One Summer Season: A Young Man's Brutal Baptism Into Love And Baseball

Chapter 1

I never met Robbie Schinken until the day I ruined his life, but I hated him with every cell in my body. My dad would whup me upside the head for saying that I hated anyone. He taught me to be a good boy, and value things like loving my neighbor and being honest. If those moral lessons are true, I am batting .500 because I am honest when I say I hate the guy. Schinken is a boil on the butt of athletics.

There is so much to dislike. He is from a rich family, and he lives in Daddy’s million-dollar mansion in the hills of west Portland. People say Daddy worked for decades at BMW, and the family shuttled often between homes in the United States and Munich. Robbie also goes to Jesuit High School, which is a parochial magnet that raids talented athletes from throughout the Portland area.

Schinken acts different than any other high school player, like he’s the king of the field. Every other hitter walks to the plate, takes a soft swing or two, and gets ready for the first pitch. Schinken strolls from the on-deck circle and softly swings his bat off to the side like he is using a scythe to cut weeds. He gets to the batter’s box, takes time to adjust his cap, his batting gloves, and pull on his crotch like he is bigger than everyone else. He steps into the box, and he points the bat directly at the opposing pitcher’s head. He thinks that is intimidating. He always takes the first pitch, and he laughs at the result whether it is a strike right down the middle or a ball in the dirt.

He was a total jerk before Jesuit came up to play us a few weeks ago. He spouted off to some sportswriter from The Oregonian about how his team was going to go up to The Dalles and squash the Riverhawks like flies under a newspaper. He also got personal. He said he would prove that he was the best player in the state of Oregon, and R.W. Clay was a plow boy who belonged in overalls and flip-flops. Where does he get off talking like that about me? I wanted to kick his butt.

Yeah, Robbie and his buddies came up to The Dalles to play us, and the kid backed up his bad attitude. He was the third batter in the lineup, and he hit a home run in his first at-bat. As he rounded first base, he pointed to me as I stood in right field, and he made a circular gesture with his right hand to signal home run. He pointed into our dugout and made the same movement as he rounded third base. I wanted to run all the way to home plate and go nose to nose with him, and let him know he didn’t disrespect anyone that way, least of all me and my teammates.

I got my chance in the bottom half of the inning because I was third in our batting order. Our first batter got a base hit, and I got on first base because those creeps walked me intentionally every time I came to the plate. Our next batter hit a slow roller out to the mound for what would have been a sure double-play grounder. Well, dear old Robbie was their shortstop, which meant he had to cross second base to handle the throw and get me out. I built up a head of steam, and I wanted to slide hard enough that I would dump his arrogant ass in the dirt. I am 6-feet-3 and 215 pounds, and I can provide lots of power. Robbie didn’t handle the throw well, and he was bobbling the ball and trying to keep his right leg on second base. I still was coming like a freight train. I hit his leg with every bit of speed and strength I had. There were two sounds immediately. The first was his leg bone snapping like a tree limb. The second was a series of screams. Poor, poor Robbie. I almost felt sorry for him.

I looked down, and I knew a leg wasn’t supposed to look like that, all bent off the side from the middle of the shinbone down. Little Robbie kept screaming, then he started crying like a baby. I got out of the way and let his coaches and the doctor do their work. They drove an ambulance out by second base and loaded him in. He was out for the rest of the season. Word is he might not be ready for next season either. They say there are more screws in his leg than in a backyard deck.

The head of my youth group at church was at the game, and he said my slide was the dirtiest play he had ever seen on a baseball field. He cornered me one day, and he told me I needed to fall on my knees and confess my sin. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had no need to repent. I definitely didn’t tell him that I considered Robbie’s injury to simply be one of the breaks of the game.

I didn’t lose often, not to Schinken or anyone. I can say that without being conceited. I was all-league, all-state, all-academic, and all-everything. The Oregonian did a full-page feature story on me when I was named the state’s player of the year. There was this huge picture of me doing my power swing, and quotes in larger type in which coaches praised my ability, and there were lists of my statistics. My dad had that page framed and displayed in his office back at the ranch. Seventeen Division I colleges or universities invited me to go to school for free. Those schools were the cream of the cream of college baseball. How sweet was that?

Those were the good old days, and they linger like memories of a beautiful sunset. Now Robbie is convalescing, and so am I. Life can be such a brutal teacher.

Chapter 2

I stand today in the home dugout at Suplizio Field in Grand Junction, Colorado. All I want is one final at-bat. I am one of only two people in the stadium, and the other person isn’t a player. That’s fine. I just need to feel the bat in my hands again.

It is 7:30 in the morning on September 7th, three months to the day since my high school graduation. This is the home of the Grand Junction Rockies, the kids on the lowest rung of the organizational chart for the Colorado major-league franchise. They should have called us the Ghosts, the name this team had in Casper, Wyoming before heading to western Colorado. The Ghosts, how fitting. We were specters who glided into Grand Junction in early June and drifted out in early September. In three months and 72 games, we put together a season to forget. We were buried so far in last place that we needed picks and shovels to get a glimpse of the sky.

I do my ritual one last time. I grab my bat, a Barry Bonds model that looks too small in the hands of a big kid. I don’t like Bonds’ reported use of illegal substances, but I admire his ability. Bonds unleashed raw power that humbled even the best pitchers. I wanted that power. I tap my bat against the cement floor three times, then take my right index finger and run it gently over the white space on the heel of my left shoe, over the Ph 4:13 written there, then make the same gentle sweep over the white space on my right shoe, where it says P21. I tap the bat three more times on the floor before heading out of the dugout, making sure that I lead with my left foot when I step onto the dirt.

My routine continues. Three taps on the outer right corner of the plate. Three gentle swings. The stare straight ahead, locking on the eyes of the pitcher until he starts his windup. I shift my focus to just above the pitcher’s shoulder and wait for that first flash of white as the ball escapes his hand. I watch for the telltale red blurs. Red dot for fastball. Tight little circular wave for a curve. Smooth little streak with a slight tail on it for a simple slider. I don’t have to worry about confidence-robbing offerings like slurves, knuckleballs and backup sliders. After all, this is the Pioneer League, full of kids just out of high school, lots of Latinos lost in a new world of American baseball, and a few college guys who scouts thought so little of that they buried them at this level of pro ball.

I imagine my adversary is one of those cocky Latinos out of the Dominican Republic. They have this machismo about them, that Schinken swagger, and they usually challenge with their best fastball on the first pitch. Those Latinos are really big about that mano a mano junk. The pitch is aimed for the inside corner, but it straightens out and rides into the middle of the plate. Danger zone. The Barry Bonds model and I feast on any pitch there.

I take an imaginary swing and connect on the sweet spot. It feels like I am slicing through butter. It is so gentle there isn’t a single vibration on my hands. I know the ball is gone the instant I make contact, and the overmatched pitcher knows his best stuff is transformed into absolute crap. The ball goes way past the left-field fence and heads for somewhere far, far away.

I did that routine and walked into the batter’s box 124 times this season. I heard the name R.W. Clay echo in the night air and evaporate into emptiness. I had a .289 batting average, which meant I was successful by our team’s standards. Like I said, though, we were horrible. That average wasn’t close to my high school days. My power numbers were fair, but I chased too many bad pitches. My manager told me I needed to stop thinking of myself as the high school hotshot and remember I was just another kid learning to play pro ball. Some coaches told me with their best four-letter English. I learned one lesson from those sessions. Obscenity wounds, but honesty hurts more.

There is something different today, a slight darkness like a thin veil in part of my left eye. That veil was why I was sitting at home for the last part of the season. They told me it would clear up, but it never did. That’s a big question I have for God, but he hasn’t answered yet. I am finding out he answers on his schedule and not mine.

Hey, Clay, how far did that one travel? I know that voice. It is Shalene Whitaker, the sweetheart of catcher Johnny D’Amato. Well, I have to be honest again. She is my girlfriend, too, which made this summer somewhat interesting for more than baseball. Gosh, Huey, it’s headed way out of the valley. Can’t see hide nor hair of it.

I laugh and turn toward her.

I heard it bounce off one of those sandstone arches over in Moab. Absolutely crushed it.

Shalene isn’t impressed.

Utah is way in foul territory. Nice connection, but a foul ball is a foul ball no matter how far it travels.

Ah, I say as I skim my right shoe over the dirt, then it’s heading for Albuquerque. Shake up all those Triple-A punks and let them know I will get to Coors Field long before they will.

She laughs like she always does, all easy and unfettered. The woman is a free spirit, but she has a strong foundation, too. She made me smile so often. Lord, I love the feel of her, the tan of her skin, and the touch of her lips. She made me hurt, too, but all love is like that. Yup, life can be a brutal teacher. I am learning that in so many situations.

So, where’s Little Johnny? I ask.

Johnny and I are over. We are just matches and gasoline, she says. She reaches into the right front pocket of her jeans and pulls out a piece of paper. She pokes the paper through a gap in the fence. New phone number. Call me when you get lonely.

I stand at home plate for a second, thinking about what I should do. I walk over and take the paper. She runs her fingers along my hand.

You ready for what happens next? she asks.

Am I ready? I didn’t have a clue when I walked down the hallway at Portland International to get on the plane, and I don’t have a clue today. Am I ready? For what? Baseball as my life? Probably. Ready to go back home with a .289 average as my legacy? Not really. Ready to see so much of what I held so dearly fading away? Hell no.

They say life is a challenge. Ready or not, here it comes. Be a big boy, step into the batter’s box, and deal with it.

Yeah, I’m ready. I do my best to sound strong. You heading back to Ponca City?

Call me and find out, Cowboy. Can’t know for sure unless you call.

Chapter 3

She was the best thing in my life, by far.

She had hair the color of wheat, all golden and rippling like waves on the ocean when the sun dances on the breakers. Her porcelain eyes were a color of blue that looked like God cut out the purest parts of the sky and gave them to her as a gift. Pair that with lips of softest pink, full and pliant. I would walk through shards of glass in my bare feet if I knew those lips were waiting on the other side. There was the soft curve of her cheek, a nose petite but not too small, a chin like those you dream about when you see a model in a magazine who makes your heart melt and your insides get all shaky. And those lips, they were almost always in a smile, a gesture that welled up from her soul. She was beautiful, and caring, and happy, and sensuous, and strong.

Best thing I had, by far.

It was funny that something so extraordinary could have such a plain name. She was Karen Allison Smith, although she tried to doll it up by calling herself Alli. I used to joke with her that the love of initials in my family’s names would mean she would become K.A. Clay, and that rhyme meant our future would be so right. It was one of those jokes that wasn’t funny because we knew we would be together just like we were today. Tomorrow. Forever.

I only had to glance over my left shoulder to see her seated with her girlfriends, but on the extreme outside so I can pick her out of the crowd. This was part of my routine. I took a quick glance while I was on one knee in the on-deck circle, saw her there, and she locked her eyes on me. She kissed two fingers on her right hand, blew softly on those fingers, and let the kiss drift slowly toward me. I replied by putting two fingers on my right hand to my lips. Love you so much, baby.

Then I was free to turn my attention to the stroll to the plate, just like I was doing that day at PK Park in Eugene, site of the Oregon Class 5A championship game. The field was home to the Oregon Ducks and the pro Eugene Emeralds, and either one of them could be in my future. The Ducks were one of those major-college programs that extended a scholarship offer to me, and I committed to them. I signed in a big ceremony in the gymnasium at The Dalles-Wahtonka High School, under the watchful eyes of Ken Daley, whose image and roster of his baseball achievements were painted on the gymnasium wall. Daley was one of the few The Dalles kids who made it to the major leagues, which seemed odd to me because The Dalles was a baseball town. There were some in town who thought I might be the next kid to make it to the bigs. Maybe I would start that journey with the Emeralds. Could be my first landing spot if I decided to go pro.

Of course, The Dalles folks were ticked off because the OSAA, those officials in a Portland suburb who made all the decisions regarding high school sports in the state, made us drive 200 miles of interstate to get to this game. Marist had to drive about 10 minutes from its campus, and the stands were a one-tone palette of Marist blue. There was a small but loud pocket of The Dalles people from the mid-Columbia region, clothed in red and screaming their lungs out to make up for the deficit in numbers.

Four of those people in red were my family: Dad, Mom, big brother, little sister. They all had their right hands out in front of them with their fists clenched. I laughed. I put my right hand out and clenched my fist. They smiled in reply. In most families that would be the sign for a fist bump. In my family that meant the pound. It was the sign of success since I was a baby. You got the pound whenever you did something right, from potty training to good grades to getting behind the wheel of a big truck to help in the wheat harvest.

It was their way of saying I love you.

OK, enough of the preliminaries. I had a good day through the first six innings, going 2-for-3 with a two-run homer, an RBI single and a strikeout. I had been suckered by a curveball. A good curve was my nemesis, and I walked back to the dugout too many times feeling embarrassed. I didn’t have to worry about a curveball this time because Marist changed pitchers. I would face nothing but absolute gas. Good, I said to myself. Bring it.

Marist had gone to its closer, a kid best known for being a football star who had a scholarship to play at Montana and be a linebacker. Our scouting report said he simply reached back and fired, with a fastball in the high 80s that occasionally might nudge a speed gun to read 90 to 92 miles per hour. So far this inning he had done pretty much what was expected. Walked two. Struck out two. Nothing for Marist to worry about yet because it led 7-3 in the top of the seventh. The best I could do is make it a one-run game.

I walked into the box and stared straight at the pitcher’s eyes. I loved doing that. I saw what the guy was made of when I stared like that. The Marist kid didn’t flinch. He had his hat pulled down a bit and he slumped over, attempting to do that Jonathan Papelbon intimidation thing. Eyes barely visible below the visor. Cold eyes. He rocked into his set stance to freeze the runners, who were anchored at first and second base.

The kid delivered his pitch. His problem was that he had the Papelbon stare but not Papelbon stuff. I think he wanted to put the pitch on the inside corner, but it drifted over the middle of the plate. Power spot. Danger zone. I recognized it immediately. The bat connected and everything felt like I was settling my hands into cotton. The ball headed into the heavens and looked like it might puncture one of those billowy clouds hovering over the field. The ball settled way past the left-field fence. I did a moderate trot around the bases and listened to all The Dalles fans going crazy. My family offered me the pound. I looked over at K.A. and fielded a kiss that floated to me on the wind.

Too bad I couldn’t do more. The Marist kid got the final out on a strikeout, and I had to walk out of the dugout and put my arm around the shoulders of Denny Davis. He was my best friend and the guy I confided in most, and he was overmatched by the big kid with high-80s gas. Denny was the third out. We finished second in state. The world of Marist blue went wild. A couple of months later, one of my new teammates in Grand Junction put that moment in language that defined it perfectly.

YFYRYDI. You Fail, You Rebound, You Dig In.

Up in the stands, a handful of men typed notes into computers. They used different words to say pretty much the same thing, putting down in scouting reports what they thought of the big farm boy who powered two home runs and drove in six runs.

Big kid with a bulky swing that might work in high school but won’t translate to the pros. Definitely a project. Might work out with the right attitude and new maturity. Don’t waste anything low in the draft on him.

A scout for the Chicago Cubs went a step farther. He trolled the waters of Pacific Northwest baseball for more than 30 years, so he knew the territory and knew the kids.

Typical The Dalles hitter. Big kid, big swings, big-league dreams, Class A talent.

One of the scouts was from the Colorado Rockies. He persuaded those who made such decisions that I was worth a pick in the later rounds of the June draft. Someone in the minor league office in Denver called me and said that R.W. Clay went in the 28th round. They were happy and proud to have me become part of the Rockies family. They said I was probably ticketed for one summer season with the Grand Junction Rockies.

I told the Oregon Ducks I was sorry and wasn’t going to come to college, and I signed the papers that said I was a real pro baseball player. Ken Daley looked over my shoulder again, and I wondered what he was thinking.

Chapter 4

I was different. I made no bones about it. I heard so much crap about peer pressure and how kids my age molded themselves to fit in with other people. I didn’t buy that. I didn’t live that way.

I could have settled in to be a jock. I was one heckuva baseball player. I caught 42 passes and scored eight touchdowns as a tight end. Small Oregon colleges approached me about football scholarships, and Oregon State said I could play there as a preferred walk-on. I was a reluctant basketball player. You have to play many sports in a town like The Dalles if you have adequate talent, so I was pressed into the routine of practices and games from the searing heat of August until the surge of new summer heat in early June. I also played summer baseball, Legion for most of my life, the high school division of the Tidewater