Read Online Where Nobody Knows Your Name: Life In the Minor Leagues of Baseball by John Feinstein - Free Book Online
Authors: John Feinstein
Ads: Link
The teams had been rained out the previous night, and because there are so few scheduled off days (eight) during a minor-league season, the game was rescheduled for the next evening as part of a doubleheader.
That afternoon, a couple of hours before first pitch, Pawtucket manager Arnie Beyeler sat in his small office a few yards from where his players were dressing in the visiting clubhouse. Beyeler had a problem: Ross Ohlendorf had been scheduled to pitch the second game of the doubleheader. That wasn’t going to work, though, because Ohlendorf was no longer on the team.
Like a lot of veteran Triple-A players, Ohlendorf had a clause in the free-agent contract he had signed prior to the season that gave him an “opt-out” date. Almost everyone with an opt-out is someone who has pitched or played in the major leagues in the past who doesn’t want to commit himself to one team for an entire season if that means he won’t get a crack at returning to the majors.
“It gives a guy a chance to hook on with another club if it looks like there’s no chance for him to make it back to the big leagues where he is,” Beyeler said. “Sometimes it means a guy gets a specific offer to go. Sometimes they just want a change of scenery.”
Ohlendorf had a specific offer. His opt-out was June 1, and his agent had gotten a call earlier that week from the San Diego Padres, who were interested in signing him on his opt-out date and promoting him to the major-league team. Naturally, with no sign that the Red Sox were going to call him up, Ohlendorf let the team know that he was planning to opt out and head west and—more important—up and out of Triple-A.
Because of the way the calendar fell, the Red Sox didn’t have to release Ohlendorf until Monday the fourth, meaning he could pitch on Saturday night in Allentown if they so desired. But Ben Crockett, the Red Sox’ farm director, had called Beyeler that morning to tell him the team was going to release Ohlendorf right away. The thinking was twofold: why pitch someone who isn’t part of our future, and, as a courtesy, let him go to his new team fresh and ready to pitch.
Beyeler hung up the phone with Crockett and walked into the cramped clubhouse to find Ohlendorf and give him the news. He stopped at Tony Peña Jr.’s locker to let him know he would be pressed into duty that night as an emergency starter. Peña, who had played in the major leagues as a starting shortstop for the Kansas City Royals before becoming a pitcher, wasn’t shocked by the news.
“He’s been my most versatile pitcher for two years,” Beyeler said. “Anything I ask him to do, he does it. Down here, guys know things change every day—sometimes every hour. Nothing surprises him.”
As Beyeler talked to Peña, he glanced up at one of the clubhouse TV sets. Every Triple-A clubhouse has at least one TV set in it, and most—if not all—are wired for the Major League Baseball package. That means when a Triple-A team’s big-league squad is playing, that game is on the clubhouse TV.
At that moment, down the hall in the home clubhouse, the Phillies game was on in the IronPigs’ clubhouse. In Beyeler’s visiting Pawtucket clubhouse, the Red Sox game was on all the screens.
Most of the time, players just glance at the televised game or pay no attention to it at all as they get ready to play. Beyeler kept an eye on the Red Sox games because—as always—he knew that if one of the Red Sox got hurt or if a pitcher had a bad day, his phone might ringand Crockett would be on the other end asking him who would be the best fit for whatever hole he needed to fill in Boston.
As Beyeler was finishing his talk with Peña and was about to go and find Ohlendorf, he noticed a commotion. “About ten guys had jumped up and were crowding around the set,” he said later, smiling. “It usually doesn’t take a genius to figure out why that happens.”
This time, it didn’t take Beyeler long to confirm that his
That afternoon, a couple of hours before first pitch, Pawtucket manager Arnie Beyeler sat in his small office a few yards from where his players were dressing in the visiting clubhouse. Beyeler had a problem: Ross Ohlendorf had been scheduled to pitch the second game of the doubleheader. That wasn’t going to work, though, because Ohlendorf was no longer on the team.
Like a lot of veteran Triple-A players, Ohlendorf had a clause in the free-agent contract he had signed prior to the season that gave him an “opt-out” date. Almost everyone with an opt-out is someone who has pitched or played in the major leagues in the past who doesn’t want to commit himself to one team for an entire season if that means he won’t get a crack at returning to the majors.
“It gives a guy a chance to hook on with another club if it looks like there’s no chance for him to make it back to the big leagues where he is,” Beyeler said. “Sometimes it means a guy gets a specific offer to go. Sometimes they just want a change of scenery.”
Ohlendorf had a specific offer. His opt-out was June 1, and his agent had gotten a call earlier that week from the San Diego Padres, who were interested in signing him on his opt-out date and promoting him to the major-league team. Naturally, with no sign that the Red Sox were going to call him up, Ohlendorf let the team know that he was planning to opt out and head west and—more important—up and out of Triple-A.
Because of the way the calendar fell, the Red Sox didn’t have to release Ohlendorf until Monday the fourth, meaning he could pitch on Saturday night in Allentown if they so desired. But Ben Crockett, the Red Sox’ farm director, had called Beyeler that morning to tell him the team was going to release Ohlendorf right away. The thinking was twofold: why pitch someone who isn’t part of our future, and, as a courtesy, let him go to his new team fresh and ready to pitch.
Beyeler hung up the phone with Crockett and walked into the cramped clubhouse to find Ohlendorf and give him the news. He stopped at Tony Peña Jr.’s locker to let him know he would be pressed into duty that night as an emergency starter. Peña, who had played in the major leagues as a starting shortstop for the Kansas City Royals before becoming a pitcher, wasn’t shocked by the news.
“He’s been my most versatile pitcher for two years,” Beyeler said. “Anything I ask him to do, he does it. Down here, guys know things change every day—sometimes every hour. Nothing surprises him.”
As Beyeler talked to Peña, he glanced up at one of the clubhouse TV sets. Every Triple-A clubhouse has at least one TV set in it, and most—if not all—are wired for the Major League Baseball package. That means when a Triple-A team’s big-league squad is playing, that game is on the clubhouse TV.
At that moment, down the hall in the home clubhouse, the Phillies game was on in the IronPigs’ clubhouse. In Beyeler’s visiting Pawtucket clubhouse, the Red Sox game was on all the screens.
Most of the time, players just glance at the televised game or pay no attention to it at all as they get ready to play. Beyeler kept an eye on the Red Sox games because—as always—he knew that if one of the Red Sox got hurt or if a pitcher had a bad day, his phone might ringand Crockett would be on the other end asking him who would be the best fit for whatever hole he needed to fill in Boston.
As Beyeler was finishing his talk with Peña and was about to go and find Ohlendorf, he noticed a commotion. “About ten guys had jumped up and were crowding around the set,” he said later, smiling. “It usually doesn’t take a genius to figure out why that happens.”
This time, it didn’t take Beyeler long to confirm that his
Similar Books
