Deafening Vibrations

© 2013 Mike Haszto. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 5/21/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-5587-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-5586-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-5588-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013909063

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Thank you to Chris Hart and the Oklahoma City RedHawks Baseball Club for permission to use logos from OKC Eighty-Niners.

Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Cast of Characters

An alternate endingThe end of Chapter 22

Chapter 23b

Chapter 24b

Acknowledgments

About The Author

Foreword

It was this past summer in 2012 that I sat at a Lake Erie Crushers game and genuinely reminisced about what it was like to be a boy playing baseball. From my seat behind the Crusher dugout, I instantly remembered my father in a CYO pinstriped baseball uniform circa mid 1960s with a jacket over the top half embroidered with our school St. John of God CYO over the left breast.

It brought a smile and a tear and another vision. That was of one of my earliest happiest memories as a batboy for my father’s team when I was eight or so years old. The players, who were just kids in seventh and eighth grade, were bigger than life. And I wanted to be like them soooooo bad.

Eventually, I did become a shadow of them. So much so that my first love as a child was putting on the uniform for my Dad’s team, then putting on the uniforms for teams I played on afterwards. My father had such an impact in this arena…from playing catch in our side yard to showing me how to throw a variety of pitches. (If only I could throw them, or my brother could catch them, then many a basement window would have survived my childhood!)

It’s truly fun to watch the kids nowadays on the minor league level, so much more than in The Show. As I watch the effort, hustle and determination on each play, that brings me back to the days I played with that same type of grit…as if I had to prove something to someone on every pitch, every ball hit, and every ball fielded. That’s what was so fun about baseball…the competitive nature and passion that brought so much fun from legging out a surprise bunt down the third base line, then stealing second base head first spitting dirt, and taking third base on the errant throw that hit you at second…finally scoring on a sacrifice fly to the outfield, daring his arm against your legs…and sliding home safely just ahead of the bang bang tag. Yeah, the grit, the hustle, the passion…I love it! I enjoyed that so much more than hitting a three hundred and eighty foot home run to the power alleys, though my smile was just as large…

Sadly, there is so much of that lost on the major leagues currently. Players no longer have access to fans like they do from the minor leagues down to youth. Sure there are several handfuls of players who truly want to meet and enjoy their fans, but that isn’t the rule any longer. But of those handfuls of players, David Wright (current Captain of the New York Mets) sticks out as a true throwback to my generation…a player that worked his ass off every day in practice and games. You can see it on the kids’ faces today, kids disappointed because they can’t get a picture or an autograph from a major leaguer, but their ever present smiles when they can do it with a Lake Erie Crusher, or a Long Island Duck, or any other minor leaguer in a baseball uniform.

Sorry, I editorially digressed. I do that as I sit at baseball games as well. All I know is that when I played the game, I never told anyone no for anything. I respected the game and the opportunity to play so much that I was always honored at any request, because I remember when I was five years old and my Dad took me to a Mets game and we had an opportunity to meet Ed Charles (third baseman of the Mets) and I remember my eyes lighting up big and wide, seeing that number 5 on his jersey and seeing his big smile when my father asked for him to autograph a baseball for me…oh what a feeling. A feeling that took me through my baseball youth and was sustained by the likes of Ed Kranepool, Jerry Koosman, Ron Swoboda, David Cone and George Brett.

Enough of the ramble. But I must say that this sport and the memories of my father live on daily and continue to impact me. It was those memories of him coaching that propelled me to coaching when my oldest boy wanted to play ice hockey at three years old and my daughter wanted to play soccer at five…and I was blessed to have coached all five of my kids at some level, in some sport over the years.

And as usual, again I drift off reliving experiences…baseball, coaching, kids, etc…

As the game wore on, different reflections governed my enjoyment. There were so many inspiring memories yet almost as many, let’s just say, challenging ones. However, as I sat here in the hot sun this day, I realized that all were experiences that I wouldn’t change ever. Baseball is a game that I deeply love, always did as a kid, and will always continue to do so.

I very much felt a warmth in creating the character of Matt Wilson. I knew some kids who were somewhat like him in the way that they would do anything to play the game. Anything. I was kind of like that too. But, I think Matt Wilson’s are a dying breed with the younger generations…not as much passion or desire to play the game as it once was played. Still, I hold out hope that as I sit here, I am watching a team of Matt Wilsons…for as a romanticist, I believe there are Matt Wilsons everywhere…we just need to look.

Yeah…there’s a little bit of Matt Wilson in all of us. Just look for the kid with a wad of bazooka bubble gum, hat rolled in his back pocket carrying a mitt and a bat with a smile on his face!

Chapter 1

Matt Wilson peeked out of a cold, dark moist tunnel and into a surrounding that immediately lit his skin on fire. The eighteen year old phenom felt the vibrations from the high decibel noise, becoming overwhelmed for what turned into a long moment.

A teammate and close friend, Jack Hunter, smacked him hard yet playfully on the top of his right shoulder blade signaling that their special time had come.

It’s here Matty he said It’s really here, can you believe it?

Jack, wearing jersey number nine, didn’t wait for a response as he turned and strolled away soaking up the excitement as well.

Matt shrugged his shoulders and smiled widely. His eyes were glistening with the moisture and twinkled in the glare of the sun. The charcoal that was just about painted under his eyes to prevent the glare and twinkling process was failing him. It just about always did.

And for a fleeting second or two, he actually thought about just that.

This shit sucks he thought someday I’ll invent better, something that actually works…

He quickly went back to absorbing the vibrations.

Jack was correct, truly it was their special time…a time that took not just several months to materialize, but lifetimes to come together.

Matt was still smiling, even though his eyes were still watering with the intense emotion. He had that look of being extremely focused, a look that everyone around him had come to know. He was focused on himself. He was focused on his team. He was focused on the opponents. And he was focused on a win…a win that would lead him and his team to the inevitable prize…a prize that included fame and fortune.

He was more than ready to take the field; still he had a few minutes before his team would do it.

So Matt took that time to drift back into some thoughts, neglecting to think about fame and fortune, for he wasn’t that type of person. The muscular though incredibly agile man who stood a mere five foot ten with a well proportioned one hundred and seventy pound frame was pure stone. Chiseled like a mythical Greek god, well maybe not quite that detailed, he had one thing missing from his impressive portfolio of character.

Ego.

He possessed no ego of any kind.

So while this extended moment of overwhelming sensation gripped him, it was for a vastly different reason.

Pride.

Pride in himself because he had made it this far through a never ending barrage of turmoil and adversity.

Pride in himself because he felt confident that his teammates would end this magical season as the last team to win, sealing the evidence spent on a life long goal, desire, and quite frankly, obsession.

Great job, Matty, in getting us here Coach Ryan told him as he patted him on the ass. Need one more, baby.

Again, Matt just looked back and smiled. He nodded. That was his trademark before, during and after games. His smile and a nod would always stand out. Before the games, they were motivation in the bank. During games, they were a calmness to almost every situation brewing. And after games, they were satisfaction, if not for the results, then definitely for the effort.

Today was a lot like any other day for Matt. Sure, today was the big game, winner take all. But Matt didn’t see it that way. His perspective was just a tad off from everyone else’s. He knew it was a winner takes all type of thing. But he refused to put any pressure on himself. Fact is, when pressure came around and called him out, he coolly walked away with a smile and a nod, saving himself for the game itself. That was vintage Matt.

He couldn’t stop the overwhelming excitement though that ran through his body. Standing in that tunnel’s doorway, it was as though he couldn’t control his smile. The vibrations he felt were indeed deafening, several thousand fans raining their own praise and excitement on him and his team.

And those fans were all decked out in red, white and blue, the team’s colors.

The scene was just before game time, in the late seventies, on a picture perfect day for a championship baseball game in the minor leagues. The stands resembled a New York City subway during any rush hour…wall to wall people packed like sardines. The temperature was in the mid eighties with a high sunny sky at the Fairgrounds, otherwise known as All-Sports Stadium. And the smells that permeated the ballpark were all baseball, the distinct aromas of hot dogs, beer, and shelled peanuts.

The field itself felt like it was about a hundred degrees, especially around the infield, where it was nothing more than concrete, an incredibly thin pad of whatever a public relations guy would call it, and almost a just as thin covering some called Astroturf.

Okay, spare the concrete metaphor, but it was a unanimous opinion of the players that whatever hard ground was below the padding lacking of padding was concrete. Just ask any of the legs that bore the scars from sliding anywhere around the infield; whether it was dives for ground balls, leaps for line drives, or even sliding in the alleged dirt and clay they called the base areas. The bottom line, every set of uniform pants had repairs to them where they were torn out sliding. And every set of uniform pants had some permanent blood stains from the players who wore them.

This was before the time that pampered players in the present wear things like sliding pants or fields in the present are so soft that players honestly enjoy sliding and leaping and rolling around the field.

The field was unusual, even for the times. The infield being composed of bright Kelly green Astroturf, and the outfield looking like a type of brown, dry and dead grass that was still grass, after having over fifty minor league games played there in the previous five months. Obviously, daily watering kept it grass, but it couldn’t keep it green…or soft. The warning track clay and dirt around the field was so hard that players would say it was like stepping on broken glass.

Matt Wilson knew all about that, once taking fifteen stitches in his arm for diving for a line drive on the warning track and landing on it. Naturally, he caught the ball, saving the game for his Niners. It was a hell of a scrape and gash though. He had to leave the game when the bleeding wouldn’t stop. Fortunately, it was the eighth inning and he didn’t miss an at bat. Unfortunately, the trainer was still picking pieces of clay and what looked like stone out of his forearm an hour after the game.

Standing at the end of the tunnel and peering out through the dugout on this day, he flexed his arm as he recalled the incident.

The arm okay Matty? Hunter asked him as he noticed Matt flexing it.

Yeah, why?

Just asking, dude. Looked like you were playing with it or something.

Nope. Just had a flashback to that catch. That’s all.

Was a helluva catch as I remember it admitted the outfielder.

Just another catch. I remember the stones…still kinda feel them laughed Matt.

Yeah, just another category you led the league in this year…stones…and stitches Hunter flatly said in his dry sense of humor. They’ll be still pulling stones out of you in December.

They both chuckled.

Hey Rook, you ready for this? outfielder Lonnie Smith asked as he wandered by. This ain’t no high school game…

You know it.

Sheeeit he cracked as he walked away, the notable stitching loose on the two of his twenty six jersey. It was about a two inch cut in the stitching so the number peeked out and rose from the jersey a bit. He had cut that making a leaping catch into the outfield fence in Iowa a few weeks earlier. He was asked about having it repaired, but he didn’t care. He liked the way that it looked, his ‘warrior badge’.

This is a big game for him Matty Hunter remarked. Next stop is Philly for him.

Yeah. They haven’t told him, but I still bet he’ll be there tomorrow… Matt replied. That guy can flat out play.

So can you, Rook.

Matt just smiled and nodded.

Maybe I can play a little, but you are the real deal he chirped.

Bullshit. You’ll beat me there.

Philly? Matt questioned.

Yeah, Philly…duh. Hunter stated sarcastically.

Nope. Guaranteed you’ll beat me to Philly, Jack he wisecracked back.

How so? Hunter asked.

Dude, Atlanta has my rights. I’m on loan.

Oh yeah. That’s right.

You’ll still beat me to The Show, man…

After your season? Shit man, you own this league…

Right place right time. A lot of luck…beginner’s luck. I’m due a huge slump… Matt laughed.

Just not today, please Jack pleaded dramatically, yet playfully.

Got it, not today…

The players all climbed up to the top step of the dugout and put their game faces on. In the background, the public address announcer did his part in spelling out the lineups in his usual dry monotone that echoed around the Fairgrounds. The crowd reacted to each name called for the home team, their loudest ovation given to their number three hitter, Matt Wilson.

He had such a torrid season up to this point, especially for an eighteen year old rookie who just left home three months ago the day after graduating high school on Long Island. Matt was riding a thirteen game hitting streak and an average over four hundred during the streak. But no one ever talked about it, especially Matt.

Media coverage was thin in the city: one newspaper and a radio station that broadcast the games. The newspaper had one writer cover the team, and that was only when they were home. On the road, no one really knew what was going on with their team, unless they listened on the radio the infrequent times that away games were broadcast…or were close enough to pick up the AM station that the home city was broadcasting from in the night air. And even then, night games were just as infrequent.

Picking up a game from Iowa was a tad easier than one from Denver. Omaha and Wichita were easier than New Orleans and Indianapolis.

But in any regards, media was not anything like the present. So, unless one was a fanatic in every sense of the word for their team, things like statistics weren’t well known or on the tip of anyone’s tongue. Fans cheered because a player caused excitement. Hitting home runs, stealing bases, diving catches, throwing runners out on base were all reasons for excitement. Batting average? No one really knew…at least not any average fan. The scoreboards in stadiums were not like today. They were primitive. Statistics weren’t listed.

But if there were any reasons to cheer statistics, it was in Matt Wilson’s case. On a team where most players were in their mid twenties, here was an eighteen year old fresh faced innocent who dominated. In the short three months that he played, he led the team in average and home runs, runs batted in and stolen base percentage. Considering players like speedsters Lonnie Smith and Bobby Brown were stealing bases at an alarming rate (Smith had forty five and Brown thirty six) over the long haul, it was that much more impressive that Matt had thirty one and was ahead of them in percentage successfully stolen. He hadn’t been thrown out as yet. And this was done in only half of the games.

The players took the field to a roaring standing ovation. It was winner takes all, and the crowd was well aware of the challenge ahead. Omaha was head and shoulders ahead of everyone as the best team in the league. They were pumped as well, and were prepared to silence the upstarts who barely made the championship game. They boasted a strong and balanced team, with many future major league players.

The anthem went off without a hitch.

After eight warm up tosses, the home plate umpire cried out Play Ball! and the game was underway.

Matt Wilson stood out in center field, sun beating down on him, chomping on what looked like at least eight pieces of Bazooka bubble gum. He fidgeted almost every second, like he always did. He always was in some sort of movement, adjusting his cap, taking a step left or right, in or out, or even messing around with his glove. His eyes, though, were always focused on the catcher.

No one could blame Matt though if they weren’t focused, at least knowing what little information about him. He was the kind of guy who put everything out of his mind when he played, except for the game.

Still deep down in places where no one ever goes, he must have felt some sorrow at the fact that no one from his family was in the stands this day. It was such a big day in his world and there was no support from the home front. In fact, no one from his family had ever ventured out to this tornado alley town…or any other town in this ball league. He was all alone.

Well, he wasn’t all alone. He had his lifelong dream of playing baseball. And he was doing just fine, thank you.

He was loving life with life returning the favor.

However, this could very well be his last game. Obviously, it was going to be his last game of the season. But this could be his last minor league game period.

How so?

Because the nightmare that played over and over in his dreams the past night said so.

What was this nightmare?

It wasn’t very long in terms of time, though it did repeat every so often when Matt fell into a dream type of sleep. The sequence played a few nights a week, when Matt was feeling some of the stresses that accompany a minor league baseball player just removed from high school. At eighteen, those stresses sometimes reserved for a man of twenty four or twenty five became magnified that much more to effectively grip him and turn the insides of his mind, body and spirit into exaggerated knots.

What was this nightmare?

It was the day after high school graduation and Matt’s parents are standing outside in front of their front door with Matt in front of them saying goodbye for the summer. Matt had decided to take the offer to play summer ball in the minor leagues instead of a college scholarship offer.

Though Matt really wanted to play ball period, he knew that he needed to keep the door open to that college. So everyone worked out a solution for the summer. To keep the NCAA happy, he didn’t receive a dime from his summer job. To keep the baseball gods happy, he played summer ball. To keep himself happy, he worked everything out to keep everyone happy.

But he failed in one area…keeping his parents happy.

So as he was saying goodbye to his parents, his Mom chimed in with a quote that will be forever tattooed in the mind of Matt: If you don’t go to college, don’t come home.

Ouch.

That was the true story behind the nightmare. The nightmare itself seemed to roll about fifteen seconds in each play, and it simply had Matt saying goodbye to his folks, and that pointed quote from his mother. It was so real…and scary.

To his credit, while that statement played in eight track loops inside his brain, he never allowed that statement to get the best of him. And his statistics not only could be served up as evidence, but his personality and likeability were his trumps cards to nail that coffin shut.

But, really, what was he going to do?

He knew the time was drawing nearer and nearer to make a decision about going to college, or staying put as he realized a dream…his dream.

His knack for drowning out those distractions was major league level for a kid like him, considering what road he took to pull on a Niners jersey to begin with…

Chapter 2

Matt hailed from Long Island. Born in Nassau County, he was the eldest son to a large family who had moved to spacious Suffolk County back when he was a couple years old.

The neighborhood he grew up in was purely residential, but nothing like the area where his father was raised. There, in Brooklyn, his father played a local brand of neighborhood baseball called stickball, since his neighborhood was mostly concrete. They used a broom handle instead of a bat and a rubber ball in place of a regulation hardball. The rubber ball was less apt to break windows and the broom handle made it more challenging to hit the ball. Moreover, on concrete, a regulation hardball wouldn’t make it past twenty minutes with the scuffing and beating it would take. Of course, across the United States, there were many local variations to the game, depending on neighborhood surroundings and such.

But for Matty, his residential neighborhood was comprised of houses on half acres and about a dozen houses per block. He was quite lucky with the timing of his family’s move because that development was just being built and the families that were moving in had kids about the same age. That made for a much easier time growing up, not having to go far for friends, and always having something to do with someone other than his younger brothers and sisters. Mind you, they always tagged along and mostly played, but the overall preference of boys was not to play ball with girls of any age, let alone sisters…eeeeeewwwww!

His basic day, when not in school, was quite routine. He was up just after the crack of dawn, slurping down two bowls of whatever inexpensive cereal the family could afford that week, and by eight o’clock he was dressed and ejected from his house, going around the neighborhood organizing whatever baseball games he could. It didn’t matter the day of the week. It also didn’t matter who he was waking up from a sound sleep.

That didn’t win many parental friends for Matt in the neighborhood. He figured if he was up and out, so would everybody else. And although Matty came from a large family who’s Mom would push her kids outside as early as eight o’clock every morning, that wasn’t the general vibe of the block. Then again, none of the other families