Two outs, nobody on, bottom of the ninth

May 28, Saturday morning and the A’s and the Giants are going at it. At one point I swore that the two teams would not play each other. There is something of a mean streak that runs in me; why can’t I just let the guys have fun playing baseball. We have the coaches, the equipment–so what is the matter?

            Last Saturday, between innings, I talked to an A’s player and argued that if the A’s and Giants played each other ten times and the A’s won every single game that would not make the A’s the A team. That designation had to be earned and it would take a lot longer than one season. The Giants have been playing for eighteen years and however talented the team might be, or not, the Giants is San Quentin’s baseball team.

            All along I have been reasonably assured that the Giants are the better team. Test it, play a bunch of games and see–well that would be meaningless to me but not to about everyone else, probably. Opening day we beat them by eight runs and it wasn’t that close. One umpire made four clearly awful calls resulting in most the runs the A’s scored. The underdog A’s have the most fans and unhappily some of these fans umpire the games. One of my favorite taunts is, “they got ten guys on the field.” No one argues differently either.

            The A’s had ten guys on the field again for the second game.  Everybody was tense, both sides, and the fans, the convict fans, were close in, watching and listening to every word, studying body language, heckling when possible, trying to get an edge for the A’s.

            Games at the prison are supposed to be fun the coaches and the players. No fun though anymore, far from it. I found myself being tense the whole game. Just underneath the surface the Giants were holding it together. With every bad call from an umpire, balls and strikes, out and safe calls on the bases–soon these could not be counted using fingers alone. The correctional officers must have sensed it as well as I counted an unusual number of them milling about. One incident and it would be all over. Even one of the officers had confided in me that there was a new Lieutenant in charge, a woman just transferred in from another prison, and she was looking for anything to shut the whole thing down. Sure, lots of cons would be angry at her but she would get the reputation of being tough and would gain esteem from more than half the guards at the prison.

            I wished I were somewhere else that day. The score was back and forth. The A’s played amazingly well with their key player pitching, whose name I cannot use because he would not sign a release form for me, and our errors allowed in enough runs to make it scary. For them it meant a chance to get the A team designation, despite everything I had talked to them about earlier. At one point, with the A’s ahead by two runs, Junkyard approached me and said that the A’s were going to be the A team. I looked at him, I wanted to yell at him and tell him to shut up, but I managed a smile and told him he was being a little premature–the game was not over.

            The game went the full nine innings. The soccer guys had to be mollified again as the game went beyond 1pm, the time when the baseball teams had to vacate the field. Graciously they understood the importance of the game and yielded. I will say at this point, that generally speaking, the Hispanic prison population is well behaved and congenial. Though I know they all belong to one gang or another, all under the radar or they would be shipped out to another prison better designed custodial wise, I have regularly felt safe with them.

            My blood pressure, which is ordinarily normal, was inching upward as I could feel the pressure in my ears. For a moment I had double vision. Not good for me, but there it was and all I could do was ride it out.

            Finally the Giants pulled even in the bottom of the eighth. We got the A’s on three quick outs in the top of the ninth, but in the bottom of the inning the Giants made two quick outs. Two outs and nobody on meant we were likely going to have to settle for a tie. The soccer players were getting inpatient.

            Johnny, our catcher, a guy whose switch is turned on in the morning and off at night and in between he is going full blast, walked. First pitch he stole second. Wild pitch and he took third. The A’s pitcher, Junkyard, was scared to death and we could all see it. If Johnny scored, the A’s would lose, and, anything could happen.  Eli, a really fast runner, hit a slow dribbler to the short stop, who was playing back too deep. His only chance was to try to get Johnny coming in to home. Good throw, catcher was there blocking the place, lots of dust, but Johnny with his head first slide got the safe call, and that from an umpire who was an A’s fan.

            I sprinted toward the plate and arrived just as Johnny leaped up with a shout, and it was mayhem joyous. What a win! The celebrating had to be cut short as the soccer guys were taking the field. 

            The usual high five line-up between the two teams was half hearted and I simply went to the dugout and took my cleats off. I was not going to make nice with those guys. A weakness in me I know, but I was not going to do it. I had endured a miserable, tension filled game, and I was not going to ignore my feelings.

            Beat the A’s two games now. As I gathered the team up on the sacred mound, after the usual recounting of the great plays and contributions to the win, I stated that the two teams would not play again, maybe ever, and that the coaches and I did not want to hear of the teams playing each other without us being there. Well, maybe there would be another game, maybe not, but the coaches would decide the issue.

            As we were clearing out of the dugout and getting the gear and uniforms ready to put back into the green metal storage locker, Johnny and Marcus asked to talk with me about playing the A’s. They did not share my view of it; they simply wanted to play against a real rival. I understood that, I said, but my concern was that there would be an incident, one that might end the whole sports program. They got it right away, maybe had never seen it from that angle, but they said, hey coach, we are with you.

            This season held the promise of being a pleasant one. Two games a week for four months, solid team, interesting guys, talented players, and perhaps the best team I had ever managed at the prison–all jeopardized by the animosity that existed between the teams. Or, was it just me? How much was I contributing to the bad chemistry that existed? Was I really being protective of the program or was it something else, something that resided in me alone?