White Phantom of the Bullpen

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-1-6678-4140-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 196 Seiten

'Phantom of the Bullpen' is a powerful true story about the life of Max Mangum and his lifelong dream of pitching in the major leagues. In a way, this is a tragic story. For most of his life, he had the stuff to be a major league pitcher. His fastball sizzled at over 100 miles per hour. He had the pinpoint control of a laser-guided missile. And he had a love for baseball that is tough to match. He also had something else. Max suffered with paranoid schizophrenia. Throughout this book, author Allen White explores one man's truly fascinating life - his talents, his pain, and everything in between. As Allen seeks to learn more about Max and his past, he discovers quite a bit about himself along the way.

Autoren/Hrsg.

White, Allen

Leseproben

Chapter 1 In the spring of 1991, I founded the Zebulon Pirates Baseball Club. At age 36, I still had (and still do, at age 67) a burning desire to saw off a guy’s bat just above his hands with hard, inside heat or tie him in a knot with a wicked off-speed curveball. I still wanted to rip doubles to the opposite field gap and run the bases like I never could. I still yearned to use my spikes to walk up the wall in left at a dead run and snag somebody’s almost-homerun just above the top of the fence and generally raise Cain with other guys sharing similar interests. The result of all this selfishness became the Zebulon Pirates, a motley crew of washed-up has-beens determined to stay young forever. Selfish is simply the best word to describe a guy harboring these adolescent desires at such a mature age, considering the cost of chasing this constant, but elusive dream. Considering the lost family time, missing a day of work here and there, and all the aches and pains, I had to wonder sometimes if it was really worth it. All of us, at one time or another, had broken, fractured, or dislocated at least half of the bones in our extremities and pulled, torn, strained, sprained or hyperextended every major muscle in our bodies. Toss in some serious bruises thanks to some bad hops and even worse pitches, and the unspoken question was never far from our thoughts. Why? But did we really care? Hell, no. We’re playing baseball! We competed in the Men’s Senior Baseball League’s over-30 division. The over-30 league is for guys who are not quite over-the-hill yet, just merely stalled out on the way up. I’ve been playing or coaching baseball since I was eight years old and that gives me more than fifty years of experience with the national pastime. I know a little bit about the game, and I hope that gives some credence to this true story. In the summer of 1991, a baseball stadium was built in the middle of a tobacco field one mile from our town limits for the Carolina Mudcats, the AA affiliate of the Pittsburgh Pirates. Zebulon is a classic small town twenty miles east of Raleigh, North Carolina, the state capital. It’s a small town just like thousands of small towns across America: three strip malls, two traffic lights, one weekly newspaper, and a partridge in a pine tree. Zebulon, however, has the unique distinction of sitting right smack dab in the middle of God’s Country. I realize that’s a strong statement, but it’s true, nonetheless. North Carolina State University, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, East Carolina University and Duke University are all within an hour’s drive. Travel a few hours west on I-40 to the Blue Ridge Parkway and you’re in the Appalachian Mountains. Cruise a few hours east on US-64 to Cape Hatteras or Kitty Hawk and you’re on the Outer Banks looking across the Atlantic Ocean. And now there’s professional baseball in my backyard? Like I said, God’s Country. Affectionately dubbed as “Our Field of Dreams” at the ritual groundbreaking ceremony, beautiful and spacious Five County Stadium was completed just in time for a Fourth of July premiere. On opening night, a five-gallon bucket full of dirt – fresh from the farm in Dyersville, Iowa where the hit movie “Field of Dreams” came to life a few years earlier – was spread out all around the pitcher’s mound and at home plate by team owner Steve Bryant and some other dignitaries. A profoundly moving and emotional celebration followed. I can still see the colorful fireworks exploding against the backdrop of a black velvet starry sky and hear the oos and ahs from the 8,000-plus fans still in attendance after the game was over that first night. Three months later, at close to 2 in the afternoon on Sunday, October 13, my team was in Durham, preparing to take on the Durham-Raleigh Twins for the championship of the First Annual ‘Bull Durham’ Mini World Series at historic Durham Athletic Park. The DAP was the home of the Durham Bulls, the Class A farm team of the Atlanta Braves and also one of the locations where the hit movie “Bull Durham” was filmed some years before. We were 1-0 at the DAP in our inaugural year. We had massacred the Dodgers there nine days earlier and then defeated two other teams in Raleigh the day before to make it to the championship game. With all the Hollywood connections and the history thing nipping at us from behind, Kevin Costner was our obvious number one choice to throw out the traditional first pitch, but it was twenty-five minutes to game time and we lacked the necessary pull to get him there anyway. We settled for our second pick, Kevin Jones, the hotdog man from the concession stand. He did just fine. We were in the middle of our pre-game warm-ups when I noticed an elderly gentleman weaving his way through the fifty or so fans in the stands and gingerly making his way down to the field. The closer he came, the deeper he fell into my stereotyped category of homeless wino. He looked to be in his late sixties, had on way too many clothes for the eighty-degree temperature, and worst of all, he was heading straight for me. The gray stubble on his chin told me he hadn’t shaved in several days and his hair was kind of shaggy, but hey, so was mine. It was his eyes that didn’t seem to make contact with anything for more than a second or two that told me all I wanted to know about this character. “Here we go again,” I sighed to left fielder Randy Pearce who was also tracking him. Randy and I had played ball with and against each other for twenty years. We knew that a ballfield could sometimes attract a strange clientele. Hell, look at us. Randy answered, “Nope. Here you go again,” his voice trailing away as he followed a sudden urge to run wind sprints in the opposite direction. The old fellow had made it down to the gate beside the dugout and leaned over it. “You the manager?” he asked, looking mostly at me. “Why me?” I whispered over my shoulder to Walt Perry, our third baseman, who said nothing, but made an equally hasty exit from the scene. Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll just go away, I thought. “SCUSE ME! ARE YOU THE MANAGER?” the man repeated loudly in my general direction. So much for that ‘thinking’ shit. I should know better by now. Blessed at the time with 20/20 vision and seeing no easy way out, I answered, “I’m close enough, I guess. What can I do for ya?” “You reckon I could throw you a couple?” he asked shyly, showing me three extremely weathered baseballs and an old, beat up-looking glove. I could feel myself giving in, but I tried hard to recover. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed the Twins were already taking some infield practice. “Out on the field?” I returned his question with a question hoping his answer would be, ‘Ah, just forget it.” “Oh, no,” he bellowed, pointing due north. “Down there in the bullpen!” What was I thinking? It’s local public knowledge that I have no luck whatsoever. I’m always the guy in line behind the proverbial one millionth customer. In fact, the only time opportunity did come knocking at my front door, I was out in the backyard looking for four-leaf clovers. Right on cue, my head started shaking from side to side because I’d gotten myself in situations like this many times before. It comes from the distressing inability to say ‘NO!’ when it’s obviously the right thing to say. Long ago one of my close friends informed me that he had finally arranged to get a date with the girl of his dreams if, and only if, I would agree to a double-date with her friend, who was NOT the girl of my dreams. All I had to do was say ‘NO!’ but I couldn’t do it then and I couldn’t do it now. I should have explained to this old man that I haven’t finished my stretching yet and I need to throw some myself and the game starts in about fifteen minutes, but then I realized that he and I could be finished throwing a few by the time I explained all that stuff to him. “Sure, c’mon,” I mumbled, trying not to look as bothered by the situation as I really was. Please don’t get me wrong here. I have always had the utmost respect for old people. In fact, one of my main goals in life is to keep growing older. The late Richard Pryor once said, “You don’t get old bein’ no fool.” Even though Mr. Pryor and countless others, including yours truly, have proved that there are some exceptions to that rule, I didn’t think this old dude was a fool. But I’ve been fooled before and nobody wants to be the last link in a Chain of Fools. As we walked down the third base line toward the visiting team’s bullpen and out into foul territory by the left field bleachers, I kicked myself in the butt every other step for not saying ‘NO!’ when I had the chance. All the way out there I was thinking “this old-timer’s gonna have me chasing balls all over left field and I’m gonna be worn out by the time I take...