During every drive down I-80 from Sacramento to Berkeley, Shoeless swore it would be his last. He wasn’t planning on retiring from the league or taking another sabbatical studying weather anomalies in Antarctica. He swore it because, since taking the reins of the old California Crusaders organization back in 2039 and turning it into the now infamous Sacramento Mad Popes, he had always planned to move the rookie ball team out of state, to somewhere less hectic and more unassuming than Berkeley.
But here he was again, mid May, weaving his old four door Camry through late afternoon traffic on his way to Prophets Ballpark [Side note: I had no idea it was named Prophets Ballpark .. fitting] to meet with the staff of the Golden Bears. Or what was left of the staff after some heavy-handed organizational house cleaning and promotions.
Only pitching coach Luis Enriquez remained, and, from the voice message Luis left on Shoeless’ answering machine the previous night, he was not too happy about it, either.
At least, that’s what Shoeless gathered from the profanity-laced mix of Spanish, English, and even some Japanese Luis had picked up over his coaching tenure. The only tangible things Shoeless came away with after listening was Luis wanting a face-to-face meeting as soon as physically possible and something about who the pitchers were he was willing to coach.
The first request was easy enough; Shoeless had already made plans to go there. The second was preposterous.
On the passenger seat of the Camry, covering several deep set stains from years of drive thru dinners on the road, sat the paperwork outlining the severance deal the Popes were willing to offer for Luis’ prompt firing.
***
“You want what?” Shoeless said, rubbing at the temple of his nose, already fighting against the inevitable migraine caused by spending too much time in his car. He had hoped a good lunch from his favorite hole in the wall of an eatery would push it away for good. He picked up the Rueben sandwich off his plate and marveled at the perfect mix of corned beef, swiss cheese, and sauerkraut nestled between two pieces of delicious Rye toast that this place should be world famous for. “Luis, that doesn’t even make baseball sense.”
“Zurdos!” Luis pointed at his own chest. “Me only coaching zurdos, senor. Take or leave.”
Shoeless took a giant bite from his sandwich. Savored it as he slowly chewed. Then responded, “Sorry, Luey, I don’t even know what the hell that means. Zurdos?” He wiped a giant glob of something from his cheek. “Like zeros, is that what you mean? You only want idiots?”
“No, zurdos!” Luis rolled his eyes disgustedly then mimicked throwing a ball with his left hand. “Only lefties. Only zurdos.”
Now, it was Shoeless’ turn to roll his eyes.
The idea was ridiculous: a staff comprised entirely of lefties. They’d be the laughing stock of the Spike Nolan League, all the leagues. No match-ups based on who the team was playing. No strategizing in the later innings. Just one southpaw after another. Plus, a team has to develop more than just one side of the pitching rubber.
The more Shoeless thought about it, the more it played out in his head like something out of a Dr. Seuss book – one endless line of lefties starting from the pitcher's mound and trailing out the bullpen. Almost too hilarious to even consider. Maybe it could be done in some fictional world where things like this were done purely to tickle the whimsical fancy of a bored general manager. But this was the real world; this was the Brewster; and, Shoeless would face real life consequences for frivolities like this.
He picked up several french fries and dragged them through the glob of ketchup he’d squirted on his platter. “Luis, you know I love the way you work with the boys. It’s why I hired you. But, come on, all lefties, all .. zurdos – it’s baseball insanity.”
“No, senor, not insanity. I am zurdo. Was zurdo when I played. I coach better to zurdo. Only want zurdos.”
“What would you have me do with all the young righties we want innings from in Berkeley?”
“Send ‘em to Philipsburg. Don’t care. All zurdos here or no Luis,” he said, pointing to himself again.
“We got a draft coming up. Most of those boys play in Berkeley their first year or two.” Shoeless shoved the fries into his mouth and continued talking as he chewed. “I got righties on my board I like. I’d have to ..”
Short legs, but legs nonetheless.
Shoeless picked up another fry. Studied it. Marveled at just the right amount of crispiness at the ends. Then pointed it toward Luis. “What the hell, Luis? Let’s do it. Let’s god-damned do it.”
“Really? I won’t let you down.”
Shoeless tossed the fry into his mouth. Savored it. Then took a sip of his Diet Dr. Pepper through his straw.
“Oh, you better not, Luey, because it’s the Year of the Zurdo in Berkeley, baby!”
