run, with one man on second base.

  And, as if on script, Mathews was up next.

  Clausen looked to Whitfield, who tapped his cleats with the bat, before looking up to gaze intently at Clausen. He turned toward Mathews, and just for a second, thought he saw the face of owner Dick Hansen, smirking, daring. Clausen sighed heavily, and the picture of Nebraska Coach Tom Osborne going for two to try and win a national college football championship outright, rather than backing into it with a tying field goal, ran through his mind, while a voice in his head chastised over and over - "Yeah, but he didn't make it."

  Clausen looked up at the cloud studded sky for a moment, and to no one specific, said, "Take the plate, Mathews."