The Lone AB of Bernardo Sanchez

Backstory and history of a particular player- make them come to life!
User avatar
RonCo
GB: JL Frontier Division Director
Posts: 19808
Joined: Sat Nov 14, 2015 10:48 pm
Has thanked: 1981 times
Been thanked: 2901 times

The Lone AB of Bernardo Sanchez

Post by RonCo » Thu Apr 02, 2020 12:14 pm

He’d been called up four days ago. Sat the bench in Chicago, which was a town he wouldn’t mind getting to know so long as he could stay upwind of what the guys called Pig Slop Park. Then he’d packed like a real big leaguer and hopped on the plane to Seattle, the next stop on the road trip.

Sitting on the plane with the team around him he remembered the call home to tell his mom he was being called up, remembered the rise to her voice when she heard that, at 26—after the hard work and the bumps and the bruises, after the trades and watching other young men play their way past him, after moving past the stage where he’d been the slick fielding phenom and into the range of good-glove-no-hit organizational guy—her son was going to live his dream.

But three days on a visiting team’s bench in Chicago had revealed the truth in ways that only such things can. Bernardo Sanchez was not going to be a big-league player for long.

Now it was the 7th inning and his team was up 10-1.

“Get a bat,” the manager said to him. “I think Lucas needs a pinch hitter.”

Suddenly, his throat got dry and breathing became more difficult. He went to the rack and pulled out the 34-inch piece of lumber the team hand shipped from Indianapolis for him. It felt good in his hands. Helped him focus. Luis Costello was leading off ahead of him. Sanchez watched the veteran from the on-deck circle, swinging the weighted equipment around to get loose, and studying the splitter that Storm pitcher Jose Ramos was relying on tonight.

Ramos was 26, too. Like Sanchez.

He, too, was hoping to stay in the big leagues.

On a 0-2 pitch, Costello grounded out. A moment later the PA announced “Hitting for the Yellow Springs Nine, Bendito Sanchez,” After the game, the announcer would approach Sanchez and apologize for the error, but now, as Sanchez walked to the plate the Storm’s catcher Francisco Salazar winked at him and said “welcome to the league Bendito!”

Then he crouched and got ready to flash signs.

No matter what happened next, Sanchez would remember that kindness for the rest of his life. A guy behind a mask, just a guy, but a real player in a real situation, cracking a joke that immediately set him at ease.

Sanchez stepped into the left-handed hitter’s box, took a reflexive swing, and waited for the splitter he knew was coming. Ramos bent, peered in, then went to the stretch. The ball, when it arrived in that swirling mass of pink-tone whiteness, hissed like a silenced snake, bending as it neared the plate. He swung with something like raw muscle memory.

Foul ball.

The force of it made his hands feel good.

The next pitch was in the dirt.

1-1.

Sanchez’s heart rate had calmed now. He felt the dirt under his cleats and smelled grass and hot dogs around him. The purple of Ramos’s cap was vibrant as he bent with his glove on his knee, the whites of the pitcher’s eyes narrow as he stared in for the sign. Fastball this time. 93 MPH. A get-it-over pitch. Sanchez got around on it, but pulled it foul.

A ball and two strikes.

Ramos went back to the splitter, and Sanchez saved the at bat with a foul tip.

1-2 all over again.

Stepping back, Sanchez scanned the infield. That they were properly spaced said they knew he was a spray hitter—or, maybe they didn’t know but didn’t care…the score was 10-1, after all, nothing really mattered in the scope of things. But the count was one ball and two strikes, and Bernardo Sanchez was in the middle of his first big league at bat.

He stepped in.

Ramos straightened, then dealt.

The pitch came hard. Fast. A splitter, dipping.

Bernardo Sanchez’s shoulder drove hard and his leg strode forward. His hands powered the bat as the ball dipped. The bat looped through the Seattle night carrying a lifetime of work, a lifetime of dreams. And, yet, while baseball is a game of those dreams, it is also a game of life. The bat came up empty this time, and as Sanchez and his bat finished the swing the umpire called his deepest “strike three!”

It was done.

Sanchez strode back to the bench, hollowly accepting his teammate’s condolences and their “get ‘em next times” as if there would be next times when it was clear there most likely would not be.

On the field, Javier Rodriguez went to the plate and grounded out in one pitch.

A flurry of activity erupted, guys grabbing gloves and running out to their positions, voices calling to each other, exhorting themselves to keep the pressure up. It ain’t over till it’s over.

Sanchez stayed behind. Alone on the bench with his bat still in his hand, watching the infield take practice throws and Carlos Valle, a Nebraska winner a year back, loop warm-up tosses.

“Hey,” a voice broke into his thoughts.

It was the manager. Bill Inkster. He sat down next to Sanchez, silent for several moments while the game settled around them. Inkster spit the shell of one of the sunflower seeds he chewed so habitually throughout the game.

“You gotta be a good ballplayer to get here, Bernardo,” Inkster said. “Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

Sanchez took a deep breath and stared back out at the field.

“Not what I want to hear, skip.”

“Someday,” Inkster said in a voice that was somehow both firm and soft, hesitating until Sanchez’s attention swiveled back to him. “Someday you’re gonna have kids, or grand kids. Or maybe someday you’ll be back home in Argentina and be coaching a whole different bunch of kids.” He popped another seed into the corner of his mouth. “And when that happens,” Inkster said, “you’re going to be able to look them straight in the eye and tell them about the time that Bernardo fucking Sanchez pinch-hit for a goddamned Hall of Famer.”

They sat for a moment, neither moving, Then Sanchez gave a chuff—a small exhale that was part scream, but also part laugh. He nodded. “Yeah, Skip. I guess that’s right.”

He sighed and pushed the barrel of his bat hard against the floor, feeling the strain through his arms and down the back.

Inkster patted Sanchez on the knee, then stood and went to his usual position at the top step, leaning forward to absorb the moment.

The sound of ball hitting bat came from the distance--Valle inducing a weak ground out.

Sanchez stood then, too.

He slid his bat into the rack again, then straightened the cap on his head and went to the dugout steps opposite where Inkster stood. He put his hands on the thick rail in front of him, and leaned forward like the manager was.

“Come on, boys,” he called out as Valle took new signs. “Gotta keep up the pressure!”
GM: Bikini Krill
Nothing Matters But the Pacific Pennant
Roster

johnd2442
Ex-GM
Posts: 356
Joined: Thu Mar 19, 2020 8:47 pm
Location: San Diego, CA
Has thanked: 150 times
Been thanked: 128 times

Re: The Lone AB of Bernardo Sanchez

Post by johnd2442 » Thu Apr 02, 2020 3:36 pm

This was outstanding. What a great read.
Cairo Chariot Archers, 2042 -
General Manager: John Diaz

User avatar
CTBrewCrew
GB: FL Heartland Division Director
Posts: 5110
Joined: Wed Sep 04, 2019 11:20 am
Location: Milford, CT
Has thanked: 923 times
Been thanked: 1316 times

Re: The Lone AB of Bernardo Sanchez

Post by CTBrewCrew » Sat Apr 18, 2020 10:13 pm

Right up there with Moonlight Graham!
Image

Post Reply Previous topicNext topic

Return to “Player Spotlights”

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 9 guests