Ode to Pete Rose

Ode to Pete Rose

Or

One Boy’s Odyssey to Reach the Little League World Series

By

Samuel Cisneros

Copyright 2013 Samuel Cisneros

S mashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold  or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The events in this book are purely fictitious, though the names are taken from people who the author knows or has been acquainted with in his life. The characters are a product of the author's imagination and are in no way actual representations of the names associated with them. Pete Rose, the legendary baseball player, was  not involved in the writing of this book. His inclusion likewise represents a fictional association with the protagonist and some events of the story.

Acknowledgements

The original cover art for this eBook was designed by my daughter Chloe Mae, who took my ideas and turned them into an awesome kid-like drawing. I'd like to thank my brother-in-law Mark Lambertson, a professional graphic artist, for his work on the cover design. He took my daughter's artwork and stayed true to her creativity.

Table of Contents

Part 1 – Let the Other Guy Lose

Part 2 – Friendship Trumps  Stupidity

Part 3 – Marvin the Great

Part 4 – We are the Champions

Epilogue

Preface

For many of us who grew up in the late nineteen sixties and early nineteen seventies, Major League Baseball was the greatest game going. Baseball was truly America’s pastime in those years, and boys in all corners of the United States and in countries around the globe played the game to try and be like the pros whom they worshipped. Those legendary names are so well known that they don’t need to be mentioned here, but every boy back then had a favorite just as they do today. Our idols were New York Yankees, or maybe an L.A. Dodger, a St. Louis Cardinal, a Minnesota Twin, or even a Cincinnati Red. He was a great hitter or an overpowering pitcher, an exceptional fielder, or a catcher who anchored his entire squad.

In my youth, I owed my allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds , especially to Pete Rose. For a legion of us, Rose stood above all others. He was a player’s player, and we were Little League baseball players who idolized his hitting and worshipped his overall intensity. Pete Rose was the all-around ballplayer that many of us wanted to be, that some of us str ove  to imitate, that only a couple of ballplayers in history neared in success. Rose’s game inspired us to be the best we could be in those years when baseball was the most important thing in our lives. And while he was busy being an All Star on a daily basis, we played hard to make All Star teams too, to see if by chance we could one day make it to Williamsport, Pennsylvania to play in the Little League World Series.

This story was inspired by the love I had for baseball in all the days of my youth, by the people who I played baseball with and against, by those who supported me in my all-too-short baseball career, and of course by the professional ballplayer whom I idolized. Some of what follows is true.

PART I -   Let the Other Guy Lose

Chapter 1

Most kids belong to one kind of gang or another. Back in the 1970s when I was growing up, our gang signs were simple : one finger for a fastball and two for a curve.  All the boys in our gangs were baseball players,  but they were typical kids too. Most of them did lots of stuff besides play baseball.

But one boy in our gang lived only  to take batting practice, pick off base runners, and turn double plays. For him baseball came first, second, and third. He had no time for anything else: not football, not fishing, and especially  not females — not yet. That boy was Marvin Foley.  

Pete Rose sez he’d walk through Hell in a gasoline suit to play baseball…so would I.

"You better watch your mouth, Marvin. Father Esposito hears you talk like that and you’ll be recitin’ Rosaries for a month ."

Well, I would.

Yeah, Marvin, we know.

Baseball was Marvin Foley’s first and  last love. And girls? Well, having a mother and a sister, Marvin understood that girls would be important at some point in his life, but he thought it was scary, what they could do to adolescent and teen boys.  From his point of view, girls were gifted and talented at messing up boys’ lives, and he, Marvin Foley, would have none of it. His philosophy on the subject was, Let the other guy have unexplained heartburn. Let the other guy throw away perfectly good lunches because he has no appetite. Let him waste two or three weeks of his life looking dopey because he ’s  ‘going out with so and so,’ and another two or three looking mopey because ‘so and so’ broke up with him.

I don’t even know what that means, Marvin would pretend when one of his dejected friends sulked around the baseball diamond because ‘ so and so ’  dumped him. He would play dumb to make whatever sorry friend it was relive the pain and occasionally the tears. Then he’d ask , Did ya at least get your baseballs back before she kicked ya to the curb? before laughing in their face. Talk about making a guy feel bad. Let me get back to the story.

Marvin Foley was the best ballplayer, for his age, in the entire world. I know because I played against him, and I never saw anyone  then or now, for his  age, that was better. These days I coach high school baseball, and I’ve seen thousands of baseball players hit, catch, and throw a baseball, and Foley was the best. It’s that simple. Marvin Foley was the best baseball player I ever saw. W ell, someone  had to be the best.

Being the best ballplayer around, Marvin was on the best team in the Livorno American Minor League. His personal gang included Mike Warren, Leonard Liggins, and Danny Mucci. Those boys were all very good baseball players : they had to have been, otherwise Marvin wouldn’t have hung out with them.

Marvin would not put up with lousy baseball ballplayers, because b eing Catholic, he was very superstitious, and if believing in vampires and curses wasn’t bad enough, he thought that bad things could happen to a good ballplayer if he didn’t take proper precautions. Marvin believed that he   might  turn into  a lousy ballplayer if he   hung out  with lousy ballplayers. So he didn’t, ever. Don’t hang out with lousy ballplayers, he’d preach to us regularly.  It was the first principle of his own personal creed, The All - Stars Creed, as Marvin called it, modeled after his favorite prayer. It seemed a bit extreme, but who was I to questio n. Luckily the Livorno Little Leagues were loaded with decent ballplayers, otherwise Marvin would have been one   lonely  kid.

One Saturday in May, before the afternoon games , Marvin launched into a speech about why baseball was America’s great pastime: "I play  baseball because it  is the intelligent man’s game !  You can ’t be a dummy and be good at this game. It’s like chess. So much strategy and attention to detail. You’ve got to pay attention to every pitch and think about your  next move every second, whether you’re hitting  or in the field. No way can football or basketball touch us. Bunch a  idiots knockin’ each other out playin’ those games."

Yeah right, I said. "Ozzie got kicked out of the game Tuesday for cussing at  the ump,  because he wouldn’t do nothin’ when you knocked Ray out at the plate."

And since you and Mike started dustin’ anyone that crowds the plate, added Danny Mucci, "everyone else is throwing inside too. There've been  two beanings and a fight just this week."

"Yeah, so , scoffed Marvin. That’s all part of the game. Ozzie’s the coach. He’s doin’ what he’s supposed to do , and so was I. Ray was blocking the plate, and I had to score.   An’  anyway, I wasn’t trying to hurt Ray. Those are just  consequences of the game. I mean, somebody's gotta win and somebody's gotta lose, and I’m gonna do whatever it takes to let the other guy lose, every time !"

Marvin always spoke those words as if he were going to war. It was the second principle of his personal creed, borrowed word for word from his favorite ballplayer.

Another time Marvin was lecturing us about what it took to be a great baseball player. He opened up a large binder of baseball cards arranged in alphabetical order and neatly tucked into card-size plastic sleeves, and flipped to the National League section. Sandwiched between Frank Robinson and Nolan Ryan was Marvin’s baseball hero and now our favorite ballplayer, Pete Rose.

" Dang!"  exclaimed Danny Mucci. Where did you get that?

Danny was overwhelmed with the financial implications of being in possession of a Pete Rose rookie card. The rest of us were in awe of the face on the card, because since we’d met Marvin two years earlier, we ’ d heard the future Hall of Famer’s name so often, with so many baseball modifiers attached to it, that we became indoctrinated to the greatness that was the Reds’ leadoff  man. So we idolized him too.

Here he is…the greatest ballplayer in the history of the game…I think. Marvin was holding the card delicatel y, as if  it was a miniature Mona Lisa. Anyone can be great, but most guys aren’t willing to do the work. You gotta have a combination of lots of things to be great—a rifle arm, or power at the plate, or quickness and  great range, but most of all ya gotta have toughness, and that’s something you just can’t learn. You got it, he tapped the picture of Rose again and again, "or you don’t. In other words, you gotta have heart to be great! " And there it was, the third and final principle of Marvin’s own personal creed. I didn’t understand it back then, but Foley was right on the money.

None of us had ever seen the valuable card before, so we were glued to Marvin’s words. "And you gotta be   tougher than the other guy. Anything distracts you, you can kiss success goodbye.  Rose has it. He’s the ultimate team player, and he has passion for the game…and everyone  knows he’s the toughest ballplayer since Ty Cobb. He’s even tougher than Bob Gibson, and that son-of-a-gun is tough!"

Marvin had everyone’s attention. We were all huge fans of the Cincinnati Super s tar because he was a winner, because he always played like every game was his last, and because he rarely missed an at bat or an inning in the field.

 "I got pro skills and  I got real passion for the game like Rose does. That’s probably why I’m the best player in this league. You guys don’t play with enough heart. You got talent, but not the love for the game like me. That’s why I’m better’n you. And that’s why people will remember me just like they remember Pete Rose."

"You ain’t that  good!" said Leonard Liggins.

Marvin looked around for confirmation. Mooch?

Eyebrows raised, Danny Mucci nodded vigorously in total agreement.

Before I leave Italy, Leonard, people are gonna remember me as the best baseball player to ever play here.

So what, replied his White Sox teammate, "This is ain’t the States. They play real baseball in the States, and over in Taiwan and Japan, and in them Latin American countries. Those  boys kick serious baseball butt. Baseball in Europe ain’t jack. That’s why no team from Europe has ever won the Little League World Series."

"Baseball is baseball, Leonard. Here, there, anywhere. I’ll match my talent with anyone  playing Little League anywhere , and that includes Tokyo, Mexico, or  San Diego. They haven’t seen my  skills on the diamond…but they will, soon."

Foley, why you so dang cocky!

"L eonard , let me tell you something. In life, if you do not blow your own horn, there will be  no music ."

What the hell you talkin’ about, music? Who’s playing music? I don’t hear no horn blowin’ no music!

Danny edged the big catcher away from the babbling shortstop and the rest of the group and headed toward the Snack Bar. "Foley, what’s that thing you said, about blowin ’ horns and music?"

" I t’s just somethin’ my grandpa used to say to me. It was from a book he liked . It means, if you aren’t confident and don’t let people know who you are ... well then, no one’s gonna know who you are. That’s all."

Oh, replied the diminutive kid wearing the Cincinnati Reds baseball cap, That makes sense.

It did make sense. It made a lot of sense. And if anyone should  have recited those words, it was Marvin Foley, because he was fanatic about baseball and extremely confident in his ability. I always thought that was okay, because it’s not bragging if you can back it up. Marvin could and always did.

Chapter 2

"Play ball!

Ken Watkins motioned to the tall kid standing 46 feet away on the pitcher’s mound. Mike Warren peered over his mitt, went into his big windup, and fired a fastball seventy-two miles an hour past the left-handed boy batting clean-up.

Steee-rikuh wunh! screamed the big umpire , double-clutching his right arm out to his side.

" Man  that was fast! Marvin Foley taunted the Dodger hitter as he fired the ball back to his pitcher. Did ya see it Willis? Huh? Willis, are you listening to me?"

" Steee-rike  twooooo!" bellowed the ump as the whistling fastball again slammed into leather.

"Did you see that  one, Willis? Gary, h ow the he ck are you gonna hit the ball if you got your eyes closed? C’mon , man! McDaniel let’s you hit clean-up and this is all you got?"

Shut up, Foley!

YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE THEIR BEST HITTER!

From his crouch Marvin flashed a signal to the boy on the mound. Ok, bonehead, we’re gonna give you one more chance to hit somethin’. I’m callin’ for another fastball, so get ready.

The Dodger slugger turned and sneered at the boisterous boy behind the plate and stood up on his toes in anticipation of Mike Warren’s heat.

Mike Warren leaned forward on the rubber, locked in a stare with the Dodger hitter. He was grinding on two sticks of Juicy Fruit and spinning the baseball behind his back like a Little League Luis Tiant.

Gary Willis, eyes locked on the pitcher, brought his bat up higher, ready for the fastball he knew was coming.

Willis. All you’re gonna see is smoke!

Mike Warren cranked his right arm into a big wind up, gathering the speed he would need to propel the pitch past the pretender in the batter’s box. Then, kicking his left leg high into the sky, he began his motion toward home. His upper body lurched toward the plate and the ball appeared over the top of his right shoulder blurring with his white T-shirt.

Gary Willis, aiming for Jupiter, gritted his teeth and began pulling his right shoulder forward as the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air toward him. But something was wrong! There was no speed on the pitch! The fastball was a mirage! The red seams of the ball were gyrating gracefully in the breeze for all to see… because the White Sox Ace had thrown a changeup ,…and it was tumbling… toward the plate…as if… it were going…in the opposite…direction…

The boy at the plate swung way  too early and with so much force that he spun around out of the batter’s box hitting himself with his own bat.

Ken Watkins pivoted backward on his left foot, pulled his right arm across his chest like a gardener yanking on a lawnmower cord, and pointed at the boy who lay splayed in the dirt. STRIKE THREE! he screamed, YER OUTTA THERE!

Chump, Marvin snickered, and fired the ball to his third baseman.

Gary Willis got up, dusted himself off, and mouthed a couple of four-letter words in Marvin’s direction on his way back to the dugout.

*

Marvin Foley did many impressive things as catcher for the White Sox baseball team of the Livorno American Minor League, and  one of the very best was the way he irritated hitters with his lectures on their limitations as ballplayers. Nearly half of all the strikeouts recorded by the White Sox pitchers were due in part  to Marvin’s annoying chatter behind the plate : Batter, that bat don’t come with batteries...you gotta do something with it. / Batter, you’re gonna need a bigger bat.  / Batter, can you spell hit?  / Man, you should get two strikes for that swing! / Wait a minute batter, let me reposition my outfield. EVERYBODY MOVE IN!

He didn’t stop talking when he had a bat in his hand either.  In the bottom of the third inning against the Dodgers, Marvin strolled toward the plate with the White Sox leading 4-0.  Leonard Liggins picked dried mud out of his cleats at second base while most of the White Sox team sat on their rears in the dugout, some stretching and twirling gum on their fingers, others making disgusting noises with their armpits, as if having a big lead and a man on with their best hitter up was a movie they’d seen too many times.

Marvin stepped into the batter’s box grinding down dirt with his right foot. He extended his right arm letting the umpire know that he wanted time to get set. "Cap’n Watkins, did ya see Rose ’s   stats for  yesterday? Four for four again . Man, how can anybody be so good?"

Shrugging his shoulders   and head in agreement, the big umpire responded: Superstar.

Marvin got a fist bump from Watkins and then refocused on his task.   "Max,  d’ju you call  for those inside pitches last time?"

The boy behind the plate shifted his weight nervously.

"You gotta be kiddin ’  trying to dust me.  I can hit you guys blindfolded. Now I’m gonna knock the ‘Spalding’ offa the ball… just ta teach  you a lesson. Kenny won’t even have   ta stop   pickin ’ his nose out there in center."

The Dodger catcher grinned at Marvin. Meanwhile, the boy in center field hid his face in his glove.

Bobby Kirylo, t he lanky Dodger pitcher, anxious about facing the league’s best hitter, reared back and fired a pitch four feet over everyone’s head and into the chain link backstop . Two pitches later he accidentally found the middle of the plate with a waist high fastball. Marvin found the middle of the baseball—with the barrel of the bat—and launched it into the afternoon sky. Kenneth Kirby, the Dodger centerfielder, looked up but didn’t move an inch. Marvin strolled around the basepath, arms extended high  in the air, ten fingers pointing high for all the Dodgers to see. That’s ten! he shouted, Number 10!

John Petty, the Dodger shortstop , sniped as Marvin trotted past, Foley, you’re a punk!

"Yeah, Petty, and you’re a loser … again ." Marvin extended his thumb and index finger at the boy in a universally recognized L-shaped sign. John Petty extended his middle finger at Marvin in another  universally recognized sign.

Boos poured out of the Dodger side of the field. Fans screamed as Marvin trotted around third. Leonard waited at the plate for his clean-up hitter to touch home.

Marvin stopped his trot half-way between third and home and walked across the plate. That one’s for you, Max.

The Dodger catcher glared at Marvin from behind his Rawlings mask.

Back in the dugout Leonard chided his teammate. Be cool, Foley, you don’t gotta rub it in their face. You’re gonna lower their self-esteem.

Marvin looked at his friend, dumbstruck. I’m gonna lower their self-esteem? Izzat whatcha  said, Leonard? Shaking his head in disgust, the big catcher grabbed his shin guards and turned to face his friend. Leonard, I’m a  let you in on a little secret. The two boys slouched inside the dugout while outside the world turned and the rout of the Dodgers continued. "Here’s how you raise  a kid’s self-esteem. First, you let him fall on his face. You let him get some scrapes and bruises, a bloody nos e , and then ? ... then  you make sure he gets off his butt and tries again. And if he just isn’t good at whatever he’s doin’, then you be honest  with the kid. You tell  him that he sucks; you tell  him that there’s lots a other  sports out there. And then you help him somethin’ he’s good at. Because when he finds somethin’ he’s good at, when he has a little bit of success, his self-esteem is gonna rise. It ain’t magic, Leonard."

Marvin wasn’t near done on the subject of bad ballplayers. "You know what the problem is with some of those guys on that team over there, Liggins? Their parents! Their parents make ‘em play sports they shouldn’t be playin’. I mean, John Petty ’s got no business  playing shortstop. Fourteen errors, Leonard? Petty ’s got fourteen errors this season! You don’ got that many your whole life.  And Kirby? That dude is makin’ us all look bad with his finger up his nose all the time. But parents want everyone to accept their little darlings so that the y  don’t get hurt feelings. That’s   wrong! Kids who aren’t ballplayers shouldn’t play ball. Let ‘em play… the trombone , or build science fair projects , or…or whatever . But the heck with every kid getting’ to do everything just so his self-esteem don’t get bruised. Get real. Leonard! That ain’t the real world."

C’mon, Foley, some of them boys are our friends," pointed out Mike, who’d been listening attentively to his friends’ chatter.

"Yeah, so , scoffed Marvin. Someone’s  gotta tell them they suck, Warren, cuz… they suck ! And I got no  problem delivering that  message."

Ten strikeouts later, Mike and most of the White Sox recognized the Dodgers as not-so-worthy opponents ,  Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate…, while in his own post-game celebration of unsportsmanlike  conduct, Marvin belted out an insulting acknowledgement "… WHO DID WE ASSASSINATE! DODGERS! DODGERS !"

Back in the dugout the boys were gathering up gear.

"Twelve strikeouts? You the man , Mike!"

Some of those are mine, Liggins, claimed Marvin.

He’s right, Leonard. Petty and Willis looked like they were trying to kill flies up there. I gotta give Boats those. He called a heck of a game. He’s the best.

"Hear that, Leonard? The best ! I got the third most strikeouts in the league, and I’m behind  the plate."

It was a ll so true. In all of the Livorno American Minor League, Mike Warren was the best pitcher by far, and had been for two years. But he always won because he happened to be throwing to Marvin Foley, the absolute best all-around Minor League baseball player at Camp Darby. And though it wasn’t the States or the Far East, as Leonard Liggins had advised, the quality of baseball was still played at a pretty high level.

John Petty’s parents walked past the White Sox dugout on their way to the parking lot and glared at Marvin. Marvin saluted  Lieutenant and Mrs. Petty with a toothy grin. You got a fine ballplayer there, sir, he said as they filed out of the park past him. Those were some nice cuts he took. Marvin pantomimed swatting at flies as the Pettys hurried past. The high chain-link fence served as a buffer, in case anyone’s father or older brother took exception with his attitude.

Rude boy! responded Mrs. Petty.

AND THAT WAS A NICE DOUBLE PLAY HE ALMOST MADE! Marvin’s voice lingered in the air