Try to hit this one out of the park...
~~~
On the Tuesday morning after Memorial Day weekend, 1993, Dusty Broome, a 37-year-old, rubber-armed, lefty relief pitcher, found himself with two dozen other ham and eggers outside Jerry Dotson Field – the home ballpark of the Independent League Poverty Bay Little Necks, waiting for Stubbs Mackenzie, head groundskeeper, to unlock the right field access gate and usher the motley crew of young upstarts, wannabes, and washed-up former pros like Dusty onto the verdant and pristine grounds for today’s tryouts.
The Little Necks, last in the standings, had arguably the League’s most unusual mascot – Baby Bivalve, a cartoonish clam in a flesh-colored bodysuit sporting an old-fashioned pinned cotton diaper, which seemed appropriate because most of the time, the Necks played like the contents of said diaper. That didn’t faze the almost 400 (average attendance 383) diehard Neck fans who came out to the J-Dot to cheer for the home team, munch a Clam Dog (fried clam fritters in a hot dog bun), and perhaps witness the next big superstar on their way to the show – doubtful, but one can dream. They primarily came out for the Mollusk Metric Mile Race held between the sixth inning (not a literal mile – more like 100 yards), where Baby Bivalve squared off against Manny Mussel, whose buffed-out foam torso was encased in a black muscle shirt, and Gooey Duck, who ran in duck feet shoe covers and out of whose large clamhead sprouted a long, flopping appendage that looked like a … well, you get the picture. If Baby B crossed the finish line first, the infant shellfish would taunt the others while performing a diapered moonwalk – always a crowd pleaser. When the Baby was bested, a tantrum ensued with the spoilsport lying on the track, spinning like Curly Howard or Angus Young (mega bonus points for getting those references), which sent the Neck’s fans into a frenzy.
Back to Dusty Broome – a standout high school pitcher with pinpoint control and an array of off-speed stuff that left opposing batters shaking their heads, thinking – what the heck was that shit? He didn’t throw hard in the classic sense – I don’t think the radar gun ever touched 90, even during his prime years, knocking around the minors. But with a fastball from 85 to 88, that slow slop got ‘em out in front time and again. Taken in the 29th round of the 1974 Major League Draft by the Montreal Expos, Dusty signed after graduating from Poverty Bay High School for $3,000.00, most of which he used to buy a new Chevy Vega, and the rest on a state-of-the-art eight-track stereo player paired with two custom-made, high-end speakers from Glenn L Brown & Sons Stereo Shop, the place to go for all things audio in Dusty’s hometown of Poverty Bay. Yes, you heard right … What goes around comes around, and Benjamin Bradford “Dusty” Broome was back in town.
He figured a spot in the Little Neck bullpen would be his last best chance to be noticed by a big-league scout, and who knows, all those years in the minors without so much as a whiff of coffee, let alone a cuppa – well, stranger things have happened. Dusty waited for the others to enter the field, as old Stubbs gruffly gave directions to the visitors' clubhouse. When Stubbs saw who was bringing up the rear of the group of hopefuls – the majority of whom would leave disappointed three hours later, he raised his bushy eyebrows and exclaimed: “Well I’ll be dang diddly ding dong damned if it ain’t Dusty Broome his own self!”
“Hey Stubbs, it’s been a while.”
“You ain’t shittin’ it’s been a while … Dusty Broome! Where you been keepin’ yourself? I thought you was outta the game!”
“Oh, here and there, Stubbs … did some guide work on the Kenai last summer and stayed in Alaska after the season. Got released by the Pirates organization that spring – fastball was down to about 80, and ERA about the same, ha-ha – thought it was time to hang ‘em up.” “So, the Practical Son has returned to where it all started. Tryin’ to recapture that old magic?” “A kid on the guide crew I worked with is a young catcher, and he talked me into throwing some during our downtime, and I started tinkering with a new pitch – a side-arm knuckleball. It’s a wing-dinger of a dancer, and I’m hoping to showcase it today for Skip Reynolds … and I think you meant the Prodigal Son, Stubbs.”
“Prodigal Shmodigal, it’s good to see ya, kid. Skip does need lefty help in the pen since Scooter Barbosa signed a minor league deal with the Rockies. Don’t think he’s lookin’ for a junkballer, though. These days, it’s about who can touch 100 on the gun.”
“Who’s the pitching coach?”
“Funny you should ask … Kitty Diggins was hired before the season started.”
George Kittredge Diggins, who had reached 100 on the radar gun in low-A ball before he blew out his golden right elbow, was the first son of Poverty Bay – four years ahead of Dusty Broome – to play pro ball. Dusty, being the second. A third-round selection by the Minnesota Twins in 1970, Kitty was all but assured of a fast track to the Bigs before his unfortunate injury. They also had some history – Dusty’s High School sweetheart was Kitty’s kid sister, Shelly Diggins – well, Shelly Diggins Hofstetter now.
* * *
Skip Reynolds, the Little Necks manager, who also had the say-so about the team roster, looked at the assembled ragtag bunch on the outfield grass, shook his head, and hocked a stream of brown tobacco juice onto Stubbs Mackenzie’s manicured Kentucky bluegrass. The pressing needs of the team were for a backup catcher and bullpen help, preferably a southpaw. If any others showed promise, he’d short-list them and file the list in case another hotshot was signed away (doubtful) or ended up on the injured list (likely). Skip gave his patented tryout speech – thanks for coming out today, no guarantees, do your best, leave your contact information with one of the coaches, blah blah blah. He formed the bunch into three groups – infielders, outfielders, and pitchers/catchers. The Poverty Bay Little Neck tryouts were underway.
Dusty walked with five pitchers and two catchers toward the visitors’ bullpen. One of the catchers, a fresh-faced kid of 19 or 20, sidled up beside him and said hesitantly …
“Mr. Broome?”
“It’s just Dusty, kid.”
“Gosh, I thought it was you! It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’m Duffy Squires.”
“I’m not a sir, Duffy … just another ballplayer looking for a job.”
“Well, okay, sir – (sorry), but you’re more than that. I saw you strike out Tony Gwynn in Portland when I was in grade school! Beavers against the Las Vegas Stars.”
“You have a good memory, kid. Tony didn’t strike out much, and he was only in AAA that season for a short stint.”
Duffy Squires beamed and followed his boyhood hero into the bullpen, where Kitty Diggins stood waiting with a clipboard. Kitty looked up and saw the one guy from Poverty Bay, who had had a decent pro career despite never making it all the way to the top. With a smile on his face, Kitty put down the clipboard and offered:
“Well, look what the cat dragged in … Benny Broome, all grown up!”
“Hey, Kitty, you’re looking good … working out some?”
“Yep, been doing a thing called Tae Bo… gonna be the next big thing. Oughta get this bunch on board, but Skip’d put the kibosh on it post haste.”
“Yeah, Reynolds is as old school as they come – like Joe Schultz, the old Pilots manager. Go get ‘em, boys, then pound that Budweiser!”
“Shit, Broome, what are you thinking, showing up here today trying to take some young fireballers job with that arsenal of crap you call a repertoire … hell, I heard your fastball ain’t much better than batting practice shit.”
“Been toying with a new pitch, and I aim to show it off today. If smoke is what you and Skip are looking for, then take a flyer on one of these young studs who might throw a strike two times out of ten.”
“Only one other lefty here today. We’ll give everyone a fair shot and see how things shake out. Good luck to ya, old pal.”
When it was Dusty’s turn to throw, he requested Duffy Squires to catch him, and he threw a dozen easy warmup pitches – 75 to 80 on the gun. Skip Reynolds showed up just as Dusty began to throw the sidearm knuckler. The first few floated, then seemed to wobble across the heart of the plate, only one of which Duffy caught cleanly.
“Kid needs a bigger mitt, Kitty … that shit has some kind of weird movement.”
“Yeah, Skip, but if you know it’s coming, just sit on it, then voila – mashed tater.”
“I’m not so sure. Get a guy in there to stand in the box with a bat. Let’s count balls and strikes.”
Dusty threw the new pitch to Duffy … ten to a righty batter, then ten to a lefty. Duffy only missed catching two of the dancers.
“I counted 18 strikes, one ball, and one that coulda gone either way. You see the same?”
“Yeah, Skip.”
“Let's put him on the mound for some live hitting and see what we see. Hell, these other Colts are so nervous, they couldn’t hit a barn door, and you know how I hate free passes.”
“Okay, Skip, but I know how much you hate three-run jacks, too.”
Dusty threw two simulated innings with Duffy Squires behind the dish. The results: a bloop hit, two strikeouts, and a popup down the third base line in the first inning. He started the second with two K’s swinging – the young hitters both flailing helplessly at the knuckler. The third batter timed and crushed a floater that appeared destined to leave the yard until the young hopeful in center leapt up and pulled the ball back for the third out. While he wouldn’t be signed today, the kid in center would never forget the raised glove pointed in his direction by the old guy on the mound.
“I think we’ve found ourselves a keeper, Kitty. What say you?”
“I don’t know, Skip … seems more like a gimmick that might backfire. And he was facing some bottom-of-the-barrel greenhorns.”
“A gimmick that’s gonna put asses in the seats and maybe get our asses out of the cellar. And you saw what I saw – he might a struck out Tony Gwynn with that shit.”
Kitty knew it would be fruitless to argue his case against his sister’s old boyfriend, and he had to admit that pitch was something special, and if Broome had success here, it might just help him rise in the coaching ranks. Lord knows, the way things were going for this team so far, he’d be next on the chopping block.
At the end of tryouts, Skip Reynolds stood before the sweaty, grass and dirt-stained young men, shot some more tobacco juice onto the grass, and gave his patented thanks, but no thanks speech – good hustle today, saw lots of promise, keep working hard, blah blah blah … As most of the group headed dejectedly back to the locker room, he singled out Dusty and Duffy Squires, led them into the home team dugout, and congratulated the pair on making the cut. Dusty sat stoically with a half-smile and shook Skip’s hand, thanking him for the opportunity. Duffy sat in disbelief, bouncing his right leg in staccato fashion, grinning from ear to ear. Skip told him to save some of that energy for the games.
As June rolled around, the Necks were still in last place, but the team showed signs of life and were only a half game out of fifth. Duffy settled into the bullpen, working in long relief when needed and late innings facing tough lefty hitters. With the knuckleball, he could toe the mound almost every day. Attendance was up as well … and the Mollusk Metric Mile added a fourth contestant – Sammy Scallop.
Duffy acquired a larger catcher’s mitt to help corral the dancing knuckler. And the kid held his own with the bat, hitting at a .280 clip with deceptive power for his slight frame. The two became close on and off the field – more hero-worship on Duffy’s part. Dusty Broome had a reputation as a loner who was hard to get to know, so this development was somewhat new to his hermit-like sensibilities. But the kid was so brimming with positivity, he couldn’t help indulging the innocent man crush.
Whenever Dusty was called on to pitch in a game and sat in the dugout between innings, he could see the increasing number of fans in the stands from his sight line down third base. An attractive woman about his age was sitting on the aisle one night, and he thought she looked familiar. He nudged Kitty, who was sitting to his right.
“Hey, is that Shelly sitting down the third base line?”
“Yep, she comes to the occasional game to check out her handiwork but usually leaves after the sixth.”
“Handiwork? What’re you talking about?”
“The stupid clam race … Shel makes the outfits.”
“Oh, okay … she was always good with a sewing machine – made her own clothes back in the day. Didn’t she and Moochie go to L.A. for his so-called acting career?”
“That was in the early 80s, after they got hitched. Mooch was only ever an extra in crowd scenes and did the odd commercial. The dummy thought he was hot shit here in the Bay, but he tanked big time trying to make it on the big stage.”
“So, let me guess … Shelly supported both of them working in costume design, while The Moocher went from audition to audition with his vast portfolio.”
“Ha-ha … you hit the nail on the head, Broome. Shel put up with his shit for nearly five years until she decided enough was enough. It didn’t help that Mooch had a weakness for aspiring young starlets. The divorce was final a couple of years ago, and little sis moved back home.”
“No kids?”
“Nah, in addition to shooting blanks on set, Moochie Hofstetter was shooting blanks downstairs. Shel thought it was her, but it so happens that his polliwogs are dry and dusty … pardon the analogy.”
“Huh … no problem, Kitty. Three outs – save my seat.”
Shelly Diggins Hofstetter – she kept the last name because it was easier, what with all the paperwork and such – left after the sixth inning, true to form. Her clamheads and bodily attire were in top-notch condition after this morning’s emergency repair on Baby Bivalve’s getup. The spin moves near the on-deck circle caused the odd rip, and she had it on her plate to find a more durable bodysuit. All those years working under some of the best costume designers in Hollywood brought Shelly’s already superb skills to an elite level. Between you and me, and I think she’d say the same thing – what the heck was she doing back in Poverty Bay?
She and Benny Broome were the dream couple back in high school. Everyone thought they’d be together forever and live that happily ever after apple pie, two-car garage, house full of young ‘uns dream life. Dusty getting drafted and signing with the Expos put the brakes on that scenario. He begged her to drive with him in the new Vega to the Expos rookie team in Kinston, North Carolina, but she reminded him that she was already enrolled at the State University for the fall term and needed to keep working all summer at Fabric World to help her mom and dad pay the tuition. He knew she was right, but the thought of leaving her clear across the country tore him up inside.
They parted ways on good terms – he, promising to write and call once a week (that lasted two weeks), and she, promising to be there waiting for him in the fall. Wait, she did, but Benny stayed down south after the end of rookie ball and played the Winter League in Venezuela. His desire to succeed as a ball player clouded his thoughts about love and marriage and the whole enchilada. He heard through his parents that Shelly Diggins was going with Malachi “Moochie” Hofstetter at State U, where they were both in the Theater program and involved with productions, costuming, and treading the boards, so to speak. Benny sighed when he heard about Shelly and Moochie, filing his feelings away under damnit.
Malachi Hofstetter, better known as Moochie around the Bay – a play on words from his first name – was a year ahead of Shelly and Dusty at Poverty High. Class Clown, Drama Club, Jazz Choir, and the Lead in every play put on during his time at school. Or, as he liked to say, during his administration. The kid could even tap dance, for god's sake.
I don’t think Shelly loved him. I know she liked him a lot, and he made her laugh and maybe made her forget about Benny a little bit. But Moochie, being the consummate showman, swept her off her feet and whisked her away to Tinseltown. But you already know how that turned out.
* * *
By the Fourth of July, the Necks had crawled into fourth place in the six-team Independent League. Dusty’s ERA was below 3, and Skip gave him a couple of spot starts, both of which he won. Because he had pitched the night before, Dusty sat in the dugout for the game, after which, a fireworks show was on tap. Jerry Dotson Field was packed to the gills.
He hadn’t seen any sign of Shelly during the last two homestands and wondered if she would be in attendance tonight. Rumor had it that Baby Bivalve would be sporting a red, white, and blue diaper. Kitty was mum on her doings whenever he was asked about his sister. He’d tell Dusty he didn’t know or to mind your business and keep your head in the game. Kitty had another nickname – spoken in hushed whispers by the pitching staff – Prickly Pete. He’d sometimes be moody, likely still brooding about what might have been. Dusty decided to give it another shot.
“You staying for the fireworks, Kitty?”
“Dunno, maybe, maybe not.”
“Be nice to celebrate – the team’s playing better ball.” “Celebrate shit – we’re in fourth place.”
“A win tonight pulls us within a game of third.”
“Look at you being all optimistic … your little boyfriend catcher must be rubbin’ off on you. Sorry, poor choice of words, man, you know what I meant.”
“I knew you had a joke in there somewhere, Coach.”
“Shit, Broome, I see why my sister fell for you back then. Why’d you have to go and break her heart?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you left for rookie ball and never wrote or called.”
“She told you that?”
“Didn’t have to – the poor kid cried her eyes out every night for two weeks. I was staying there after my last surgery.”
“I thought she and Moochie…”
“Piss on Moochie! She never loved the guy – he was a sorry substitute for her affection. Shel was hurt and confused, and if I was any kind of an older brother, I would a steered her away from that dickhead.”
“I never knew.”
“Well, now ya do, sport. It was your ass she loved.”
Dusty sat on the bench, mulling over the conversation with his pitching coach, when something made him look in the direction of where Shelly usually sat, and there she was, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and looking every bit like the young, successful entrepreneur she turned out to be. She caught his eye and waved, and Dusty Broome waved back.
The game against the first-place Talbot Terrapins was everything you could hope for in a tight, hard-fought contest played on our nation’s birthday. The holiday added extra zip and fanfare to the festivities. Between the sixth inning, the Mollusks raced to a near photo-finish, with patriotically clad Baby Bivalve eking out the victory over a surging Sammy Scallop. In addition to the taunting moonwalk, Baby augmented the performance with a flawless James Brown routine, complete with the drop-down splits. The crowd went bananas.
The Necks had a 3-2 lead going into the top of the ninth inning – three precious outs for the win. Rooster Frobisher, the Neck’s closer, was unavailable, having pitched a four-out save the night before. Skip had Dusty warming up in the pen to preserve the win – the Terrapins had the meat of their order due up. Since Dusty had joined the team, his walk-on music, Elmore James' version of “Dust My Broom,” blared out of the J-Dot speakers whenever he left the bullpen and walked to the mound. Tonight was no exception.
I won’t dramatize the top of the ninth here – it isn’t that kind of sports story. Wait for the movie, ha-ha. Suffice it to say, Dusty walked the first batter, pitching carefully to the Terrapins' best hitter, who earlier had slugged a two-run homer. With the tying run on first base, he then struck out the next three hitters with the knuckler dancing like James Brown.
The fans were jubilant. The Neck players were dancing on the infield. Skip Reynolds lit up a cigar. The four Mollusks did an encore jog around the warning track, high-fiving the Little Neck faithful. Kitty Diggins leaned against the dugout rail, taking it all in. And Dusty Broome, with his first save of the season under his belt, drifted through his back-slapping teammates on his way up the third base line.
Shelly stood waiting at the rail in the first row. Dusty stopped and stared for a second, and a flood of emotions coursed through him. She looked as lovely as he remembered – the beginnings of crow’s feet beside each blue eye, the only change, and it was a good change. She looked at him with a sad, beautiful smile that nearly caused him to crumble in place, but he recovered and approached her.
“Hey, Benny … good game tonight. I don’t usually stay for the end.”
“Hey, Shel … glad you stayed. It sure is good to see you. Kitty tells me you dress the clams.”
“Well, I design and make the costumes … they dress themselves.”
“Ha-ha, good one … You were always two steps ahead of me. Those clams sure add to the atmosphere, and Baby Bivalve has some killer moves.”
“You don’t know who’s under the Baby’s clamhead?”
“I have no idea – they dress in the visitor's locker room. Someone I know?”
“Yeah, you may not believe it, but it’s Moochie.”
“No shit!”
“No shit.”
“When did he move back?”
“About a year after we separated … Hollywood chewed him up and spit the poor guy out. He’s been giving acting and dance lessons over near Parsons Cove – you know, the Richie Rich crowd. I kind of feel sorry for him not making it in California.”
“That’s awfully charitable considering what Kitty told me about his extra-curricular dalliances.”
“Look at you with the big vocab … never pegged you for word guy.”
“I read a lot. So, you and the Mooch Man are business partners?”
“No way … he’s a client and no more than that. I wish him well, but us together equaled a big mistake.”
“You still sew your own pants and dresses?”
“Ha-ha, you remember those days? Bell-bottoms and Granny skirts. No, I’m the resident Costume Designer for the Bay Community Theater, in addition to gigs like the mascots. I do still have the dress I made for our Senior Prom.”
“You looked good in that dress, Shel … and even better out of it.”
“Damn, Broome, you don’t waste any time, do you?”
I’ll stop here and let you know that Shelly said that last line in a playful, flirtatious manner, her eyes sparkling and cheeks glowing rosy red, not unlike the ensuing fireworks.
“You staying for the show?”
“I hadn’t planned to – but it is a nice, warm night and the sky is clear.”
“Sit with me in the dugout … Skip won’t mind, and some of the guys are staying too.”
“Don’t you have to shower and change?”
“Nah, I hardly broke a sweat out there.”
Dusty and Shelly sat in the dugout, watching the fireworks show and talking about the old days – about who was still here making a living in the Bay, who was married to whom (or divorced for that matter), and who had gone on to bigger and better things. Dusty felt comfortable sitting there with his high school sweetheart, but there was a gnawing feeling in his gut that he needed to explain to her how much he regretted the way things were left all those years ago.
“Shel, there’s something I need to tell you. I was…”
“Not now, Broome … just shut up. Let’s watch the rockets’ red glare, and bombs bursting in air.”
Throughout July, the Poverty Bay Little Necks played like contenders and settled into third place. The seats in Jerry Dotson Field had more asses in them than not, and Skip Reynolds felt rejuvenated as a manager, making for the most part, all the right decisions. Dusty Broome had a couple of rough outings – hey, the guy wasn’t Superman – but his ERA continued to go down, and Skip felt comfortable using him as a set-up guy for Rooster, and he had two more spot starts – both complete game wins.
Shelly attended more games than her usual one per homestand and often stayed beyond the sixth inning. She and Dusty were taking things slow – they had had their talk, and as the saying goes, the past is in the past and best left there. The two were seen together when the Necks were in town, on off-days, and before night games, walking on the boardwalk near the waterfront, eating ice cream cones, and engaging in friendly banter with well-wishing Bay denizens. Kitty Diggins noticed the development, and though he seemed okay with their rekindling, he felt he needed to have a coach-to-player confab with his sister’s ex-boyfriend.
“Seen you and Shel around town lately, Broome.”
“Yeah, what of it? Can’t two old friends catch up after almost twenty years?”
“Catching up is one thing … but if you pull the same shit you pulled when…”
“Whoa, easy, big fella. You’re putting the cart before the horse. We hashed things out, and it’s our business about what we do or don’t do.”
“Don’t get yer feathers ruffled, Broome. I just need you to focus on baseball and keep your mind on pitching. Those dingers you gave up against the Muskrats last week tell me your concentration is off. Skip would say broads and ball are a sour mix, but I ain’t saying that … Shit, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Anyone can have a bad night in this game, coach. And I can walk and chew gum at the same time. For what it’s worth, Shel’s lucky to have you for a big brother.”
“Damn it, Broome. You sound like that win friends and influence people fella. Just keep your nose clean, and maybe we can make the postseason after that sorry start. And for what it’s worth, Skip made the right call in signing your ass. I was against it.”
Dusty took his pitching coach’s advice under advisement (now there’s a phrase) and continued to spend time with Kitty’s kid sister when the team was playing at home. The dog days of August arrived, and the Little Necks were in a fierce battle for second place with the Midway Muskrats. The top two finishers in the Greater Prescott Sound Independent League would play in a four-team, round-robin tournament with the top two teams from the Cascade Hills Independent League for the Western Region Championship, held the weekend after Labor Day.
* * *
Duffy Squires had become Dusty’s personal catcher – he had a knack for the knuckleball, and his lightning-quick reflexes prevented many passed balls and the rare wild pitch. His caught stealing percentage was nearly 75%. Given that it was from a small sample, that number was still almost unheard of in the league. The kid, when given the chance to play, made the most of it, and held his own with the bat – even DH-ing on occasion against lefties. A Major League scout, Arnie Jeffers, was on the Independent League circuit, looking at potential signees for the Oakland Athletics and San Francisco Giants. The A’s had a dearth of catching in their Minor League system and sent Arnie to Poverty Bay to evaluate the nineteen-year-old backstop.
The Necks had a firm grip on second place by the third week of August; there’d be no catching the first-place Terrapins, who had a seven-game lead over Poverty Bay with six games left in the regular season. Arnie Jeffers was in the stands, and Dusty, who was starting tonight’s game against the out-of-contention Muskrats, was in the dugout sitting next to his catcher, talking last-minute strategy during the pre-game goings on.
“How you feeling, kid?”
“Nervous, Dusty … with that scout watching.”
“Forget about him … It’s just you and me out there like usual. Call for the fastball early in the count on some of these guys. They’ll be laying for the floater, and we’ll have ‘em zero and one right off. It’ll impress the scout.”
“Gosh, thanks, Dusty … I’ll do that. How you feeling?”
“Aces, kid, never better.”
The game went according to script – a five to one win by the Necks. Duffy threw out 3 of 4 baserunners, had no passed balls, and crushed a long solo homerun that left Jerry Dotson Field above the left field stands. Dusty pitched a complete game, the only run off a fastball – a carbon copy of Duffy’s shot – oh well, sometimes you must tip your hat to the other guy. Arnie Jeffers wrote his report on Duffy Squires for the Athletics, scribbling a second report about Dusty Broome and his new pitch.
The 1993 Poverty Bay regular season was in the books, and since this would be the first-ever postseason appearance for the Little Necks, a celebration party, thrown by the team’s ownership, was held in the ballpark the day after the final game. The attendees were players, coaches, field staff, and front office personnel. The only person who grumbled about it was Stubbs Mackenzie. The three Mollusks and team mascot Baby Bivalve shed their costumes for the celebration, showing up in street clothes. Some thought that was strange because the Moocher wasn’t known to socialize much with the ballpark crowd. Dusty saw him at the makeshift bar behind home plate and wandered over to say hello. Moochie was instructing the bartender on exactly how to make his Old Fashioned, and turned around when he heard a voice from the distant past.
“Hey, Mooch … long time no see you without the diaper.”
“Benjamin Broome, fancy seeing you here. Back for the class reunion?”
“Always with the snappy comeback … same old Moocher.”
“I was hoping to run into you tonight … I’m casting a play up at the Cove, and you’d be perfect for a minor role – emphasis on Minor.”
“Is that a dig at my career?”
“You tell me, Busty … oh, sorry, I mean Dusty. Who gave you that bushwa nickname anyhow?”
“I’m starting to regret coming over to say hey to an old classmate. Funny thing, I had no idea you were the baby clam until Shelly told me after the Fourth of July game. You’ve still got the same killer moves you had in high school … maybe even better.”
“Oh, Shelly told you, huh? I don’t hang around here after the games – I’m usually rushing off to give a lesson or two. That’s my bread and butter now. This mascot gig is temporary and barely pays for my gas to get here.”
“Lots of calls for late-night dance and acting lessons?”
“Private lessons.”
“Ohh-kay… gotcha. Anyway, I just wanted to say hey and let you know that Shelly and I are starting to spend time together – who knows where things will go?”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Shelly made her choice, and she’s a big girl who knows what she wants. It’s too bad for her that things didn’t work out between us.”
“That’s big of you, Mooch (said with disdain.) Best of luck with the lessons and the plays and whatever else comes your way. Not sure where I’m going after next week’s tournament. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”
“You know something?”
“What?”
“She never stopped loving you. She’d keep track of what teams you were on and where they played, buying newspapers from all over the country just to see your name in a box score.”
“Thanks for telling me, Mooch. That must have been tough on you. And just so you know, we never talked or wrote or saw each other during all those years.”
“Forget it. And, you know, from what I’ve seen, your pitching skills are much better than when we were kids. I wouldn’t be surprised to see you up on the big stage.”
“Not sure I’m ready for the spotlight, but who knows? Good to see you, Moochie.”
Two days before the first game of the tournament against the Ox Bow Otters, Skip Reynolds called Kitty into his office.
“Got a call just now from Duffy’s father.”
“What, is the kid grounded and can’t come out to play?”
“No, smartass, the A’s offered Duff a minor league deal, and they want him in Arizona yesterday to work with their catching instructor for the rest of September. Someone thinks the kid has a bright future, and they ain’t wrong.”
“Well, so what? He’s not a starter, and Kaminsky is a decent emergency catcher.”
“I’ll tell you so what – he catches Broome. If we’re gonna have two shaky shits of a chance in this tournament, then Hap Murphy needs to find a bigger mitt and start catching Broome’s wonder pitch toot sweet.”
“I’ll get on it, Skip.”
Hap Murphy, the Neck’s starting catcher, found a bigger mitt and did an okay job when Dusty was called on to pitch in the tournament. None of his passed balls (four) factored into the outcomes of the games – the Poverty Bay Little Necks lost the first game, which put them in the loser’s bracket. They wound up playing for third place, and in the final game, beat the Otters 4-3 at their ballpark. It wasn’t what they and the Neck fans were hoping for, but all in all, it was a successful season, and beat being lodged in last place all year.
When the team bus returned to the Bay, a smattering of fans and townsfolk were there to greet their boys with banners and somewhat subdued cheering. Dusty could tell his young teammates were touched, and they stood a little taller while walking into the home clubhouse at Jerry Dotson Field. As lockers were being cleaned out, and locker-room banter ensued, Dusty sat on the bench before his locker and thought about the conversation he’d had with Duffy the day before the kid left for Arizona.
“So, heard you signed with the A’s… congratulations, kid.”
“Yeah … it still hasn’t sunk in. They’re flying me to Phoenix tomorrow morning. I don’t think it would have happened if I hadn’t been catching your knuckler this summer.”
“Sure, it would have, kid … you’re the real deal.” “Thanks, Mr. Broome – sorry, I mean Dusty… I’m gonna miss you guys and feel bad about leaving before the tournament.”
“Don’t worry about us … We’ll be fine. And Hap’s a quick study – got himself a bigger mitt.”
“Well, if things don’t work out with the A’s, I’ll come back, and we’ll play together next season.”
“Don’t think that way, kid. Go down there and do what they tell you, and the sky’s the limit.”
As Dusty was getting his gear packed and ready to take back to the studio apartment he’d been renting, Kitty stuck his head out of Skip’s office and waved for him to come inside. They probably want to find out if I’ll come back and pitch here next season, he thought. The pay wasn’t much better than meal money, but there was that one upside … Skip was sitting behind his desk with an unlit cigar.
“Take a load off, Broome, and have a seat. Got something to tell you.”
“Yeah, Skip? Is it about pitching for the Necks next season?”
“Well, just what are your plans for next season?”
“Hadn’t thought about it – made good money last summer guiding on the Kenai.”
“Better than 300 Large?”
“What are you talking about … did the Neck’s ownership strike oil somewhere?”
“No, they didn’t. That’s the Major League minimum, and the Athletics want you in their bullpen for the rest of this season. They’re having a down year, and the starting pitching has been for shit. They need a low-cost innings-eater, mop-up type guy, and I guess you fit the bill. Whatta you say?”
Dusty sat staring at a grinning Skip Reynolds, with that fat cigar in his teeth, then at Kitty Diggins, who looked like he needed a drink.
“This better not be some kind of cruel joke, guys. I…”
“It’s on the level, Broome. Kitty and I are happy as clams that you showed up here for tryouts and pitched us into the postseason. You deserve this shot more than any player I’ve managed, and I’ve managed a shit ton in my time. You agree, Diggins?”
“Yeah, Skip … Congrats, Broome.”
Dusty shook both their hands and walked slowly through the clubhouse, grabbed his gear bag, and somehow made it to the players’ exit, where Stubbs Mackenzie was waiting.
“Hey, Stubbs.”
“Hiya, Kid … Heard you punched yer ticket to the show.”
“You heard right – I’m numb now, still can’t believe it.”
“Well, ya made good here, son. Who sez the Bay don’t grow nuthin’ but seaweed and skunkweed?”
“Never heard that one, Stubbs.”
“You been gone a while … give ‘em hell down in Oak Land, Dusty.”
When he arrived at the players’ parking area, where his rental car was parked, Shelly was waiting there with a big smile and an even bigger hug.
“You heard, too? Word spreads fast in the Bay, I keep forgetting.”
“Small town, big ears.”
“I haven’t seen you around for a couple of weeks … You missed the first-ever postseason appearance by the world-famous Poverty Bay Little Necks Baseball Club.”
“Ha-ha… Sorry, I was at a Trade Show in San Francisco, combing through bolts of fabric and other materials – not very glamorous – unlike someone on his way to the Major Leagues.”
“Come with me, Shel. I don’t have to report until Tuesday evening. Today is Sunday – we can leave tomorrow morning and be there Monday night.”
“What, you mean drive?”
“Sure, it’s like 10 or 11 hours – piece of cake.”
“In this rental car?”
“No, I still have the Vega.”
“The Vega!!! The 1974 Vega?”
“Yep… my dad’s been taking care of it and using it as a second car. Low miles, licensed and insured. I can drive over there tonight, pick it up, and have it gassed and packed and ready to roll in the morning.”
“I don’t know, Broome … sounds all too rushed and hasty. How long are we talking?”
“Just until the end of this month – three weeks plus. We can drive back when the season’s over. Take our time, see the sights, stay at a bed and breakfast, hold the breakfast.”
“Well, when you put it that way … I could use some time off, and a friend in the Bay Area has a guest house we could rent for three weeks… I’ll head home and pack.
* * *
Dusty and Shelly reached Oakland late Monday evening. The Vega drove flawlessly – Dusty’s dad was a crack mechanic. They set up housekeeping at Shelly’s friend’s above-garage apartment, which seemed like a palace to Dusty compared to his Poverty Bay digs. He appeared in a half-dozen meaningless games, posting a respectable 4.30 ERA. If you ask him, he’ll tell you the best part of his cuppa joe with the A’s was sitting in the bullpen with the likes of Dennis Eckersley and Goose Gossage. Especially the Goose – Oh, the stories.
I’ve known Dusty and Shelly Broome for most of our sixty-nine years … our birthdays are all in March, and we grew up together as kids in Poverty Bay. Believe it or not, we all still live in our hometown. The Broomes recently celebrated their 30th wedding anniversary here. The town has changed a lot over the years – more condos and townhomes, a revamped waterfront with chi-chi restaurants and boutiques, and a new performing arts center – The Hofstetter, or The Hof, if you prefer. There’s no longer an Independent League Baseball team here; hasn’t been since the early 2000s. Soccer is King now, and Jerry Dotson Field was turned into two pitches. I believe old Stubbs is still rolling over in his grave – Skip Reynolds, too. Kitty Diggins went on to coach the pitching staff at the State U and retired with a nice pension about eight years ago. He still has his moods, but they never last long. Duffy Squires, like his hero Dusty, knocked around the minors for several years, never making it to the show. The two friends kept in touch through email when the internet took off, but never met again in person. Duffy joined the United States Marine Corps after 9/11 at age 27 and sadly lost his life to a roadside IED in Iraq in 2003. When Dusty heard the news, he was inconsolable.
I’ll leave you in the cozy Broome cottage, overlooking the sparkling waters of Poverty Bay.
Heard from the bedroom:
“Turn the game off and come to bed, Broome.”
“It’s the ninth inning, Shel; I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“I’m wearing my Prom dress.”
Dusty clicked off the remote, toot sweet.
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