Tink Wilson

By J.J. Parker

What does a young man do when he learns his hometown girlfriend is carrying his child?
In 1963 America, he typically married her.
But Tink Wilson is a minor-league baseball player living in California when he learns his Illinois girlfriend is pregnant. Plus, hes fallen in love with a glamorous young Southern California actress while trying to achieve his lifelong goal of reaching the big leagues.
"Tink Wilson" is a bawdy, Huck Finnish portrayal of the lives of the fictional 1963 San Diego Padres of the Pacific Coast League. Presented in flashbacks, the novel reveals Tink to be an unsophisticated 21-year-old who offers no-holds-barred insight into the story's other characters, who range from the wild, the hip and the skirt-chasing to homebodies who prefer watching TV or fishing to raising hell.
"Tink Wilson" is a whimsical tale of young people chasing dreams in America in the time of President Kennedy, the civil rights struggle, and the Mercury space program.
J.J. Parker is a former news reporter who's written 40 short stories and several humorous yet touching plays, including those about 1960s icons Sonny Liston and Robert Kennedy. "Tink Wilson" is his debut novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 16, 2005
• ISBN: 9781462842216

J.J. Parker

N/A

Book preview

Introduction I

About Me (January 1963)

My name’s Tink Wilson, and I’m a professional baseball player.

But not a big leaguer.

Yet.

Though I will be. I’m too reliable of a hitter and outfielder not to make it.

I wasn’t invited to the camp of the Cincinnati Reds for this spring, so I’ll be training with the San Diego Padres.

But that’s fine with me. The Padres are the Reds’ Class AAA farm team, their top minor-league ballclub. And the Padres train right next to the Reds in Tampa, Florida.

After minor league seasons end, big league clubs call up their best prospects in September to give them experience playing major league baseball.

I aim to be one of them. Because I love baseball. And who wouldn’t want to play ball for a living for as long as he can? It sure beats working.

There’s only 20 teams in the majors. Only 500 big leaguers in a country of 180 million people. Only 500 guys talented enough at swinging the bat, throwing and catching the ball, bunting it, and running the bases, to play major league baseball.

I’d love to be one of that 500. Only the best ballplayers make it.

The bigs.

That’s my dream.

Not just because I’d be one of those 500 and little kids would hound me for my autograph wherever I’d go. But, how else could I earn a living playing a game I love, outdoors, enjoying fresh air, running with the wind in my face and fans cheering my every move (or most of ‘em)?

And, in what other profession could I face the ultimate challenge: me coming to the plate with the game on the line, the bottom of the 9th, tying and winning runs on base, and the other team’s toughest relief pitcher glowering at me from the mound. And fans in the stands standing, shaking their fists, yelling for me to, C’mon Wilson, knock ‘em in!

Can I do it in the bigs?

I need to find out.

And who knows . . . if I do make the bigs and perform well for a bunch of years, maybe after I retire I’ll be abducted into the Hall of Fame.

—T.W.

Introduction II

L

ooking Back Through the Looking Glass (January 1964)

Sorry to skip ahead so fast. But you might wonder why I’m letting you in on what happened to me during the 1963 baseball season. As you’ll see, lots of wonderful things happened, though I had some disappointments, too. And my girlfriend from back home dropped a big surprise on me early in the spring. And then I met Marla, a lovely girl in San Diego who . . . well, you’ll find out.

I decided to write in a diary before I left for camp last February. I’d been in the minors since ‘59, and had experienced ups and downs. Mainly ups, since I kept riding the elevator (that means getting promoted from lower leagues), up to Triple A with the San Diego Padres of the Pacific Coast League, probably the toughest minor circuit. So San Diego was where I’d play in ‘63.

As I said, I’d mostly enjoyed my time in the minors prior to last year, and I figured I wanted to write a record of what could’ve become my last season in the minors, to have a keepsake of what it was like to have been a busher that I could look back on when I got old (and maybe show to my grandchildren, except I might have to cross out the more riskay parts).

So starting before spring training, I wrote entries in a black-covered diary looking like a Bible that I’d bought at an Ottumwa five-and-dime. I jotted down notes here and there, stuffed them in my pockets, and transferred those notes to my diary when I had the chance (usually when no one else was looking). And my diary is pretty accurate, because, to set the record straight, I tried to write notes within a day or so of when events happened, except for the nights when I was really tired, or drunk, or the night I was in that Mexican jail.

I tried to write my notes in private—in my bedroom at the house I rented in Imperial Beach with Jake and Joey, or on the road, in whatever hotel room I was in. (Occasionally my roomie Jimmy or another Padre would see me scribbling notes and wonder allowed what I was up to. At first they’d snicker when they learned I was keeping a diary like a girl, but then they got used to it and didn’t say anything about it. They had better things to do, like getting looped or chasing girls.) When writing, I’d remember what’d happened that day or the past few days, and then I’d list the events that stood out the most. As for the dialogue in this book, even though it has quote marks around it, don’t think that’s what all these people (including me) said word for word. My memory isn’t that precise. I had to recreate what the other players (and I) said, near as I could remember. But the jest of what people said remained the same in my diary, so the dialogue in this book should give you readers an idea of what my fellow ballplayers (and other folks) were and are like.

And if you don’t like cuss words, you might as well stop reading now. You know how ballplayers are.

As to how my diary got made into a book: I told this J.J. Parker fella, a sportswriter who lives in my hometown of Ottumwa, Illinois, about my diary last fall. (He’d dropped by the auto parts store where I work in the offseason, and started discussing my 1963 baseball campaign with me.) Mr. Parker said my diary could make a readable book because people might be curious about what a professional baseball player’s life is like. So I let him read my diary (luckily it didn’t have anything really dirty in it), and he said he’d try to put it into some kind of readable shape and send it off to a publisher. Plus, he said, when the book was printed, I’d get some money for each copy sold (what’s known as Royal tease).

And you know how we minor-league ballplayers are: we need the money.

In case you’re wondering, I’m not very good with grammer. But Mr. Parker said that was OK—putting out this book the way I wrote it kind of reinforces its realism, he said (whatever that means) . Yet he put my diary entries into paragraphs and inserted punctual nation like dashes and hymens and semye-colons and those three dots in a row (I’m not sure what those are—I think he called them Egypsies) in some places, and I think he corrected my spelling errors too, or most of them. And now and then, if you spot a big word in this book, blame Mr. Parker for inserting it. I’m no wordsmith.

For those of you more literate than me, which should be 99 percent of you readers: if you see me wording stuff wrong or spelling incorrectly, please bare with me. I’m a ballplayer, not a writer. And if you don’t like the way I wrote, blame Mr. Parker. This whole thing was his idea anyway; he said this book could be his magnum dopus (or at least become a beastseller).

But back to baseball: here’s a word about my performance. In my diary, I didn’t mention what I did at the plate each game. That’s good, because it would’ve made this book even more boring than it already is. Instead, I listed the highlights of my season, as a

hitter and in the field. And, to be fair, I talked some about my screw-ups, too. In case you want to find out how I did overall, look at the end of this book for my stats. Enough explanation. Buckle up. Here we go.

—T.W.

Dramatis Personay

Edgar Tink Wilson: That’s me—girls call me Eddie. I bat left and throw left, and play left field. I’m from Ottumwa, Ill., a town of 17,000 people an hour or so west of Chicago. I’m a good hitter, if I do say so, and I’m single (more or less). I turn 22 in August.

Ben Remington: He’s the Padres’ genital manager and salary negotiator. He’s in his 60s, and he has a temper. And he’s cheap. I don’t know where the old grump’s from.

Hardy Oates: He’s the Skipper—the Padres’ manager. Hardy, an ex-catcher, doubles as our pitching coach. He’s 53 and isn’t married, though he has a lady friend in Las Vegas. Speaking of Vegas—Hardy loves to gamble and play the horses. He had a cup of coffee with the 1945 Senators as a backup catcher. Skip’s from Minnesota or Pennsylvania originally (I forget which), but he’s been living the baseball gypsy life for decades. He’s a burly, no-nonsense guy with (I think) a heart of gold.

Glenn Hoch Hochstedler: He’s our third-base coach. Hoch also hits us outfielders fungoes and relays Hardy’s signs to the hitters. He’s 63, and has been married to the same woman since Hector was a pup (or a baby, or whatever Hector was in the old days) . Hoch, originally from South Bend, Ind. , watched Notre Dame football in the glory days of Knute Rockne. Hoch has a scratchy voice and chews tobacco. And judging by his roly-poly physique, he hasn’t missed many meals lately.

Jake Stevens: Jake is a left-handed pitcher from Brooklyn. He shares a rented San Diego house with me and Joey Ganner. Jake is 3 0 years old and recently divorced; half his salary goes to his ex-wife, which he reminds people of continually. Jake looks like Dean Martin and has a gravelly voice. And a sense of humor, luckily, since I live with him. But he has a bum shoulder which pains him when he pitches, and his baseball future is cloudy. Jakey is one of the few Padres to have played in the bigs.

Joey Ganner: Joey is a 23-year-old second baseman from Los Angeles. He’s a ladies’ man who looks like Ricky Nelson; Joey claims he can pick up any woman, anytime, anywhere—and he may be right. It sure seems like he can. He’s a switch-hitter and a fine player (on the field, I mean). He’s single as hell.

Jimmy Bastion: Jimmy’s my road roomie for most of the season. He’s quiet. But he loves fishing. He’s the Padres’ fourth outfielder (and a glove man), and he’s 23 years old. He’s from Iowa and single, but he doesn’t chase the skirts or drink. It takes all kinds, I guess.

Don Rooster Brewster: A 24-year-old, left-handed-hitting third baseman who hits with power. Brew is also a good ol’ boy from Lower Alabama, where he returns in the offseason to tend bar. He’s a blonde-haired chickie-chaser who runs with Pep and Joey. Brew’s a big guy, too: 6’3" and 195 pounds. His powerful forearms rival Popeye’s. Fortunately, Rooster’s as easygoing as his down-home drawl. And he’s as unmarried as they come.

Willie Johnson: Willie is our center fielder. He’s a graceful, speedy, streetwise 22-year-old from Detroit. Willie is one of the two Negroes on the ballclub (Willard is the other). Willie bats left and throws right, steals lots of bases and scores lots of runs. Batting leadoff, he ignites our attack. Willie has a brash voice, and often smiles, but I think deep down he’s pained by the way our society treats Negroes (I would be too if I were him) . Willie’s unmarried, I think, but I’m unsure because I don’t run with him.

Mike Rossoli: At 36, Mike—our starting catcher—is the oldest of the Padres’ players. And he’s our Number One family man: Rossoli is married and has three kids. That’s a lot of mouths to feed on minor-league pay. But Mike’s taken college classes, so maybe he has a successful career planned for when he retires from O.B. (that’s Organized Baseball to you) . Mike looks Italian, which he is—he kinda looks like Tony Bennett. Mike’s a fine catcher but only a so-so hitter. And he runs awful slow. Rossoli played three years with the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 19 50s, when they were so bad they were virtually a Triple A team. He also played in the P.C.L. during its pre-1958 golden, or hellseein, days—which he misses.

Tim Pep Peppola: Pep is a 23-year-old first baseman from Oakland. He’s a tough guy who grew up fighting, hot rodding and drag racing. He’s a lefty swinger and a .280 hitter with occasional bursts of power. He’s a six-footer with a hook nose and sideburns; he looks like a greaser. He’s unmarried, is part of our skirt-chaser crew, and runs with Rooster and Joey.

Fred McDunn: Fred’s a 22-year-old flake from Chicago. But he’s one of our finest relievers. He’s a lefty (seemingly all flakes are), and his screwball is his out pitch. I played with McDunn in Macon in ‘62; he’s a red-haired prankster with a weird sense of humor. He’s short (5’9") and single.

Wally Stats Kerrigan: Kerrigan is a 24-year-old right fielder from Maine known for his ability to figure his batting average as he runs to first base. Stats is our hit leader until he gets promoted to the Reds in July. Kerrigan’s older brother, Joe, also plays minor-league baseball (but Wally is better). Kerrigan has a cast-iron glove, though. Stats is a stocky, crewcut guy who seldom strikes out and bats second.

Ted Kenny or K Kenowicz: Kenowicz is a brainy, 25-year-old shortstop who’s earned a college degree in the off-season. He’s soft-spoken, usually, but thoughtful. As a glove man, he bats eighth. And he’s mad that the Reds didn’t play him much when they called him up in September ‘62. He’ll get another chance in ‘63. He’s unmarried, and has a typical shortstop’s build: 6’2" and skinny.

Willard Washington: Big Willard is a valuable 27-year-old player, backing up Rossoli at catcher and Pep at first base. Willard is our ballclub’s other Negro, and he rooms (and runs) with Willie—I realize Willie and Willard can be confusing at first, but if you saw them, you could easily tell them apart: Willard is stocky and has a belly, while Willie is lithe like a panther. Anyhow, Willard’s from Mississippi, and has a deep voice. He speaks in a thick drawl, too, that’s tough for those of us from the North to understand. Luckily, he doesn’t talk much. Willard has a strong arm and few runners try to steal on him. Come to think of it, Willard may be the strongest man on the Padres. He’s a solid right-handed hitter, too. Willard is married and has kids, I understand, though I haven’t seen them at the ballpark.

Cuestiban Cuesto Cervales: Cuesto (and don’t ask me where he got that nickname from, ‘cause I don’t know) is a pot-bellied 26-year-old (at least he says he’s 26) starting pitcher from Cuba. Cuesto escaped from Castro’s Cuba in 19 59; he dashed into the U.S. embassy in Havana and demanded to be put in an asylum, I think is what they call it. Anyway, Cuesto, a right-hander, tosses several pitches from three different deliveries, and is one of our top hurlers. Cuesto smokes Cuban cigars (naturally), and he used to cut sugar cane all day long as a child. He’s unmarried, which means he’s happy.

Jon Franks: Franks is the Padres’ organization’s top pitching prospect. He’s a 6’4" fireballer from Texas. Franks, 22, has a king-sized temper. Each time he pitches, he strikes out a boatload of batters but walks too many—well, nobody’s perfect. And if Franks didn’t have any pitching weaknesses, he sure wouldn’t be in the minor leagues. He’s single, I guess, though because of his surly attitude I hardly ever talk to him so I don’t know if he has a sweetie.

Bill Dudley: Dudley’s a 27-year-old right-handed starting pitcher from Ohio. Dudley is 5’10, short for a pitcher, but he’s one of our mound mainstays. He’s also married, and his wife calls him Studley Dudley" for his bedroom prowess (he claims). Dudley’s in his 10th season in the minors, but he thinks that with expansion (there’s 2 0 teams in the bigs now), he has his best chance ever of getting called up. He’s a junkballer who throws a lot of strikes, which we fielders love because it keeps us on our toes and our heads out of the stands.

Coke Martin: Coke’s a 24-year-old reliever from Georgia. He’s called Coke because that’s his favorite beverage, and he drinks it often. (I have no idea what his real first name is.) A sinker is his out pitch. His crewcut is so short he appears bald with his cap off. He’s a thin six-footer who speaks in a soft Southern accent. And he’s married.

Billy Ketchum: Billy the Kid (he’s 20, the youngest player on the team) is a right-handed hard-throwing pitcher who’s called up to us in May. He has fair control and a sharp curve. He’s 6’1" and scrawny, maybe still growing, and he’s from the sticks: South Dakota. He’s unmarried but not much of a ladies’ man—yet.

Stan Jones: Stan is a veteran (he’s 33) right-handed pitcher called up to the Padres in July. Stan, from eastern Pennsylvania, can start or relieve. He’s tall (6’3") but cadaverous (only 17 5 pounds) . He doesn’t like women for some reason; he doesn’t date and has never married. He’s a loner who actually reads books, including stuff by Shakespeare, who he likes to quote (though I don’t know what Stan’s saying when he does).

Pete Kelly: Kelly is a hip 23-year-old outfielder called up to us in July. Kelly, who wears glasses, tries to come off like a combination of Maynard G. Krebs and Kookie from those two TV shows, Dopie Gillis and 77 Sunset Strippers. Kelly acts goofy, which irrigates Hardy a lot. Kelly, from Denver, says things like Daddyo and dig? and calls people Clyde and so on. Kelly is single, and thinks marriage is Squaresville. He’s 5’10" and slouches a lot, and he’s a left-handed thrower and batter. His hair is kinda long (like Maynard’s) and seems uncombed, but I think Kelly’s whole act is just that—an act.

Ross Smith: Ross is a utility infielder who’s seldom used during the first half of the season. He’s in his mid-20s, and I have no idea where he’s from. I can’t tell by his accent either, and he rarely talks anyway. He’s a little guy who’s a banjo hitter, but a decent fielder. He’s married to an equally shy young woman.

George: George is our trainer. He’s 60ish and semi-retired (meaning all he does is work for the Padres during the season; he relaxes the rest of the year.) He has gray hair he wears in a crewcut. He rubs down pitchers’ arms, treats leg and back injuries, etc. George goes with us on the road, and hangs out in the dugout and in the clubhouse trainer’s room after and before games. He’s married to an old lady.

Janey Warren: She’s my longtime girlfriend. She works as a pizza waitress in Ottumwa (though I guess she’s not going to do that forever). Janey and I started going together in high school. She’s half a year older than me; she has long, dark hair and is kinda tall for a girl (5’9" or thereabouts) . She nags me, which I hate, when I don’t phone her often enough. And she has a quite a surprise for me in April.

Marla McVey: Marla’s a lovely blonde native of San Diego who I meet and fall in love with early in the season. (Well, the falling in love part happens gradually.) She attends San Diego State, and she’s studying theatre arts so she can become an actress. She can sing, too! And what a doll she is—soulful dark eyes and honey-blonde hair with bangs. And she has a curvy body, too. Sigh . . . . She’s shorter than Janey, and a year younger than her, and has a sweeter personality. Some day I’m going to marry her (Marla, I mean) . At least I hope I’ll marry her some day.

Mom: She’s a nice lady, usually. She’s nearly 50, so she’s getting pretty old. And she’s a widow, unfortunately. She also complains when I don’t phone her often enough, but she does it in a nice way, unlike Janey. Mom calls me Eddie, too (while all the guys call me Tink or some variation of that). Mom’s not dating anybody in Ottumwa—I don’t think she’ll ever get over Dad being gone.

Dad: His name was Ed Wilson. I was sort of named after him (though I wasn’t called Junior or The Second). Dad was a hard-working guy who died of pneumonia in February 1961. He was 50, and he went quick. I just am now getting used to him being gone, and I often think about him and the advice he gave me. Dad taught me to play baseball, my favorite sport, and he shared my dream of me playing in the big leagues. Dad was shorter than I am (he was 5’10") but he was well-built, about 200 pounds. He was a good amateur ballplayer before the war, in which he served (in the U.S. Army) . He worked in a factory, but did that only for the money—his real passion was baseball.

Chap. 1

(Late February 1963): Dealing with Ol’ Ben

As I drove my green two-door 1960 Ford Galaxy 500 to the San Diego Padres’ spring training camp next to the Cincinnati Reds’ camp in Tampa, Florida, I glanced at my eyes in my rear-view mirror and wondered what drove me to become a major leaguer.

It sure wasn’t money.

The month before, ol’ Ben Remington, the Padres’ general manager, had mailed me a contract for $600 a month. I called him long distance and told him I couldn’t live on that, even with the $5-a-day meal money I’d get on road trips. Ol’ Ben spluttered on the phone and darn near had a breakdown, it sounded like.

We have a salary structure on this ballclub, he said evenly, like he was trying to control his temper. "We can’t pay you more than $600 a month because that would throw the whole structure out of whack, and then everyone would want more money!"

I told him that wasn’t a bad idea, seeing as how all minor league ballplayers who I’ve known struggle to make ends meet. Last season, in 1962, I played Class AA ball in Macon, Georgia. Yep, I brought home the bacon in Macon. Anyway, me and a teammate shared a dingy room in the

Cockroach Motel, otherwise known as the YMCA. And we had to take turns sleeping on a cot that collapsed if we turned over too fast, while the other guy tried to fall asleep on a bed with a thin mattress that felt like a concrete slab.

And besides our fellow boarders, the roaches, we had other company in that room. Bedbugs. Oooooh, all the itchin’ we’d do. And complaining? Bitching to the motel manager was like talking to the wall. Well, that creepy room gave my roommate and I extra motivation to move up the ladder in the Reds’ organization. I did, but Marty got drafted into the Army.

At least he was used to sleeping on cots.

Back to ol’ Ben. I call him that because he’s old and has been affiliated with the Padres organization for 30 years. Or so I’ve heard. When you talk to him, you have to speak up because he’s nearly deaf, except when you talk salary. Then he hears every word.

Last year, in Double A, I earned $575 a month, which wasn’t much. I told Ben that, but he said $600 a month sounded like a raise to him. I said it sounded that way to me too, but $800 a month sounded better.

What?! he yelled into the phone.

I repeated myself.

We can’t pay you $800!

I asked why not.

That would be nearly a 40 percent raise for you (ol’ Ben has a mind like a slide rule), and it’s against club policy to give raises that big!

I informed Ben that last season I’d played for a different ballclub, so he couldn’t compare what Tampa had paid me to what I would earn with San Diego. Then he swore a swear word. I won’t say which one, only that I was surprised an old guy like him knew it.

After calming down, he told me to think over his offer of $600 a month, and call him back in a few days. So I did.

Did you think it over? he asked.

Yes I did.

Well?

I still think I can’t play for $600 a month.

He used that cuss word again.

Look boy, if you don’t sign your contract and report to camp on time, we’ll fine you every day you hold out!

Then I won’t report at all. I can go to work at my uncle’s auto parts store.

My Uncle Bob owns an auto parts store in Ottumwa, Illinois, where I’m from. I lied to Ben about being willing to give up my baseball career, but heck, I do work in the auto parts store in the off-season. I’ve had to help support Mom since Dad died. Part of what I earn as a ballplayer and what I earn at the auto part store goes to her, so she can pay the property taxes on our house, and buy food and pay the bills, and so on. (She also lives on money she received from a life insurance policy she had on Dad.)

Anyway, back to the phone conversation I had with ol’ Ben. After I threatened to go to work for my uncle, Ben was silent on the other end of the line. It was the longest time I’d heard him not say anything.

Tell you what, he finally said before letting out a deep breath. We’ll pay you $700 a month. On one condition: you don’t tell anyone what you’re earning.

I agreed. And I haven’t. (Until now.)

But I’d earn that $700 salary only for the season I’d spend with the San Diego club, the Padres (a funny nickname—named after some old friars who wore brown bathrobes) . My salary would be paid each month from March through September. That’s seven months. Actually, six-and-a-half months, since the ‘63 season ends on Sept. 15 (unless we make the playoffs). So I’ll earn $4,200 for the first six months plus half-pay of $350 in September (if we don’t make the playoffs), totaling $4,550. It doesn’t sound like a whole lot, but it’ll keep me in eats. Plus, when you consider the major-league minimum is $7,000 a year, I don’t see how I in my first season in Triple A can be paid a whole lot more. I barely could get $700 a month out of ol’ Ben.

I guess pro ballplayers will never get rich.

But back to the present, or closer to it. As I drove along the endless highway south for spring training, I felt glad I’d pulled a fast one on ol’ Ben, even if all it got me was a lousy extra C note a month. And, when I figured in expenses for rent and bills and gasoline as well as food (and the occasional beer) , I’d still have to watch my money.

Luckily, I don’t drink as much as some players. Lordy, some of them drink up their paycheck before they’re through the week. That’s mainly the older guys, though. I’m only 21, and I hardly ever drank until last season. And then it was usually beer (and only if someone else was buying).

Becoming a drunk wouldn’t do me any good since I’m considering getting married. Not now, but some day. I love Janey, my girlfriend from back home, and she loves me, I think. We probably would’ve gotten engaged by now except I don’t earn much money even including my offseason wages, so we’re waiting until I get called up to the bigs. Or, I should say, I’m waiting to propose to her until then. But that won’t be long now; if I have a good season in Triple A, I should get the call to Cincinnati in September.

Until I sign a big-league contract and we get married, Janey remains in Ottumwa, waitressing at the pizza joint downtown. It doesn’t pay much, but she gobbles up a lot of leftover pizza that customers leave on the tables. I guess that’s what’s known as benefits.

Though Janey won’t be with me in spring training or in San Diego this summer, she’ll still help me out. Because

I have a steady girl, it’ll be easier to resist temptation. At every level of O.B. (that’s professional Organized Baseball) , there’s lots of Annies, or young women who’ll do anything to get a piece of ballplayer. I don’t know why that is, but I seldom hear ballplayers complain about attractive young ladies hounding them at ballparks’ players’ entrances or in hotel lobbies or bars.

So at least sex—if he’s looking for it—can be easy to get, and free too, for a ballplayer. And even minor leaguers can afford to get a piece of easy tail.

I’ve been in the minors since 1959. I was signed by the Reds’ organization in June of that year, right after I graduated from Ottumwa High School, located just north of the Illinois River. I’ve always been able to hit, for average and power. That’s why I’m confident I’ll adjust to this AAA Coast League—though pitching gets tougher at each level as a player assends the elevator—and then become a regular outfielder with Cincinnati.

And then I’ll get paid much better, and Janey and I will get married, I guess. But money isn’t what drives me to make the bigs. Ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted to be a major league baseball player. My late (which means he’s passed away, not that he was slow getting to places) Dad started taking me to games in Chicago—only an hour away from Ottumwa—in the early ‘50s. Dad was a White Sox fan, but I preferred the Cubs, so he gave in and mostly took me to Wrigley Field. I loved to watch Frank Bauer, the big-but-slow outfielder, hit. Boy, was he strong. Once I saw him hit a homer over the left-field bleachers, the baseball bouncing high off Waveland Avenue.

A year or two after that game, Bernie Hanks came along. He used to play in the old Negro Leagues. He was a shortstop (he plays first base now because he has bad knees) . Bernie would hit homers into the left-field bleachers regularly, snapping his wrists and pulling fastballs . I sort of wish I was in the Cubs’ organization, because the Cubbies were always my favorites, but darn, they’re an awful team. And it seems they always have been, come to think of it. So it’s just as well I’m in the Reds’ organization.

Anyhow, what makes me put up with sleeping on cots in a crowded room, and sleeping with bedbugs and roaches, and drawing chintzy pay, and negotiating with surly general managers, and getting a numbed behind on long bus rides (which is how minor leaguers typically travel from game to game) is . . . I want to attain my goal of becoming a major leaguer.

Not everybody can, or does. But I will.

Chap. 2

(March 1): Meeting Skip

I drove along the two-lane, countrified highways, heading southeast to the Padres’ training camp in Florida. As I’ve mentioned, the Padres train in Tampa next to the Reds, our parent team. The Reds’ brass want to keep an eye on their top prospects, I suppose. Anyhow, it’s a long drive to Tampa from north central Illinois, so I had time to do a lot of thinking.

But I didn’t have any adventures (unlike the way those two guys do on that TV show, Route 66) , unless you count getting a flat tire in the middle of hill country in Tennessee. I had to change the flat myself. Luckily I had a spare, but it was nearly flat too. First gas station I came to, I had the hillbilly attendant patch the flat, and he put the original tire back on, no extra charge.

I brought lots of money—2 0 bucks—with me on the trip to Florida in case of emergencies, and because we ballplayers won’t get paid until the end of March. I lived with Mom again last winter, and I saved much of what Uncle Bob paid me at the auto parts store.

I pulled into Tampa on March 1, a day before I was due in camp. At least I know my way around town, since I played for Tampa’s Double A club last season. But this spring I won’t be staying at the YMCA, the way I did in ‘ 62 . The Padres have temporary living arrangements set up in a motel—though not much improvement over the XY’. I checked into my motel room, and discovered that both of my roommates were already there. Actually, their baggage was in the room, but they were gone. So after unpacking my clothes and baseball gear, I went to see my new ballclub’s manager.

I walked to the ramshackle diamond we Padres would call home this spring. I ducked into a dugout and tramped down the runway toward a clubhouse. I pushed open the door, and went inside.

A cleanup man leaning on a wet mop told me Hardy Oates was in his office, which was tucked in a corner of the stinky place.

I knocked on his door, though it was open. Seated behind his desk, he looked up from the Racing Form he was reading. I assumed it was for doping out horse races, though I’d heard Florida has dog tracks, too.

Skip, I’m Tink Wilson. I’m an outfielder.

Oh yeah. I’ve been expecting you, he said gruffly as he set down the Racing Form. Come on in.

I stepped into his office; after we shook hands, he told me to have a seat in a rickety chair in front of his desk. So I sat.

I called him Skip though that wasn’t his name. But that’s what ballplayers call their manager. I don’t know why. It’d be kinda awkward to call a man old enough to be your father by his first name, and it’d make him feel old if you called him Mr. So-and-So, so I guess Skip has its purpose. (And when players get mad at their manager—which they do often—they call him other names, but not to his face.)

Hardy, though sitting, looked like a big man. It turned out he was a six-footer with a beer belly; this brawny middle-aged man had a gray-and-white crewcut that suited his face, creased by wrinkles near his eyes and on his forehead, which may have worn in from excessive worrying. He asked me how my winter had been, and how my parents were, and I told him Dad was deceased, and he said that’s too bad, and I said that’s alright because he died a couple years ago and I was used to it by now. Then we shared an awkward pause that happens between people who don’t know each other well after they finish making small talk.

So, said Hardy, who wore his flannel uniform pants and a white T shirt, after picking up a statistic sheet from his desk, I see you had a good season in Macon last year.

Thanks. I hit pretty well, but I always have.

Twenty-one homers, hey?

Yep, I said proudly. Most I ever hit with one club. Though I split 1960 with two ballclubs and hit 23 combined.

Well, Skip said, his chin resting on his hand as he eyed the stat sheet, we sure can use some power. But, a scouting report we got on you says you need to work on your throwing. Sometimes you miss the cutoff man, and a lot of your throws to bases are wild. And you need to work on charging groundballs.

He was right. I’ve never worked as hard on my fielding and throwing as I have on my hitting.

But hell, Hardy continued as he leaned back in his chair and eyed me, nobody’s perfect. Especially in the minors. Our report says you’re not a bad outfielder. Keep working on your fielding and throwing—and we have a coach who’s good at helping players improve at those things—and don’t develop bad habits at the plate. Hit the ball where it’s pitched, hit line drives, and you should avoid slumps.

I noticed a framed black-and-white team photo on the wall by his desk. Squinting, I made out the white-lettered words 1945 Washington Senators on it. I asked Hardy if he’d been on that team.

Yep, I was the backup catcher, said Hardy, enlacing his fingers behind his head while he stretched out his legs under his desk. The only big league club I played for. We damn near won the pennant. Lost to the fuckin’ Tigers. But what a pitching staff we had! And all our starters could throw the knuckleball—it was a pain in the ass tryin’ to catch it, but hitters had it rougher tryin’ to hit it.

Why didn’t you play more years in the majors?

The only reason I made it to the Senators was the war. I had a deferment ‘cause of bad knees, and I was in my mid-30s anyway. And by ‘45 many teams were desperate for players, and the Senators needed another catcher. I’d had a good year in the minors in ‘44, so they signed me.

What happened in ‘46?

"The regular players came back, and I went back to the minors. I couldn’t hit big league pitching. Fuckin’ breakin’ balls broke my balls, ha-ha . . . ."

Hardy paused, staring at a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

"But I was a good catcher, and I had a strong arm."

Then he gazed at that Senators team picture, though he didn’t look at it as much as through it.

Enough about me, he said after a bit, glancing back at me. Camp starts tomorrow at 8 a.m. Be here on time, and sober!

I told him I’d do both, and backed out of his cramped office.

That night, I ate at a nearby diner, and went back to my motel room. I phoned Mom and told her I’d made it to Tampa all right. I was about to call Janey when my roommates walked through the door.

I was about to learn what being a San Diego Padre—and a Triple A ballplayer—would be like.

Chap. 3

(Friday night, March 1): Dean and Ricky for Roomies?

Well, well, look who’s here, said a slickly dressed guy about my age of 21 after he entered through the screen door of our motel room. You must be our other roomie.

He extended his hand, and I grasped it.

When’d ya get here, kid? asked the man who’d next entered the motel room and looked 30 years old and seemed familiar.

I told him the time I’d arrived, and we also shook hands. Anybody tell you look like Dean Martin? I said.

All the time, kid, said the older man in a gravelly voice. Name’s Jake. This here is Joey.

I’m Tink.

Tink?! they exclaimed, looking at each other as they cracked up. I was embarrassed, so I quickly explained.

My Dad gave me the name xTink’ because of all the line drives I hit against chain-link outfield fences when I was playin’ high school ball. I’d rip one, and if it didn’t go over the fence for a homer, it’d smack off the fence with a xtink’ sound.

Joey—a handsome guy resembling Ricky Nelson with his hair all slicked-back and wavy—asked me my real first name, and I told him.

Edgar?! Jake spat out. Stick with xTink!’

Edgar’s not a bad name, I guess—it was my Mom’s father’s name, and it’s close to my Dad’s name of Edward—but it doesn’t sound like a ballplayer’s name.

Jake and Joey finished unpacking their luggage. There wasn’t much room in the small motel room for our belongings, though Jake and I hadn’t packed much. But Joey had. He’d brought two suitcases stuffed full of clothes. He dressed snazzy—brown loafers, sharp-edged slacks and patterned sports shirts—to impress the ladies, he said. And Joey sounded snazzy, too. He spoke with the smooth, Hollywood kind of accent I hear so many actors use on TV, fitting, it turned out, because he told me he’s from Los Angeles.

"And the City of Angels is loaded with dolls, said Joey, leering. More than even I can handle. But . . . that’s way out on the West Coast. Here we’re in Florida. So . . . ."

So, Jake interrupted in his New York accent, which he’d acquired, I learned, because that’s where he was raised, we’ve been checking out the local talent.

He meant women.

Did you get any? I asked.

If we had, we wouldn’t be here now, Joey declared. But we will, Roomie, we will . . . .

He knows his stuff, Jake said, gesturing toward Joey. "He can pick up any woman, any time."

I already have a woman, I said.

Where? Jake asked.

Back home.

They looked at each other and guffawed.

Man, said Jake, "you’ve got a long wait for pussy if you’re saving yourself for her."

Joey put his arm on my shoulder. Hey Bud, we’re going pussy hunting tonight. Wanna come along? There’s a bar we scoped out—went in there and talked to the bartender. Told him we’re ballplayers. It’s near the ballpark and lotsa babes go there looking for action. They know we’re in town for training camp, so they should be there tonight looking for some dick.

Well, I replied, I spoke to Hardy, our manager, and he said camp begins at 8 tomorrow morning, so . . . .

Ah hell, kid, ain’t you been sleepin’ all winter? Jake asked. "Gettin’ a piece of ass is worth stayin’ up all night."

He asked me what position I played.

Outfielder?! Jake exclaimed. Hell, you can snooze between fungoes in the outfield when you’re shaggin’ flies!

Joey sat on one of the beds, lit a cigarette and laid back.

You know, he said contemplatively after a puff, I really can pick up any woman I want. Ever hear of Lola Lanson, the blonde movie starlet?"

Yeah. I seen her in some XB’ movie where she was captured by a creature from outer space that looked like an ape in a space suit.

I screwed her last year.

No!

He didn’t dane to reply, but instead sucked on his cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

How’d you get a hold of her?! I asked.

I saw her at a nightclub near Hollywood and Vine. She was sitting in a tightass skirt at a table with a couple other hot chicks. I went up to little ol’ Lola and started talking, smooth-like. Told her I was a ballplayer. You’d be surprised how many chicks open their legs once you tell them that.

But . . . didn’t she have a boyfriend?

Who knows? Who cares? Lola and I left the nightclub, and I took her for a ride in more ways than one that night.

He chuckled while Jake also lit a cigarette, grinning like a proud papa before inhaling and snapping shut his lighter.

But geez, I remarked, Lola Lanson is kinda famous. I mean, she’s been in movies.

Joey put one hand behind his head, holding his smoking cigarette in his other hand, and crossed his ankles.

Man, pussy is pussy . . . .

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I was afraid to ask.

Kid, Jake said to me, if you ain’t goin’ skirt-chasin’ with us tonight, at least go out to dinner with us. You’ll be awful lonely if you keep to yourself.

I agreed. So we three went to an all-night diner on the other side of Tampa that featured tasty food, including the spiciest fried chicken I’d ever eaten. This place served us a lot of grub for little money, which always makes me happy. Joey flirted with the waitress, a cute little brunette who wiggled her heart-shaped, pink-skirted behind when she walked, and I thought he was gonna ask her out, but he didn’t.

Joey said he throws the small ones back.

Jake and Joey dropped me off at our motel, and then drove to that bar they’d told me about. I sat at the small desk in our room and composed a letter to Janey. As I wrote it, I took out her photo from my wallet and looked at her, so though I was alone, I didn’t feel lonely.

Chap. 4

(Sat. morning, March 2): Spring Training Begins

Before waking Saturday, I dreamt about playing in Yankee Stadium. I was batting, and the stands were full of people making so much noise I couldn’t think. I couldn’t tell who was pitching on the mound, but he was left-handed and throwing hard, and he wore the Yankee pinstripes with the big NY on his chest. I’d swing the bat but it moved real slow, like I was trying to swing it underwater, and the ball sped past me and into the catcher’s mitt before my bat floated across the strike zone.

I struck out, and trudging to the Yankees’ bench (even though the pitcher had been a Yankee), I worried about being sent back down to the minors if I whiffed again. Then I was jolted awake. My two roomies stumbled into the motel room.

I squinted at the alarm clock I faintly saw in the bleak light from the curtained window. It was 4:30 a.m.

Be quiet, one of my roomies mumbled. Don’t wanna wake up . . . whatzisname.

Arrgghhh, the other one said.

I had slept on the cot. As the youngest of us three (turns out Joey is 23) roomies, I was assigned to sleep on

the cot that first night—then we’d rotate. But at least I wouldn’t have to worry about one of those drunks falling on top of me (had I been lying in one of the beds).

After returning to dreamland, my alarm clock woke me at 7 a.m. Time to wash, shave and eat breakfast. As the alarm bell rang, my roomies, face down in their pillows, groaned as though being tortured. I hit the button killing the bell, and dressed. I was fresh; I could only guess how my hungover roommates felt. I walked to the nearby diner, where I devoured scrambled eggs and toast with coffee, and returned to the motel room for the short drive to the ballfield.

Joey and Jake were dressing, but looked haggard. Their grimy faces proclaimed neither one had shaved.

You guys eat? I asked.

No time, Jake mumbled.

You’re gonna work out on an empty stomach?

What else can we do? he said, grabbing his car keys from the desk.

The three of us left the room. As we got into Jake’s car, I asked the duo about their adventures of the night before. They said they’d had a good time, though they were hazy regarding what they’d done after midnight. Booze did that to them.

They’d gone to that bar near the ballpark, Smiley’s, Jake explained, where they found a couple women who made them smile. After a few beers, the girls suggested they go to a nightclub to dance. They drove off.

Man, you shoulda seen those gals twist, Joey said, cheery but bleary-eyed. They could really wiggle their asses.

Yeah, Jake said, I kept trying to get my babe—what was her name?

Cheryl, Joey said helpfully.

Yeah, Cheryl, I kept trying to get her to sit out a dance so I could rest up.

You mean for practice today? I asked.

"No, so I wouldn’t be too bushed to bang her in the sack later. But I was able to . . . I think."

Seems the two carefree gals shared a house, to which the four of them drove after dancing. Then the couples split up and went to different bedrooms. I don’t have to mention what happened after the doors closed.

When we parked in the ballpark’s gravel lot and got out, Joey rubbed his lower back.

Hope I don’t have to take too many grounders during infield, he said. My back’s stiff from that wild ride that babe gave me last night.

We carried our gear into the clubhouse. George, the gray-haired trainer and equipment manager, had taped our names above our wooden cubicles. I asked him why, and he said that this way he can rip off the tape from a cubicle when someone gets cut.

Easy come, easy go, said George, who was stocky and looked 60 .

Lots of guys in camp? I asked.

Oh, about 3 5.

How many make the club? I said while pulling on my workout jersey.

You’d have to ask the manager. But in the Coast League, most teams carry 22 or 23 players.

My uniform number was kinda high: 57.

Is this my permanent number?

I dunno, kid. You make the ballclub, you could get a lower one. We’ll see.

George shuffled off to unpack equipment in the storage room. I wasn’t worried about making the Padres. I’d had a stellar year in Double A ball the year before. Heck, the Reds wouldn’t have promoted me if they hadn’t thought I was ready for Triple A.

From Jake, I learned some of the players in camp were free agents who’d been released from other organizations over the winter. Jake said usually those guys don’t make the club. I asked why they’d been signed.

To push us, kid, he said, tucking his jersey inside his uniform pants. To make us bust our asses in spring training just to make sure we keep our jobs.

Everyone assembled on the ballfield. Actually, camp included two diamonds, including a nearby sandlot. The players grouped around skipper Hardy Oates and coach Glenn Hochstedler on the main diamond, the Padres’ home training field.

Hardy explained the day’s regimen; we’d perform calisthenics, run from foul line to foul line and break into groups. Half the squad would practice on the sandlot diamond, and half on the home field. Hardy said the squad had been divided randomly, but it seemed all the free agents assembled on the sandlot, and guys (like me) who’d been regulars last season practiced on the smooth home field.

By the way, about training next to the Reds: Cincinnati and the other big-league teams have their top farm club train next to the parent club because in the spring there’s shuttling that goes on between an organization’s top two ballclubs concerning marginal players (players who’d ride the bench on the big-league club but probably start with the Triple A outfit). Anyway, this day I saw Hardy shooting the bull behind the batting cage with Jed Murchinson, the Reds’ skipper. I was surprised at how much those two resembled each other. They’re both stocky and over six feet tall, and about the same age, 50 or so. Maybe Hardy, who has less hair on his head (and a bald spot crowning his crewcut), is older. Since those two managers look like brothers, once I get used to Hardy, if I get promoted to the Reds, I won’t feel completely lost. Will I?

I snagged fungoes with the other outfielders. Then Hoch, our coach, who was in charge of the workout, ripped hard grounders to us from the pitcher’s mound. I hated that—fielding hard grounders is my weakness. Heck, if I could do that, I’d be an infielder! One of Hoch’s daisycutters skipped under my glove. As I ran after the ball, his scratchy voice hollered, Get your butt down and don’t be afraid of the ball!

I can only imagine what he’d holler if I missed a grounder in a game.

Later, Hoch—who’s a roly-poly little guy—pitched BP. That’s batting practice, and after a winter layoff, we all needed it. Hoch lobbed the ball to us at first, then after we took a few cuts he threw harder. Guys not batting were shagging, and we also did hit-and-run drills, in which guys would line up at first to run full-speed to third as the hitter tried to hit the pitch to right field.

Morning flew by. It always does when I’m playing ball. We broke up for lunch. Sandwiches and milk or soda pop waited for us in the clubhouse. Nothing to write home about, but we were hungry, so we wolfed it down.

How’d this morning go, guys? I asked Joey and Jake as we sat on our stools.

Not bad, Jake said, moving his left arm in circles. I’m trying to get the kinks out of my shoulder.

Jake’s a pitcher. The hurlers had worked on the main field, in the bullpen and along its right field foul line, under Hardy’s supervision. Hardy is also the club’s pitching coach.

I’m taking it slow, Jake said. I hurt my shoulder in ‘59 playing for Kansas City. They sent me to Portland to recuperate and learn to throw with a bum wing. Then K.C. gave up on me, and I signed with Dago last year. Still in Triple A, and still tryin’ to get back to the bigs. Anyhow, I farted around throwing some this winter, not hard, but enough to test my shoulder. It’s stronger now . . . I think.

Joey wasn’t talking; he gulped a bottle of milk and bit into his sandwich like he hadn’t eaten in a week.

Hangovers must make a man hungry.

Hey man, you new to the club? said a jive-voiced player sitting on a stool across from me. He was a Negro, one of the few invited to camp.

Yeah, I played for Tampa in the Sally League last year.

Name’s Johnson. Willie Johnson.

I told him my name; he laughed at Tink the way Joey and Jake had, so I explained to him how I’d gotten my nickname.

What position you play? he asked.

Outfield. Any of the three positions, but I’m best left in left. I grinned—that’s a joke I like telling people.

I play center, Willie said. Least I did last year.

Willie must’ve been practicing with the Reds that morning because I hadn’t seen him with the rest of us Padres outfielders.

You a good fielder, man? he asked.

I told him that hard-hit grounders and I didn’t like each other. He groaned.

If you play next to me, I might get some extra exercise chasin’ after what you miss, he said. Last year we had a left fielder who had a cement glove but hit a ton. So they played ‘I’m. Man, I had to cover two positions at one time! I told this dude he shoulda given me half his paycheck.

What happened to him?

He’s workin’ out with the Reds. He’s on their roster. But he still can’t field. Go figure, man.

I told Willie not to worry about me—I’m not that bad a fielder. At least my glove is made of leather.

As Willie and I shot the bull, other players straggled to the shower area to answer calls of nature. The cramped locker room had only two urinals and a pair of toilets in ramshackle wooden stalls covered with peeled light-green paint and inked graffiti listing easy girls’ names and phone numbers. Hardy stuck his head out of his office doorway into the locker room.C’mon guys, finish up. We got more work to do.

So after making trips to the can, we ambled back to the practice fields, our spikes clacking on the gray concrete runway. Such is life in spring training. But no ballplayer complained—playing baseball for chump change still beats any other kind of job.

After afternoon practice, we players again crowded