Catching Lightning Without the Bottle

By Timothy F. Bouvine

Blake Benson is kicked off the Chicago Cubs team because of his drinking and carousing. When all his team mates die in a plane crash he is given a shot at sobriety and catching lightning in a bottle by winning the Division with the hastily assembled replacements.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781937706135

Book preview

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1 — Flying High but Living Low

The stifling, steamy air hovered motionless a dozen rows up from the Chicago Cubs’ visiting dugout at Atlanta’s Turner Field. One could almost feel the slightest breeze coming from the swing and miss of the Cubs batters as the game wore on into the night.

The Atlanta Braves were hosting the Cubs this sultry summer night and the Braves had been in control since the early innings. A four-run deficit in the ninth inning seemed like a sure defeat for the Cubbies. There were no worries over the impending loss, as this year the North Siders of Chi town were surprisingly clicking on all cylinders, with a 10-game lead over the rest of the National League Central Division as August opened its doors to major league baseball.

Everything that could go right for their team this season had occurred at a stunning pace. Two separate 10-game winning streaks that featured numerous late-inning rallies had left the team with a never say die attitude and a self-confidence that seemed to rattle the opposition that inevitably labeled them as overly cocky.

As the top of the ninth began to unfold, the Cubbies were a bit listless as a road-weary club can be when late summer saps the energy from many players. If the team went down to defeat tonight nobody would be too upset. It was a logical time in the schedule to drift a bit.

The Atlanta closer was lightly tossing the ball in the home team’s bullpen with a save situation still a run away, while the normally effective Braves setup man, George Wilson, looked to slam the proverbial door shut and send the Atlanta fans home in a celebratory mood.

Lefty reliever Wilson struck out Chicago pinch-hitter Steve Townsend on three pitches, further damaging the Cubbies’ chances, but back-to-back walks had made the crowd a tad squirmy in their seats as the meat of the order came up for Chicago.

A solid line drive up the middle by All-Star first-baseman Tyler Grace brought the Cubs to within three runs and signaled the end for Braves pitcher Wilson. Atlanta closer Jimmy Parsons had plenty of time, not that it was needed to get loose on such a balmy night. The big righty strutted in from the pen with the confidence of a pitcher accustomed to success.

Things also were stirring in the Cubs dugout as some momentum seemed to be building. Potential pinch-hitters began loosening up and sharpening their mental edge as it looked like Chicago manager Buck Mains was examining his lineup card for options while Parsons warmed on the mound.

Chicago Cubs third-string catcher Blake Benson was his usual disinterested self, barely awake in the confines of the Cubs bullpen. Still nursing a hangover from the night before, Benson knew he would likely only be needed to warm up relief pitchers this night. He could do that in his sleep and he was testing that adage in a near literal fashion through the first eight innings.

The 15-year veteran had been an elite performer earlier in his heyday, but he was a hanger-on now, uncertain of his future, but unwilling to totally end his career because the money was still so damned good.

The bullpen phone rang and Mains yelled to get Blake into the dugout as he was running out of available pinch-hitters. Benson groggily walked in from the pen to the dugout as Parsons finished up his warm-up tosses.

Cubs clean-up slugger Vince Thomas, batting in his customary four spot, coaxed a 10-pitch walk out of Parsons to load the bases and bring the go-ahead run to the plate in the presence of switch-hitting third baseman Paul Trimble. The veteran Trimble was a solid line-drive hitter with occasional power from the left side even though Turner Field’s power alleys were quite deep by present-day ballpark standards.

The potential rally seemed to hit a wall as Trimble flew out meekly to center field, allowing the fourth run of the game to score for the Cubs on a sacrifice fly. Trailing 6-4 and down to their last out, the Cubbies brought long-time fan favorite Sandy Gonzalez to the plate in his normal sixth spot with runners on first and second.

The combatants knew each other well; Parsons had faced Gonzalez countless times and had, in fact, enjoyed a fair amount of success against Sandy. Despite a lifetime .290 batting average, Gonzalez was only hitting .190 against Parsons with very little power production from the slugger that currently sat at 342 home runs in his 16-year career.

Gonzalez worked the count full and as the runners left early with two outs, Sandy fisted a bloop single just over the outstretched glove of the Atlanta second-baseman that was sprinting, his back to the infield, out to right-center field, as he tried unsuccessfully to snare the softly hit, but well-placed ball. Grace came around to score and the Cubs had runners on first and third, but still trailing 6-5, and still down to their final out.

The Cubs had a rookie in the seventh hole, a superb, slick-fielding second-baseman. He wasn’t much of a stick at the plate, but the lack of options available to manager Mains dictated that he had no choice but to go with the rookie Luis Santiago, unless Buck felt Blake could come up with a clutch hit.

A few years back it would have been a no-brainer, as the Blake Benson of years gone by was a thunderous bat in the middle of any lineup. Beaten, battered, and bruised, the 35-year-old Benson was a shadow of his former self at the plate, batting a measly .198 with little power left in his one-time lightning-quick batting stroke that used to resonate a recognizable sparkling crack upon contact throughout the ballpark.

Blake could still handle the defensive side of his catcher position and was still superb at handling the frail egos of pitchers, but offensively he was just not quick enough with his bat to succeed against power pitchers like Parsons. Maybe it was a lack of focus or poor conditioning that contributed to Blake’s batting demise, but whatever the reason, Benson had slipped to the point of faint recognition to his once All-Star status.

The short-in-stature Santiago stepped in the box and crowded the plate in daring demeanor that challenged the pitcher to come inside. Parsons fell for it and plunked him on the elbow as Santiago twisted his torso enough to protect himself and still leave his arms out over the plate.

The now obviously frustrated Parsons had loaded the bases with the errant pitch and was clearly agitated at Santiago’s cleverness. The Cubs had the stellar closer on the ropes and they could feel it as Parsons bounced a split-fingered fastball past the Braves catcher and allowed the tying run to score.

Was there anything that didn’t go the Cubs’ way this year? The team appeared to be destined for greatness as the baseball gods were uncharacteristically kind to the seemingly perennial snake-bitten Chicago Cubs franchise that had not won a World Series since 1908.

The visitors’ dugout was pumped. They wanted to end it here and now and avoid the fatigue of extra-innings as the runners were now on second and third with the eighth-place batter, Tommy Patterson, at the plate. With the pitcher’s spot unfortunately coming up next, Braves manager Riley Adams knew the Cubs were pretty much out of pinch-hitting options. Adams wisely forced the Cubs’ hand by intentionally walking the bases full again, putting the ball in Chicago’s dugout to make the next counter move.

Buck Mains had nowhere else to turn to but Blake and Adams knew it. With the home team enjoying last at-bats, even a tie game would still be in their favor. Parsons should just eat Benson up with overpowering fastballs, but Benson still had an edge hitting over most any available pitcher, albeit probably not by much.

Blake instinctively always looked ahead a couple of batters and he could see this scenario developing before most. Even a tired worn-down Benson still had a sharp baseball mind as he stretched and grabbed a bat in anticipation several batters earlier in hopes of seizing the upcoming moment.

The spotlight was on Blake in this situation whether he wanted it or not. His confidence was sagging low at the plate, but he knew this at-bat would be just as much a mind game as a physical confrontation. This gave him some comfort as he stepped in the box and stared Parsons down as if to say, I know exactly what you are going to do in this situation and you can’t fool me one bit!

Parsons knew he didn’t have to fool Benson. There was no way the has-been could catch up with his fastball anymore. He just shook his head at Blake and then nodded in obvious approval as his catcher gave him the fastball sign. Everyone knew what was coming.

Parsons was his own worst enemy. He forgot he didn’t have to reach back for that little extra hump on his heater. He overthrew the first two fastballs and lost control of his pitches as he fell behind in the count two balls and no strikes.

The wily Blake knew he was in the driver’s seat as Parsons would have to come right over the plate rather than risk a walk to let in the potential winning run. Blake played with Parsons’ mind as he asked for time from the home plate umpire just as the flame-throwing righty was getting set to deliver home with the third pitch.

Blake stepped out of the batter’s box, rubbed his three-day unshaven face with his left hand, spat some tobacco juice toward the pitcher’s mound and smirked at Parsons, who had a well-deserved reputation as a hot-head that could lose his composure at the drop of a baseball cap. The 6-foot-2 Benson carried a middle-aged paunch around his waist atypical of a major league baseball catcher, but still had the steely eyes of a competitor. As that glare focused on the pitcher, Blake’s baseball brain took an educated guess that the closer would come inside with a just above the belt fastball, as many pitchers knew that lefties like Blake could handle low pitches rather easily, dropping the barrel of the bat as their hands sat right over the inside of the plate. That pitch was easy to turn on no matter what the speed, especially if it came in on the inner half of the plate. Blake’s only chance was to pick out a spot beforehand and, if the pitch was thrown in that area, even an over-the-hill 35-year-old could get enough bat speed going to drive the ball somewhere.

Parsons had to come with the cheese and Blake still knew what to do with it, especially if he could sit on that pitch without fear of striking out or falling farther behind in the count. The belt-high fastball arrived gift-wrapped at just the spot Blake was targeting. He ripped a hooking line drive that fell just inside the right-field foul line and rolled all the way into the corner while the bases emptied and put the Cubbies remarkably ahead by three runs. Blake rounded first and somehow managed to build up enough speed to run right out from under his helmet. What hair left on his balding head was flying in the moist Atlanta air as he checked into second base with a double. Blake looked into his dugout as if to say the old man still had it, at least once in a while.

The Braves and their fans were totally deflated at the stunning rally and went down in a whimper in their half of the ninth while the Cubs gleefully celebrated yet another amazing comeback win.

Blake was the unexpected hero of the night as the team continued their celebratory mood in the clubhouse. The post-game spread tasted even better after this hard-fought win.

As the shine of a victory began to wear off, and the adrenaline waned, Blake felt the effects of his hangover, but there was no need to worry now. He knew it would be a party kind of night. The thrill of victory and his starring role made him eager for attention out on the town.

His teammates were his best buddies tonight as the drinks flowed in all the hotspots of downtown Atlanta. Several hours later there wasn’t even a sniff of a hangover as Blake knew the best way to get rid of one was to start anew on another.

Somewhere just after midnight Blake hooked up with a group of four women. As the booze and chatter picked up in intensity, he singled out one steaming redhead and began planning his getaway with the next one-night stand of the long road trip away from his wife of 15 years, Kim Benson.

A couple of quick shots of whiskey and he would be set for the night as long as he had the victim of a sexual encounter in sight. He chased down his last shot and entered the near nightly booze blackout stage; his body continued on accustomed to these situations, but his mind was gone for the night. It always came back the next morning, but the gaping holes in recollection were a sick reminder of his powerless alcoholic state.

The night was filled with exhilaration, but in reality it didn’t matter as Blake could always find an excuse to drink in excess. Good, bad, or indifferent didn’t matter. The results were the same, if not the rationale.

2 — The Airport

Blake hurriedly packed his bags and splashed water on his face. There is no way this is going to turn out well, he thought. Plausible excuses ran through his mind as he scurried unsteadily down the hall to the elevator.

He reeked of whiskey and smoke. His thought process was clouded from lack of sleep and too much booze. All he could think about was getting to the airport before the charter plane took off without him.

I’ve let the team down again, Blake thought, as feelings of guilt clashed with desperation. We’re in the middle of a pennant race and all I care about is getting laid and boozing until the crack of dawn. I am such a worthless piece of shit. I deserve whatever punishment I get this time, he thought, as he hailed a cab.

Hartsfield Airport was all Blake could slur and the taxi sped away.

Jesus Christ, he thought. If only I could remember where I left my fucking cell phone last night I could let the team know I’ll be there.

Oh shit, he thought as he envisioned the team calling his wife to find out his whereabouts, or, worse yet, Kim calling his unattended cell phone and having a strange woman answer. I’ll deal with that later. One lie at a time is all I can handle right now.

Goddamn, this traffic is fucking ridiculous, Blake blurted out. Can you turn up the air conditioning? It’s so fucking hot and humid in this city.

The cabbie perked up this time as he fumbled for the air conditioner controls and finally turned the knob to full blast. Everyone seemed to like to talk about the weather. It was the perfect small talk.

Yep, it’s good old Hotlanta. Suppose to get some wicked storms today. Front is coming in.

As the cab finally reached the airport, Blake pulled out a 50-dollar bill, handed it to the cabbie, and bolted away as fast as he could.

He knew he would have to get his alibi together and come up with an excuse. He had to try and piece the night together in his mind. Who saw me last night with that redhead? When was the last time somebody saw me? Blackouts, goddamned blackouts! I have no fucking idea, he thought, struggling to deal with the fuzzy details of his binge.

Maybe he could blame it on too many painkillers. He knew that this lie wouldn’t account for him not being in his team hotel room, but rather at his one-night stand’s pad. It’s hopeless, he thought. The truth will have to do. The truth and some serious begging will have to be the game plan once again.

He figured he could get to Sandy. His best friend and teammate could smooth things out with the coaches. He knew he could always count on Sandy. He had bailed him out so many times without so much as a question. Sandy is it. Blake finally settled on a familiar remedy.

Rushing through the airport, Blake suddenly felt secure in his decision to trust Sandy. It was so reassuring that he decided to get a quick bump at the airport bar. It would only take a minute to slam a drink down and settle his nerves. He quickly gulped a double shot of whiskey and briskly walked to the gate where the team would hopefully still be assembling for their trip to St. Louis.

Blake glanced at his watch and figured he had it made. It looked like he had wiggled out of another potential disaster. He knew a fine was coming from his manager, but money really wasn’t a big deal to a multi-millionaire.

Everybody laughed off his numerous escapades. Buck would holler like crazy at him and threaten to send him to Des Moines to languish in triple A, but his value to the team as a grizzled veteran was apparent in so many on-the-field ways, if not his off the field antics. He made it through a weekend binge last year in L.A. when Buck was told that Blake had the flu and was resting at the hotel. Two years ago Blake got off with just a fine after a night of carousing in San Francisco caused him to miss the team bus to the airport.

Things were different now, though. His drinking had become steadily worse and everybody knew it. Hangovers were expected in a major league clubhouse and, in fact, were worshipped in warrior type fashion. There was a line not to cross, however, and Blake had ventured across this boundary by sneaking shots of booze in brief getaways to the clubhouse during games and hiding miniatures acquired on numerous airplane trips when he was called down to the bullpen to warm up pitchers. He was reassured by the unlikeliness that a third-string catcher would be needed during game action. He had become so accustomed to his manager’s routine that he knew he would play once a week or so when an afternoon game followed a night game. It wouldn’t be easy but he could tone down the drinking one night a week.

It was now crunch time for Blake, his confidence growing by the minute as the alcohol gave him some much-needed courage.

He saw Sandy on his cell phone, standing away from the rest of the team with a serious look on his face, outwardly trying to appear unconcerned as his friend was missing, but failing miserably. His teammates knew him too well. Sandy was the type of person who was sincerely a very caring person and all-around good guy, unlike many of his self-centered teammates.

Blake motioned to Sandy to meet him farther down the hallway, away from the rest of the group. A look of relief quickly appeared on Sandy’s face, but that look suddenly ran away from his face as an obviously angry Sandy approached him.

Buddy, you really screwed up this time. Buck is as pissed as I have ever seen him.

Blake’s confidence waned as he replied, Aw come on Sandy, I can weasel my way out of this one too if you’ll help me smooth things over with Buck.

Man, I am done bailing out your sorry ass. Blake, you are not the star you once were. You can’t get away with this shit anymore. We’re in a pennant race now. This is not the shitty Cubs anymore. There’s too much at stake.

I know Sandy, this is it. I promise to tone it down the rest of the year. You’re my best friend and I wouldn’t lie to you.

Sandy had heard this promise before and knew it did not mean a thing.

Then Sandy boldly proposed a solution.

Blake, I’ll get you out of this mess on one condition.

Anything, Blake begged.

You’ve got to quit drinking cold turkey. Promise me right now that you’ll not have one fucking drop of booze the rest of the year. I don’t give a shit in the off-season, but this has to stop right now.

Jesus Christ, Sandy. There’s no way I can stomach being on the road without any booze. You hate it too. I’ll tone it down, I promise.

That won’t do anymore, Blake. I’ve had enough. Buck has had enough. The whole gosh-darn team has had enough. There is no negotiating here. You quit right this moment or I’m going to tell Buck that you’re out of control and need help. You’ll be gone tomorrow and I don’t mean to Des Moines. He’s this close to releasing you, Sandy seethed at Buck as he moved his thumb and finger oh-so-close together.

Blake had never seen the mild-mannered Sandy this outraged and it made an immediate impression. Blake certainly did not want to go out like this. The embarrassment and humiliation would be unbearable.

Ok. I know when I’ve got no choice. You win. No booze for the rest of the season.

Blake’s already shaky confidence dissipated from the encounter as the shots of whiskey waned and Sandy could see and feel the pain his long-time best friend Blake was in.

C’mon buddy. We’re in a pennant race and this is our year. Everything is going our way. You’re really going to enjoy this. That’s my promise! Now let me go over to Buck and mend some fences. You stay out of the way until I get back. We have an hour before we get on the plane. Lucky for you some maintenance issue slowed us up.

Blake leaned against the wall, away from the team’s sight. The good news was that he had apparently wiggled out of another jam, but the bad news was he knew he had no more chips to cash in if he got in trouble. Confidence shaken, physically ill from his chosen lifestyle, and faced with the likelihood of a major league career ending, Blake thought this must have been reaching bottom.

Sandy smiled as he approached the crusty manager who wore that never-ending scowl that most managers accumulate over time dealing with irresponsible and immature behaviors intertwined with massive egos in a toxic twist.

He’s here and we’ve worked things out. Buck, you don’t want to know the details. He did the same old thing, but this time I have a stone-cold promise from him that there will be no more shenanigans. He’s sworn off the booze for the season.

Jesus Christ, Sandy. I’d like to believe you, but I can’t believe Blake. He has no credibility anymore.

He knows this time is different, Buck. He knows this is the last straw. I believe him and you need to believe in him too. He is a little shaken right now. His confidence isn’t like it used to be during his glory days.

Glory days? Those days are so far gone I can’t even fucking remember them, replied the irritable manager. Glory days? Buck couldn’t stop shaking his head in disbelief, as he repeatedly mumbled the once apt description of the past Blake Benson.

Sandy, I have the owner crawling all over my ass on this one. The media is all over the story of Blake’s habits and it looks like we don’t give a shit about the pennant race. Our general manager is just looking at any old reason to get that stud flamethrower Rodriguez up here and you know it’s a luxury that we can’t afford, carrying three catchers on the major league roster while our pitchers are battling sore arms. You need to look me straight in the eye and say you believe him this time. I need that from you. Our whole organization respects you, Sandy. I can run with that.

Sandy nodded affirmatively, but Buck did not get to be a major league manager without possessing the ability to read his players. Sandy’s body language implied less than a total commitment. He couldn’t look him in the eye and quickly scurried away. His endorsement was half-hearted, but Buck figured there was no reason to rock the boat while the team was riding high.

Sandy, you better keep him in line this time, Buck hollered for all to hear. Buck was less than thrilled, but he had so many issues to deal with that he gladly crossed one off the list for now.

Blake was reassured by Sandy’s smooth graceful stride, head held high, with a calm look on his face as he approached. He knew his best friend well enough to know that he was able to smooth things over with Buck. After all, he had seen this play out many times before.

Thanks Sandy, Blake said to his buddy before Sandy had a chance to speak.

Sandy never said a word as he motioned Buck to join the rest of the team, waiting at the gate for their plane to be ready. The two of them sat just far enough away from the rest of the team that they could speak in private, but close enough to symbolize that they were a unit again.

Blake never used to give a rat’s ass what his teammates thought of him personally, but the numerous instances of selfishness and boorish behavior, along with the effects of alcohol on his psyche over the years, made him very sensitive to the seeming disrespect the rest of the team showed him. Blake was a shadow of himself mentally at this point in his career. He knew how the team felt toward him. He could feel it inside, but his paranoia fueled it to excess.

The bitterness inside him was countered by the realization that most of these younger players did not have a clue what it was like to stay in the big leagues for 15 years. They just could not know the physical and mental damage a career does to its athletes. The busted up fingers from years of foul tips, the achy knees from years and years of squatting, the temptations on the road with so much time on their hands and so many willing sexual partners. Not to mention the never-ending marital battles with suspicious wives. Screw them, they just could not know. Blake was at that same point before and his bitterness turned to pity for their lack of understanding.

Blake could feel their steely eyes upon him. The uneasiness ran away from him and passed the baton to sorrow. He knew deep down he deserved all the scorn. His head tilted downward in shame. Boarding the plane could not come soon enough for Blake. The sheltered nature of hiding in obscurity in an airplane certainly would be better than the focus of attention in his present awkward predicament.

The anxiety of the moment was becoming harder for Blake to bear. Still feeling physically ill from his all-nighter and now on top of that, this feeling of anger, sorrow, and shame combined to overwhelm him. Come on, he thought to himself. Let’s just get on this plane and without all these eyes on me, I can get to sleep. I can’t take much of this anymore.

Sandy, I’m going to the can for a moment, Blake spoke in obvious discomfort to his friend. Going to brush my teeth and freshen up a bit. I feel like crap. Blake grabbed his carry-on and headed to the restroom.

Sandy knew his best friend all too well. He loved Blake like a brother, but he also knew that Blake was in a bad place. He had his suspicions on alert constantly regarding Blake and his drinking. Blake had let him down so many times before. Should I trust him this time? He did seem very contrite and sincere, Sandy thought.

Blake took a sharp left turn into the men’s room and clumsily scrambled for the spare toothbrush that every drinker seemed to carry with them out of necessity. He looked into the mirror and realized how awful he looked. Time for a change, he thought. After splashing some water on his face and combing whatever hair he had left on his bald-patterned head, he brushed his teeth quickly.

Just as he was getting ready to exit the bathroom and return to his teammates, Blake noticed a few small bottles of liquor in his shaving kit. A boozer knew one could never have too many hiding places. Remembering where you put them was the hard part, but the more spots, the merrier.

For some reason, the spontaneity of the moment caught Blake off guard. Normally he would chug a few down before the plane ride and maybe have one or two drinks on the flight, depending on the time of day. He knew how to play the game to make it look like he was a social drinker, or so he thought. The reality was, his teammates knew he was half-lit much of the time.

The severity of the moment hit Blake hard and he knew he would have to throw these out. It was time for a new beginning. He knew in his heart that this had to stop. However, something else, deep down, intervened and impulse prevailed over reason as it had so many other times.

A couple more shots would not change anything. He could quit when he got to St. Louis. He felt like shit and a couple more bumps would make the flight more comforting. He felt like an anxiety attack was coming upon him knowing that he was still the center of attention in a negative way. What if I freak out on the plane? Blake knew that an athlete could misbehave in almost any manner except for displaying signs of mental illness. Drunk, high, abusive and fighting were tolerated to some extent. Flipping out was not. Being labeled a nutcase was a sure ticket out of the big leagues.

Like any addict, Blake was much more sure of his ability to hide any signs of impairment than reality warranted. These few more shots would only be trouble if caught. Surely, one more deception wouldn’t hurt. Nobody would know.

Bathroom stalls were always one of Blake’s favorite drinking places. Everybody knew it was rude to invade one’s privacy in this somewhat sacred spot. He hurriedly moved into the stall and closed the door. Better get this done quickly, he thought. Three miniature bottles of scotch, brandy, and vodka were opened and swallowed in rapid succession.

Sandy had sat for a few minutes in his uncomfortable airport seat before he realized he knew what he had to do. He just had to find out for sure that his buddy was on the up and up with him.

Feeling both mistrust and apprehension at the same time made Sandy feel very uneasy. He couldn’t really trust Blake’s word, and yet he innately knew that spying on his best friend was not cool either. As the impeccably dressed, tall and handsome Sandy walked slowly toward the restroom he finally came to grips with the necessary course of action. It was right to find out for sure. His teammates and the organization had a huge stake in this.

The anger slowly built in Sandy’s face as he expected the worst. He knew he would have to play detective here because Blake would go to great lengths to hide his alcoholism.

As Sandy entered, he deftly walked on his toes to make a stealth approach. A businessman carrying a briefcase glared at Sandy as he departed the scene. Blake was not in the open area of the restroom. He must be in a stall, he thought. He knew this would not end well. Either Blake would be furious for Sandy spying on him or Sandy would be livid at the betrayal by his best friend and teammate. It was all in this time. He just had to know for sure.

Blake always wore his pricey Nike running shoes because of the soreness in his knees. It would not be a problem identifying which stall he was in. Business or casual attire, Blake stood out with his high tech running shoes. It was a professional necessity.

Sandy knew he had to catch Blake in the act. Blake would quickly hide any devious behavior. He couldn’t take a chance of pushing open the door as it might be locked. He had to peer over the top of the stall. It was his only choice.

Bracing for the moment, Sandy identified Blake’s footwear and crept slowly toward the stall. Sandy suddenly figured he could tell Blake that he had to hurry because the team was about to board the plane, which would give him some cover for peering into his privacy zone.

Sandy put both hands on the top edge of the stall and pulled himself up to stick his head over the crest as he began to speak.

Come on Blake, we have to board now, he quietly spoke in a hushed tone, and looked in astonishment as Blake was just finishing his third miniature.

God damn it Blake, you sonofabitch, I knew I couldn’t trust you, but Jesus Christ, only 30 minutes after you just promised me no booze.

Blake knew he was busted. The spontaneity of the moment left him no time to come up with a decent answer. He was speechless as Sandy suddenly belied his calm demeanor with a fit of rage and blasted the door open with a powerful kick. He put both hands on Blake’s shoulders and shook him violently.

This is it, Blake. You’re done with the team. There’s nothing more you can say. You let the team down, you let your best friend down and Blake, you have to see now that you are letting yourself down too.

Blake still was speechless as the severity of the situation slowly crept in. He had no defense. He was in a state of shock. There were no tears, no pleas, and no anger. Blake just hung his head in shame at his inability to control himself.

Sandy was surprised at Blake’s silence. Knowing Blake as well as he did, he figured Blake would pull out the charm one more time to weasel his way out of another mess. The fighting instinct that Blake always possessed was no longer within his spirit. He was broken.

Sandy’s rage disappeared just as quickly as it had arisen. He realized that Blake was now a broken man. He hugged Blake and tried to comfort him.

The organization will take care of you Blake. We’ll get you into a rehab place. You’ll come out a better man.

Come on buddy, Sandy spoke in a comforting tone. It’s time to face the music with Buck. He led Blake out of the restroom toward the rest of the team.

The sensitivity of the situation required some privacy. Sandy got Buck’s attention and motioned him towards the empty adjacent gate area where the three of them could speak alone.

Buck walked toward the two of them with a quizzical look on his travel-weary face. Buck had assumed this was all taken care of. He had too much to deal with as the sudden realization that more shit was about to hit the fan.

Sandy told Blake to stand a few feet back as he let Buck know the desperate condition that Blake was in.

I just caught him drinking again in the bathroom. He’s out of control Buck, and he realizes it too, Sandy spoke in a quiet tone, anticipating Buck’s hot temper would get the best of him.

Buck interrupted Sandy and all hell broke loose. This had been building for a long time and Buck wanted everyone to see and hear his upcoming rant.

A manager is constantly under pressure, even for a first-place team with a healthy lead. The stress of the position usually requires several strategically placed outbursts once or twice a month just to let off steam, but not too often because players will tune you out if it becomes routine. Buck was ready to blow up and this was the perfect opportunity to reclaim authority as Blake’s pattern of behavior, followed by token and toothless punishment, made Buck look weak.

You gotta be fucking kidding me, Buck yelled for all to hear. Didn’t he just promise you he was done with that shit? Is he that fucking dumb that he thought he could get away with it again? Buck screamed as he pointed at Blake.

How in the hell can I continue to put up with this bullshit? We’ve got a pennant race to deal with and I’m constantly babysitting my team. Do we want to win it all or just have a fucking good time? Sandy, you gave me your word this was done, Buck bellowed out as he remembered the half-hearted nod of approval Sandy gave not 30 minutes before.

I know Skip. Blake has agreed to go into rehab. Let’s move past this and get our teammate some help, Sandy’s calm demeanor and tone of brotherhood deflected Buck’s rage.

He’s done with my team, though. I just can’t trust him anymore. There’s too much at stake here, Sandy.

Blake stood motionless throughout. He offered no defense for his behavior. He knew there was nothing more to say and he was just worn out, mentally and physically. Blake knew he deserved whatever was coming his way. His body language belied his one-time status as an All Star. There is nothing like the strut of a major league ballplayer when they know all eyes are upon them as they move about in public. Blake now conveyed a homeless person’s demeanor rather than that of a star athlete as his shoulders slumped and he continued to look down at the floor.

Get Marty on the phone and let him handle it, Sandy aggressively spoke, knowing this was a general manager’s decision and was hoping Buck could let it go. Marty Anderson was the Chicago Cubs’ General Manager who was back in Chicago still trying to make a few more trades to strengthen the club for the stretch run.

Ok, but get him out of here. He doesn’t deserve to be near my club.

Shouldn’t I stay with Blake until Marty arranges for some help for him? I could catch a later flight.

Fuck him Sandy. He can take care of himself. For Christ sakes he’s a grown man, Buck continued without a drop of compassion in his voice.

Just call Marty right now and make some arrangements for him. Can’t you see he needs some help? Sandy pleaded with the crusty old manager with all of his huge heart.

Ok. Keep him in sight and I’ll make the call, Buck relented.

Sandy could only feel compassion for Blake as he tried to comfort him once again. He put his arm around Blake and guided him to a row of empty black airport chairs.

Do you want me to call Kim and suggest she meet you when your plane arrives? You might want me to prepare her a bit for what’s about to come, Sandy advised Blake as they sat down.

Thanks buddy. I’d appreciate that. I don’t think I can handle her wrath right now. Plus, I lost my phone last night. Just tell her I’m ok and give her the flight information, Blake softly responded.

Here, you take my phone Blake. Call me on my other phone if you need anything, Sandy whispered to his best friend.

Just then Sandy’s phone rang. He recognized the phone number as he was just about to hand it over. It was Marty Anderson.

Hold on a second buddy. I better take this.

Sandy answered quickly. A player never wanted to keep a general manager’s call waiting. They hold a player’s future in their hands.

This is Sandy, the anxious tone in his voice apparent as he opened the conversation. Sandy responded with a succession of affirmative replies.

Ok, will do, and thank you, Mr. Anderson. Goodbye. The conversation was brief and to the point. The club had arranged for Blake’s flight home. He was to be on the 2:30 flight to Chicago. A call would come in a couple of days from a rehab facility. There was a stern message for Blake not to screw this up.

Sandy relayed the message to Blake.

Just do everything they say and get well. Everything will work out if you just put your life in their hands and do your best. I guess we won’t be seeing each other for a while, Sandy said.

Blake rose up to give his friend a hug. You make sure you keep this team in first place, Blake replied as he tried to keep his emotions intact.

With tears in both of their eyes, the embrace slowly evaporated. They looked at each other one more time and turned away quickly.

Sandy was full of sadness as he rejoined the team. They were boarding the plane now. Goodbyes are always hard, but this one had a different feel to it.

Blake continued to walk until he figured he was a safe distance apart from the team. He slumped down in a chair, put his head in his hands, and cried.

3 — The Devoted Wife

Sandy hesitated as he walked toward the gate to begin the boarding process. He was unsure when would be the right time to call Blake’s wife with his other cell phone. This was not going to be an easy phone call. Kim would undoubtedly be upset, but probably not more than already not knowing her husband’s whereabouts for almost a day now.

The alcohol problem was a continuous source of friction between Blake and his wife. Kim became aware early on in Blake’s baseball career that he recklessly abused alcohol, but felt helpless to stop it. An athlete in his 20s could overcome some of the debilitating effects of overindulgence, but after years of constant abuse, the problems intensified with age.

When Kim met Blake at his first stop in the minor leagues, he was a chiseled athlete with the naive self-confidence of a big league star even though he was just out of high school. As the third pick of the first round of the Major League Draft, it was just a matter of time before he hit the majors. Blake knew the projected timetable. He would breeze through the Rookie League and Class A ball in his first professional season. His second professional season would probably be split between AA and AAA and he correctly figured he would be with the Chicago Cubs at the start of his third season. He had all the confidence in the world in his physical abilities. He just had to learn the intricacies of handling a big-league pitching staff and improving his game-calling skills.

Blake Benson in his mid-30s was a quite different player. He would no longer be looked at as an athlete, but more as a baseball mentor. His physical skills had diminished with injuries, age, and abuse. He was far below his .305 career batting average this season. His power numbers had decreased as well. He averaged 35 home runs and 100 runs batted in during his five-year peak. Later years were statistically less impressive, but were still stellar for a catcher, since the primary talent of a backstop has always been defense first. Offensive production was considered a bonus.

Now he was a part-time, third-string catcher with an aching body and a clouded mind. The desire had waned. Blake often wondered why he still was playing this game. He had more than enough money to last the rest of his life. The travel was exhausting both mentally and physically. Heck, even a pennant race could not get him excited, though he and his team had never won a World Series.

His bloated body was giving him daily signals that his time was running out as a major league player. More importantly, his mental state was in similar decline. He knew that this part of his game was all that he had left. Ironically, he was on a big-league roster solely because he could offer wisdom and experience, but that would only go so far if off-field issues continued. At one point in his big-league career, the superstar was considered a prime candidate for coaching after his playing days were over, but now he could not see that in his future. The game had worn him out.

Kim knew that much of Blake’s decline was due to the alcohol abuse. She understood the physical pain a catcher had to endure over the years, but she also figured that a man in his mid-30s should still be in competitive shape if he took care of himself. She harped on Blake to act like a professional athlete and take care of his body, but Blake had the stubbornness of a spoiled superstar who always did what he liked, when he liked. He rationalized that his baseball smarts were really all the team wanted anymore. He saw very little need to push himself physically.

Kim had witnessed firsthand the ravaging effects of alcohol abuse. The wasteful ways of alcohol became embedded in her mind. Her father had been a successful trial lawyer until alcohol began to take away his focus and desire. She also had suffered through her father’s diminished mental capacity and loss of confidence. She feared that Blake would continue spiraling down until there was no hope of recovery. Her father had died at the age of 55 from liver disease. He had spent the last couple of years of life in a demented state, with numerous physical and mental ailments. She feared the same would happen to her husband, perhaps at an even earlier age.

Alcohol and road trips were the biggest source of concern and they were indelibly intertwined. Blake had confessed his infidelity numerous times. The loneliness of the road was unbearable for him and the temptations were abundant. Kim was hurt by the infidelity, but tolerated it as long as Blake did not get emotionally attached or financially liable for children. Players’ wives had to deal with infidelity on the road. It went along with the territory of fame and fortune.

Kim was always more concerned that Blake’s boozing would put him in harm’s way. His lack of judgment during his binges could be astounding. Kim did not know all of the dangerous predicaments that Blake had put himself in, but she knew of several because the allegations and rumors had to be addressed by Blake’s legal advisers. She was incensed that Blake did not care enough about their marriage to change his reckless ways. Kim was grateful that they did not have any children to be embarrassed by their father’s actions, but that was a small consolation.

Sandy finally decided that now was the time to call Kim. He told Buck that the chartered plane would wait a few minutes so he could put this distraction to rest.

Kim, this is Sandy, he spoke in a deliberately calm tone as he slowly drifted away from the pack of players.

Sandy, please tell me Blake’s okay, she blurted out before he could finish.

He’s safe, but he’s going to need some help from all of us. Sandy tried to reassure her of Blake’s condition.

What do you mean, Sandy? Is he with the team right now?

No Kim, we had to leave him behind because of his drinking. It’s all coming to a head right now. Blake will be in the air shortly to Chicago. Can you pick him up?

You know I will. Just so I can knock him upside his head for being so stupid, Kim answered in anger.

Sandy knew he would have to calm her down. He anticipated this reaction, but he also knew this time was different. Blake seemed willing to get help this time.

Now Kim, Blake’s agreed to go into rehab this time. You need to see how down he is. This is the time for compassion. We should find comfort that he’s willing to quit, not anger for past deeds, Sandy spoke always as the voice of reason.

Yes, I know you’re right Sandy, but I still feel angry. Why hasn’t Blake called me?

I offered to call you, Sandy once again covered for Blake. I gave him my other phone. He’ll call you shortly. I just wanted you to know that he’s safe and the club is getting help for him. Pick him up at O’Hare and somebody from the organization will call your home in a couple of days with the details on his rehab. I have to run now. Take care of my friend.

Sandy, you’re a true friend. Thank you. I don’t know what else to say, but goodbye, said Kim before the call ended.

Kim and Sandy had a very unique relationship. Nearly everyone was attracted to Sandy’s calm, laid-back demeanor and classically handsome appearance. Kim and Sandy both knew their proper places in this triumvirate, but their mutual admiration was there for all to see except for one self-absorbed star named Blake Benson.

Blake could see nothing but positives in his longtime friend. Their friendship broke all baseball’s customary boundaries. The timeworn