Minor-League Buzz, Major-League Life

By Don Miers

Buzz Meyers grew up in the 1960s, so it should be no surprise what hes all about: baseball, sex, rock n rolland baseball.

Toiling at different jobs, he cant help but think how wonderful it would be to work at a ballpark, and he gets his chance when he becomes the sales and concessions manager for the Hampton Roads Monitors, a minor-league team near Virginia Beach.

He might not be a player, but this is the next best thing, and while he puts in long hours, he also gets the chance to party and meet baseball legends, upcoming stars, and a cast of unforgettable characters.

The longer he stays in the business, the more he realizes hes partying a little too much, and he starts trying new things, including giving back to his community, lecturing, acting, singing, and even hosting his own radio show.

When he runs for elected office at the same time his team is engaged in a heated pennant race, he has no idea what to expect. But no matter what happens, he can bask in the satisfaction of having lived a major-league life in the minors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491770719

Don Miers

Don Miers earned a degree in hotel/restaurant management and has worked in the hospitality industry, as a pro sports executive, actor, comedian, community activist, motivational speaker, and political candidate. He and his wife, Patty, have four sons and six grandchildren, and live in Kissimmee, Florida, where Don is a sports and event facilities director. donmiers.com

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Minor-League

BUZZ

Major-League

LIFE

DON MIERS

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MINOR-LEAGUE BUZZ, MAJOR-LEAGUE LIFE

Copyright © 2015 Don Miers.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7073-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7072-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7071-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015909633

iUniverse rev. date: 08/21/2015

Contents

Chapter 1 The Sandlots

Chapter 2 The Rookie

Chapter 3 For Love and the Game

Chapter 4 Bad-News Buzz

Chapter 5 A League of His Own

Chapter 6 The Kid from Left Field

Chapter 7 Buzzing Along as a Traveling All-Star and Motor King

Chapter 8 Ankles in the Outfield

Chapter 9 Beer Strikes Out

Chapter 10 Long Gone

Chapter 11 Field of Dreams

Chapter 12 Mr. Destiny

Chapter 13 Talent for the Game

Chapter 14 Fever Pitch

Chapter 15 Hardball

Chapter 16 The Pride of Cowtown

Chapter 17 Buzz’s Millions

Chapter 18 Soul of the Game

Chapter 19 Safe at Home

Chapter 20 Mr. Baseball

Chapter 21 Mr. 3,000

Chapter 22 The Natural

Chapter 23 The Winning Team

Chapter 24 Major League

TO, WIFE,

THANKS FOR SHARING THE DREAM, THE JOURNEY AND THE ADVENTURES!

(BTW, this is a work of fiction…..well, most of it!)

Foreword

I first met my friend Don Miers many years ago when I was a minor league coach and he was director of our baseball complex. I knew him to be hard working, with creative ideas and always bringing innovative events to our facility. Getting to know him over the years, I realized he had a unique sense of humor, but had no idea he was such a gifted comedic writer! Take advantage of the insight from someone who’s seen and done it all from the training room to the board room.

Reading this book, I found myself laughing out loud at the pranks and antics of the main character, Buzz, and his cronies. I’ve experienced many funny moments and episodes from the uniformed side of the game, but thoroughly enjoyed reading about humor from the front office perspective. What a revelation!

Minor League Buzz, Major League Life, is the story of a man starting out in the minors with the dream of making it to the big leagues, like any of us who have ever put on a baseball jersey. However, this guy is wearing business attire, but following that same dream nevertheless. Come along for a fun ride and enjoy the evolution of Buzz from a wide eyed, wild, young executive to….an older one! Think Bull Durham meets Its A Wonderful Life and enjoy the ride!

Jim Hickey

Pitching Coach

Tampa Bay Rays

CHAPTER ONE

The Sandlots

B uzz Meyers was born and raised in northeastern New Jersey, just a few miles from the George Washington Bridge that connected Jersey to New York City. An only child raised by a hardworking single mother, he enjoyed being with friends as much as he could rather than staying inside alone while his mom was at work. He and his buddies loved the seasons and the different sports that each would bring, but by far his favorite sport was baseball.

Back then, in the 1950s and ’60s, baseball was certainly the national pastime. In between organized Little League games, Buzz and his buddies would take to the sandlot fields to play pickup games whenever they could. Nobody would umpire; honest affirmations of balls and strikes, fair and foul, and safe or out were agreed on among the players. If they had a limited number of players at any time, a Wiffle-ball game would break out on the street or a stickball game at the local elementary school. Paint a box indicating the strike zone on a back wall or sidewall, grab a broomstick and a rubber ball, and you’ve got Yankee Stadium right there in the school yard!

During the summers, kids would play outside from the time they awoke until the sun went down late in the evening. It would not be uncommon to have participated in anywhere from four to ten games a day between the field, the street, and the school yard, with anywhere from two to twenty boys involved throughout the day. Most of these youngsters dreamed of being major-league players one day. They played in the organized leagues, such as Little League, Connie Mack, and American Legion. Buzz thought he was a pretty good ballplayer because he’d overheard one of his coaches answer a question about him with the comment Meyers is out standing in left field. Buzz thought it was a one-word adjective describing his ball-playing prowess, not a two-word physical location!

As the boys got older, many excelled at the high school level and a few even in college ball. Unfortunately for Buzz, he never made his high school team. He tried out freshman year and was cut. He tried out sophomore year and was cut. Ditto when he tried out as a junior and a senior. While he had the desire, he did not possess the talent to make it in baseball once he became a teenager.

So what does a guy do when his dream of being a big-league player is shattered? If you’re Buzz Meyers, you go to college in Florida to be near major-league spring-training camps. For a career, Buzz chose the hospitality industry. He enjoyed people, and he enjoyed making them happy, so he thought running a nice hotel in Florida might be a very pleasant occupation. He headed down to Saint Petersburg in the fall of 1971 to begin his journey. The campus of Saint Petersburg Junior College just happened to be near the spring-training sites of the New York Mets and the Saint Louis Cardinals, so Buzz could take his homework to the fields and enjoy the sunshine while watching some baseball. Wouldn’t it be cool, he thought to himself, to work in this game?

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The big perk to Buzz’s restaurant and hospitality management gig was meeting some tanned, winsome female creatures. However, that bonus barely offset the drawbacks he encountered with the tightwad owners of the motel where he’d started as an intern and moved up to interim manager when his boss was relocated. Most of his day was spent fixing leaky pipes, replacing dead air conditioners, and chasing snakes and raccoons from under the beds.

Buzz glanced at the clock radio on the nightstand. His accounting class was in an hour. Unlike the rich kids here on vacation, Buzz was still attending classes. Luckily, this was his final year. He rolled out of bed, took a shower, and dressed. He wandered to the motel café, helped himself to a cup of coffee, and headed to the office to check on things before going to school.

Even though he was new to this work, he had been savvy enough to circulate flyers at the gentlemen’s club on the other side of US Highway 19 in Saint Pete. Homesick for the desert and its fauna, the Saudi proprietor had named his nudie bar the Camel Toe. If one of the dancers wanted to earn a little church money, she could bring an interested patron of the club to the motel. If the guy intended to get lucky, he would spring cash for a night’s stay, though the assignation seldom lasted an hour. The procession would continue with assembly-line regularity until the wee hours of the morning, and this allowed the motel to boast an occupancy rate of over 100 percent, as Buzz would clean and rerent the same room at least once a night. The numbers made him look like a management genius, and he happily took the credit.

The night clerk, a down-at-the-heels geezer with the unlikely moniker of George Washington, lifted his bleary eyes from a newspaper spread on the counter as he got ready for his shift to end. He wore a blazer with frayed pockets and worn sleeves. George was the first employee Buzz had ever hired, and he was heady with pride that he was able to give the old guy a break. Buzz figured a guy with the name of George Washington couldn’t help but be as honest as his presidential namesake.

Buzz scanned the guest list. Around dinnertime the night before, a boozy, loud tourist had brought a pair of girls from the club. They’d stayed until ten. After they left, Buzz had quickly tidied the room—only straightening the bedcovers and checking for used condoms—before releasing it for another guest. Even with only a cursory cleaning, the motel room was still the most sanitary place to consummate a sexual monetary transaction within a convenient walking distance from the Camel Toe.

Room 221 was still listed as unoccupied. Buzz knit his brow. How could that be possible, with the club offering a twofer lap-dance special? The motel should be filled to capacity.

The maid on duty called via house phone. She was at the room in question and told Buzz that her passkey turned the doorknob but the door was bolted from the inside.

Buzz headed straight for the room. He greeted the maid and then knocked on the door. It creaked open and pulled the slack out of the cheap security chain. A man stared through the crack. His face looked like a deflated balloon with whiskers.

I’m the hotel manager, Buzz announced. May I come in?

The man undid the chain and opened the door. He smelled of raw onions. A pumpkin-like gut strained the belly of his T-shirt.

Buzz asked, How is your stay?

Place could be cleaner, the man said. I found pubes all over the tub and in the bed. Someone have a threesome in here?

Buzz muttered a reply and surveyed the room. A battered suitcase rested on the valet. He asked about the man who had rented the room to him, and he described George down to his gapped, yellow teeth.

Buzz headed for the lobby back office. He checked the trash can and spied a torn room-registration card stuck between an empty bottle of rubbing alcohol and wads of tissue stained with a greenish-yellow goo. Buzz tenderly fished the card from the trash and pieced it together.

The card said that room 221 had been paid for in cash and bore the guest’s signature. Buzz had to confront George about pocketing the rent. He would be late for class, but better that he address this theft now.

When Buzz returned to the registration counter, George was stomping aluminum beer and pop cans on the floor and shoving the flattened metal into the pockets of his blazer.

Buzz asked, Did anyone rent room 221?

Nope, George answered with his usual lack of enthusiasm.

That’s odd, replied Buzz. This being a record tourist season.

No one came through, insisted George, his expression showing even less concern than before. Might be on account of the rumor that the girls at the club got crab lice.

How about you explain this? Buzz showed George the torn registration card.

The old man shrugged. Okay, kid, you got me. So what?

So what? You either return the money or I’ll call the cops.

George shifted uncomfortably. The flattened cans in his pockets rasped together. Listen, kid. Don’t go bonkers. The company isn’t going to miss the money.

I don’t care if it was just a dollar. Pay it back. Plus, you’re fired.

George scowled. Here’s the money. He reached for his wallet. Only don’t fire me. I got a wife and kids. Grandkids even.

You should’ve thought of that before you stole the money.

George Washington, the one who did tell a lie, handed over the thirty dollars and walked out of the lobby. But he kept the aluminum cans.

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At the end of the semester, Buzz left the motel. With a college diploma in his pocket, Buzz took a job managing another motel on a stretch of historic eastern Florida. He arrived full of piss and vinegar, eager to make his mark as a determined businessman, an up-and-coming mogul in the world of restaurant and hospitality management. He caught the desk clerks loafing in the lobby and set them to work with brooms and mops. If you got time to lean, you got time to clean.

When he couldn’t find the maids, he searched the rooms and found them piled like puppies on a king-size bed watching soap operas. The maids listened patiently to his tirade about the need for honest work and his orders to get away from the TV.

A grandmotherly maid answered, Sorry, boss, weeze get paid by the hour, and weeze need to make sure weeze get at least six hours in a day.

Buzz printed a work schedule that listed which jobs were to be done and by when. He was certain that under his firm command, this motel would earn the accolades he needed to climb up the corporate ladder. Perhaps someday he might even be able to run a big, fancy hotel that catered to major-league baseball teams. But that wouldn’t happen overnight. He knew he had to start somewhere, and that somewhere was here.

When he returned from lunch one day, the desk clerks had quit, so Buzz had to handle guest registration by himself, including the night shift. The next morning, he brewed coffee and waited for the maids … who never showed up. So Buzz had to register the guests and clean the rooms by himself. A guest complained about finding a dead cat in the swimming pool, and with a call to the maintenance man, Buzz discovered that he had quit too. By noon, Buzz was single-handedly running the motel: registering guests, cleaning rooms, and maintaining the swimming pool. By one in the afternoon, he was ready to quit. But he held on and got the lodge shipshape in a relatively short time.

Clearly, though, it was time to rethink his career path. He was young but getting a little burned out by all the hours, and he’d realized that his heart was just not in the hotel business. He left the motel and hired on to manage a flea market, thinking he would no doubt work with a higher strata of society, as the motels he’d worked in must certainly have catered to the lowest. Alas, he soon learned that the flea market drew four types of patrons:

1. Skinflints who tried to sell old junk rather than toss it out or donate it to charity.

2. Cheapskates who expected to find like-new merchandise at thrift-store prices.

3. People-watchers who arrived to gnaw on grilled turkey legs and see the pitched battles between the skinflints and the cheapskates.

4. Criminal ne’er-do-wells who hoped to fence stolen merchandise. None of them could ever figure out how Buzz could catch them, even though it’s not often that a guy with an ankle monitor has an honest source for Rolex watches.

Buzz worked his own angles. He learned to reserve the prime rental booths for comely women who, whether they were in relationships or not, were ready to acknowledge his thoughtfulness.

The regular trysts only added to the hectic pace of sixty- to seventy-hour workweeks. One afternoon, after trading booth 1C for some trim, Buzz lay in bed and sipped a beer while the owner of said trim shimmied into her clothes. He decided that if he was going to work this hard, he’d better once more tweak his career path and find something he loved.

Like what?

Buzz turned on the television and began flipping through the channels—and then suddenly stopped. What caught his attention was the sweet crack of a baseball bat. He had turned on a major-league game, and he started salivating over what he was witnessing. It wasn’t just the action on the field between the players—it was the green grass, the vendors hawking popcorn, the fans jumping up to try to snag a foul ball, all of it!

Baseball.

That would be his new calling. Never mind that he hadn’t touched a ball, a glove, or a bat since high school. He would make himself a career in our national pastime.

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The following December, Buzz traveled to Orlando, Florida, for the annual winter baseball meetings. This was the one convention each year where representatives from every major-league and minor-league team gathered to celebrate the joys of the previous season and plan for the upcoming one. Game schedules were discussed, player trades were made, seminars were conducted so executives could learn from their peers about successful marketing and promotions, and a trade show was held featuring the latest equipment and merchandise. His plan was to schmooze the reps from all the major- and minor-league teams and sell himself to the highest bidder. After all, how could he fail? He had been told that if anyone put his mind to it, he could snag a slice of the American dream.

He set up camp in the hotel lobby. Step one of his plan was to follow the best-dressed businessmen to their rooms and slide his résumé under their doors. Step two was to sit in the lobby with a cardboard sign that read Will work for peanuts … and Cracker Jack. A lot of people pointed at him, but when Buzz offered his hand, they always averted their eyes and hustled away.

By the afternoon of the second day, Buzz hadn’t gotten any offers, and he was beginning to lose hope of snagging a slice of the American dream. He munched on stale cinnamon rolls he had filched from a breakfast trolley.

A couple of tall men in black trench coats approached. Their hair was slicked back with what looked like generous amounts of thirty-weight motor oil. They both had crooked noses like bent hatchets. Buzz had seen enough late-night black-and-white movies to recognize the type: bruisers … gorillas … goons.

Buzz lowered his cardboard sign.

The men flanked him, and one of them said, The boss wants to seez ya.

The other added, He likes your résumé.

Both men had their hands in their coat pockets. Buzz got the impression that if he flinched, they would drill him right there with snub-nose heaters just like in the black-and-white movies.

Buzz kept his hands in plain sight. Who is your boss?

The big man, the first goon answered.

Yeah, a very big man, added the second.

Buzz pushed aside his suspicions, since so far he’d made zilch headway toward the American dream. What could I lose?

Smart guy, said the first goon.

The boss likes smart guys, quipped the second goon.

The goons directed Buzz to the elevator, and they rode with him to the sixth floor.

The elevator doors opened, and the goons pointed Buzz down the hall. They proceeded to room 608. Goon One opened the door. Goon Two waited behind in case Buzz had second thoughts.

A deep, gruff voice invited Buzz into the hotel suite. A big man with black hair sat behind a fortress of a desk at the other end of the long room. The man had enough hair piled on his head for two Elvis pompadours. He wore a pinstriped business suit, and even though he was a big man, the suit fit him like a glove—a big glove, but a glove nonetheless.

Goon Two nudged Buzz in the ribs. Go on.

Buzz smiled nervously at his host and made the motion of straightening his jacket and slicking his hair and mustache. He stepped forward.

The big man waited, smiling. Buzz was big but brown-bear big. This man was grizzly-bear big. He stood and offered a meaty hand at the end of an arm as big around as a car tire. He was so big and hefty that his executive chair looked like a milking stool. Welcome, Mr. Meyers. Big gold rings glistened on his big fingers. Name’s Babe Davis. Shaking his hand was like shaking the paw of a forest beast.

Goon One pushed a chair behind Buzz. Davis asked him to sit, and Buzz sat.

Davis settled into his chair with the grace of a tugboat easing against a pier. My guys tell me you had a sign that says you’ll work for peanuts and Cracker Jack. That true?

Actually, I work for money.

Good. It’s hard to pay the rent with peanuts and Cracker Jack. Believe me, I’ve tried. Davis chuckled and poured himself a big splash of scotch. I run the Hampton Roads Monitors, a farm team near Virginia Beach. We are a AAA club, one step below the majors. Once a player signs his first professional contract, he typically starts in rookie ball, then advances to A, then AA, then AAA like us, and then, hopefully, the big leagues. You like baseball?

I like baseball.

And I like you, Buzz. Davis pointed to Buzz’s résumé resting on his desk between a bottle of scotch and a rocks glass with ice and scotch. But why should I hire you when I can get any yahoo who thinks he can sell?

Buzz thought about his schooling and experience in restaurant and hospitality management. Who runs your food and beverage concessions?

We bring in a guy for game-day operations. He also happens to manage a chain of fast-food joints around town.

That’s why you should hire me. Buzz gave a confident smile. I’ll run your concessions as well as sell sponsorships and group sales. You’ll save money by hiring me to run both.

Davis took a big swallow of scotch and swished it like mouthwash. He swallowed, gasped, and set the glass down. I like that answer, Buzz. You’re a smart guy.

So I’ve been told.

Davis snapped his fingers, and Goon One set a rocks glass with ice in front of Buzz. Goon Two added a measure of scotch and then refilled his boss’s glass.

Davis raised his glass to Buzz. I like smart guys. You’re hired.

CHAPTER TWO

The Rookie

B uzz was excited about starting a life in professional baseball. He might not be a player, but this was pretty much the next best thing. He got to meet and work with genuine professional ballplayers who were one step away from making it to the majors.

His duties as sales and concessions manager included selling sponsorships in the form of outfield-fence signs and advertisements in each game’s souvenir program, as well as devising a few promotional gimmicks. He did this basically every day from when he arrived on the scene at the beginning of January through to the end of March. Now that the season had started, he’d switched gears and was managing the food and beverage concession stands during all home games; when the Monitors were on the road, he handled group ticket sales.

Buzz winced and thought about covering his ears to keep them from blistering. He wasn’t a prude and could string together cuss words with the best of them. But what had just come out of Babe Davis’s mouth would’ve made the crustiest stevedore blush in shame.

Buzz stood beside Alonso Garcia, a former major-league shortstop who was hanging onto his glory years by playing with the Hampton Roads Monitors. They were in Davis’s office and faced their boss. He brandished a copy of an umpire’s report and quaked in righteous indignation as he bellowed, Goddamn it, Garcia, what the fuckin’ hell is this cunt-hole bullshit?

Davis referred to the incident in the report. On the last road trip, Garcia had gotten ejected from the game for arguing with the umpire about a call—and had added fuel to the fire by insulting the hapless official. Davis stabbed the report with a thick index finger. Says here you called the ump ‘a no-good motherfucker.’

No, Babe. Garcia shook his head. It is not true. In fact, it’s a complete lie.

Buzz wondered how Davis was going to handle this situation. As the team general manager, he had to enforce the league rules. On the other hand, he had little love for umpires, and if pressed would always stand with his players.

Davis couldn’t make the report go away. The question at the moment was whether he would let the league judgment stand and have Garcia forfeit $250 from his salary to pay the fine. Davis could choose to pay the fine from team funds as an FU to the umpire.

Why would the umpire lie? Davis asked.

Can’t answer that, Garcia shrugged. But I know that I didn’t call him a motherfucker.

Well, did you say something else that he might have misinterpreted?

Yeah, Garcia admitted with a wry grin. I called him a cocksucker, because that’s what he is. But I never called him a motherfucker.

In that case—Davis dropped the report onto his desk—I know that ump personally. And he is a cocksucker. So you were honest in what you called him. The team will pay your fine.

Buzz had never heard such language in a business setting before, but he came to accept that in pro baseball, at least in Babe Davis’s world of pro baseball, one spoke however one chose to speak in the company of other men.

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Buzz savored the last dregs of his beer. His glass was empty. His pitcher was empty. Time for a refill. He occupied a barstool in the Lost Weekend Roadhouse, a favorite pub on account of its fifteen-cent wings and buck-fifty pitchers of draft beer. And the scenery.

Girls eased through the crowded pub, and Buzz tracked them, swiveling on his barstool like it was a gun turret.

The barkeep set a plate of wings and a fresh pitcher on the counter, and Buzz turned around to fill his glass. He reflected on what he had learned so far from his boss. Davis ran the Hampton Roads Monitors—the players, the staff, the stadium—like it was his personal fiefdom. In the greater world of professional baseball, the Monitors were at the margins of anyone’s radar. But that mattered little to Davis, as he took care of business with regal aplomb.

Buzz admired Davis’s ability to handle his many competing priorities and, no matter what happened, emerge even taller and more in command. Take the business with Alonso Garcia. Davis knew the shortstop played with a chip on his shoulder and most times got what he deserved. But Davis