Here is an account of a game played at San Quentin between the Pirates, now Giants, and the Oaks/Cubs, the very same team led by Elliot Smith that opened the 2010 season. My old and dear friend Bill Mauck and his son Michael were present and played in the game. Here is Bill’s story of that game.
We Had a Great Time
by Bill Mauck
Thursday, March 13, 1998, was a cold, cloudy day at San Quentin penitentiary. As my nineteen-year-old son, Michael, and I approached the front gate, I could feel a light drizzle against my face. We were greeted by a guard. He checked our names off the manifest, wanded us down and checked our gear. We walked about 200 yards to the main prison walls, where another guard repeated the same process. We were then directed through a series of electronically controlled steel doors. As the last door slammed behind us, we emerged into a vast courtyard. The mood became dark, almost surreal. To our right were some gray buildings. One of the buildings had the words “Attitude Adjustment” Center etched on the wall. Instinctively I knew we did not want to go there. To my right were some men in bright orange jumpsuits. I later learned these men were HIV positive.
At the far end of the courtyard was a baseball diamond. As I walked out onto the infield, I could smell the fresh cut grass. I felt my cleats dig into the soft turf. It felt good! It had been a while. My high school friend, Kent Philpott, is a minister in Mill Valley, and he coaches the San Quentin Pirates baseball team.
As it turns out, the Pirates were scheduled to play the San Francisco Oaks Semi-pro baseball team this day, and the Oaks were going to be short a couple of players. Kent invited Mike and me to come down for a visit and play in this game.
While Mike and I were warming up with the other players along the right field line, the Oaks coach observed us and made some quick decisions. It was determined that Mike would lead off and play second base. I would bat ninth and be dispatched to right field. Right field is unique at San Quentin. There is only about two feet of grass in foul territory along the right field foul line. It then becomes a concrete slab. Right field is short, only about 290 feet to the warning track. Normally the warning track is dirt. Outfielders can feel their cleats dig into the dirt when they come off the grass and this lets them know they are about ten feet from the fence. At San Quentin the warning track is asphalt. After the warning track the surface becomes concrete. There is no fence; instead, there are benches and tables. This is special, as it makes it possible for the inmates to sit, enjoy the game and make helpful suggestions to the opposing team’s right fielder.
In right center field is the Indian Nation. The Indians have some tepees, sweat-houses, drums and there are fires burning. The nation is protected by a forty-foot-tall portable handmade screen made of woven cloth and called the White Monster. The Native Americans’ religion says that you can sweat your sins away.
So here I am, a fifty-eight-year-old man taking my position in right field. Off my right shoulder, I can hear the tom-toms. Thump thump, thump thump, thump thump. My nostrils fill with smoke. My eyes are burning. Off my left shoulder, I can hear the constant chatter of the prisoners. “Hey, Col. Sanders, Mon! How ‘bout some chicken wings and cerveza for the homeboys in right field.” “Hey, Mon! Pops don’t have no beer, just look at him. He drank it all up already.” Haaaaaaa, I started thinking to myself. Self you are a first baseman. What the hell are you doing in right field?! Then I thought maybe I’ll get lucky, and nothing will get hit out here. Baseball has an old and true axiom. It states that the ball will find you. It didn’t take long. In the first inning the Pirates hit three hard ground balls in my direction. I was able to get in front of the ball and hit the cutoff man. Everything was all good until this big left-handed hitter came up and hit a high fly ball to straightaway right field. I raced back. I felt my cleats dig into the asphalt and then clank on the concrete. I looked down. The inmates scattered. I weaved my way through the benches, but when I looked back up, I had lost the flight of the ball. The ball landed on a table and caromed off a bench. Buy the time I retrieved the ball the runner had rounded third base and was on his way home. Things did not get better. Next, they started hitting balls over on to the concrete in foul territory. Cleats have a tendency to slip and slide on concrete. I didn’t catch any of them. I walked and struck out. I began to think that I had swerved into the twilight zone of baseball.
My son, Mike, did much better. He struck the ball hard and made some good plays in the field. When Mike steps into the batter’s box he assumes an open stance, with his feet set about three feet apart. As he stands in, he likes to move his hips from side to side. This drew some interesting comments from some of the more progressive inmates. The San Quentin Pirates had a good team; they beat the Oaks eight to two. After the game the mood was jovial, we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Had this game been played anywhere else, I would not have guessed that these men were convicts.
We returned to my friend’s home. We sat in Kent’s arbor and enjoyed a cold bottle of beer. I began to lament about some of my play. Kent philosophized that baseball would keep me humble. Mike spoke up and said, “Chill, Dad! You gave it your best shot. I had a great time.” I looked at my son and realized that this was one of those defining moments. We had played this game not as father and son, but as just two players. It was a day that each of us would remember. I looked at him and replied, “You are right, Mike. I had a great time too.”