Fickle Fans
July 17th, 1979
Sharp steel sifted through shells of seeds and spit tobacco clinging to the bottom of his cleats. He snarled in disgust, yet after some thought, he realized he was no better than this mess. Both had once been desired, yet had been chewed up and spit out. He plopped his overweight behind on the wooden bench of the dugout and gazed out over the empty playing field. Veterans Stadium was once his kingdom. 56,371 people poured into the relatively new stadium in hopes of a win. He rarely disappointed. While Philadelphia was dubbed the city of brotherly love, fans no longer considered him a brother, and all love was lost. But the Mets were coming in, he was on the mound, and they were in last place. This was his time to regain long lost respect.
July 18th, 1979
The incessant ringing of his alarm clock woke him at 9 o'clock. He reached past beer bottles and cigarette butts and hit SNOOZE. He looked over only to find a skimpily clad woman lying right beside him. To his knowledge, he had never seen this woman before in his life. He grabbed a bottle of beer and chucked it against the wall, spraying shards everywhere.
“What the fuck!” she screamed as she sprung from the bed.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” he shouted in reply.
“You're fucking crazy!” Her final words were cut off by the sound of the door as it slammed behind her.
Hangover was an understatement. His breath reeked of beer and his nose began to bleed. Chemicals kept him calm, wiped his memory clean and brought him back to a time where he was Philadelphia’s pride and joy. However reality always returned as Veterans Stadium came into view. He took a deep breath and parked his car. Slowly sauntering into the side of the stadium, he sat down in front of his locker and read his newspaper clippings McKinney 3 Hits Cubs In Win; May 23, 1974.
“Hey Jack, how long ago was that?” a teammate asked.
“About 5 years ago,” he responded with a hint of sadness emerging through his raspy voice.
“Well you're pitching today, so think about yesterday tomorrow and about today today.”
“Ya, alright. Hey, maybe I'll throw another one of those today," he said with a halfhearted smile. Genuine smiles were a thing of the past. He took one last look at the clip-- in the picture he was smiling; he could tell he was truly happy as he was grinning with his eyes as well as his lips. His eyes hadn't smiled since that fateful year.
“Hey Jack, one more thing. It's probably not the best idea to go boozing the night before you're outing. Also, you're not fooling anyone with those nosebleeds, snorting that shit is gonna get you one day,” he said as he tossed Jack his glove.
“Whatever you say Bill.” Bill Gibbons was really the only one who still cared if Jack lived or died. They came up together through the minors and carried the team to the playoffs in 1974. Jack considered him his only friend. He slid into his white, pinstriped uniform, which seemed to fit a little snugger these days. He laced up his cleats, grabbed some chew and set out to regain his throne.
His cleats clattered on the clubhouse concrete as he made his way towards the dugout. The blinding sun beamed inwards and McKinney squinted in disgust. “A beautiful day for baseball but a hangovers worst nightmare,” he muttered to himself. He made his way to the bullpen accompanied only by the white noise of a sellout crowd. The bullpen catcher tossed him the ball and shouted “You ready?”
“Ya, lets make this quick, my arms not what it used to be,” he said as his rough fingers slid swiftly over the red stitching of the baseball. He glared at the crowd just as he did before every ballgame. He would pick a fan or two who would be lucky enough to receive his autograph. Unfortunately, he hadn’t signed his name in two years. With only a couple warm-up pitches left, a young boy made his way to the fence and watched Jack in awe. Too young to understand what McKinney means now or what it used to mean, at this point, he was Jacks biggest fan, tomorrow it could be any other player but that didn’t matter. Today, he was someone’s hero. Just before his last pitch a voice came from stands: “Hey Jimmy, get back up here. You don’t want his autograph.” The kid took one last look at his former hero before obliging and returning to his seat. Jack’s heart sank as he half-heartedly heaved his last warm up pitch and walked slowly towards the pitchers mound.
McKinney trotted out to the mound, knocked the dirt off of his cleats and stared at the batter, Stan Gent: he’d faced him many times and for the most part he was the victor. Gent was waving his bat around as if he was trying to swat a fly, looking simply ridiculous. McKinney shook his arm out, and though it could not compare to what it once was, his knowledge of the players certainly made up for it. He buried his face into his glove and began his conversation with the ball “Stan likes to swing at the firs pitch, so you’re going to go low and outside- and don’t forget to curve,” he murmured as he began his windup. He reared back and snapped off his first pitch of the game. A beautiful breaking ball cut cleanly through the air and dove downwards towards the dirt. Just as McKinney predicted, Gent poked a routine ground ball to the second baseman. Easy out. The rest of the inning followed suit as he retired the side. “That’s what I’m talking about!” he exclaimed as he jogged off of the field.
The next two innings went smoothly, a hit or two here and there, but no harm done. Jeers turned to cheers as the Phillies managed to score four runs in three innings and so far McKinney had held the Mets to 0. Confidence crept through his body as he went out to pitch the fourth inning. A giddy feeling swept over him, and he even felt a smile coming on. McKinney buried his face back into his glove and spoke to the ball once more “You see this big ugly guy right here? That’s Mike Gains; he couldn’t hit the water if he fell out of a boat, so he won't be able to hit you. All you have to do is go nice and straight to the inside part of the plate.” He went into motion and tossed it towards the inside corner. Gains torqued his hips and put all 240 pounds behind the ball sending it rows deep into the bleachers. McKinney’s smile left with the ball. The umpire tossed him a new one and he struck up a conversation with it as well. “You see what just happened there? Don’t do that-- that's bad. Lets try and preserve a good game. I need a win. Help me get one.” After his talk with the ball, his catcher Buck Ferrell came in for one of his own.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. He got lucky, you’re pitching well,” he said, punctuated by tobacco spits.
“I know. This next guy, Santos; he can’t hit the high stuff and has a horrible eye. I want pitches out of the zone.”
“Whatever you say boss,” Buck said, ending the conversation with a pat on the behind.
McKinney watched Ferrell waddle back to his position behind the plate, and Ferrell lifted his glove up; a signal for McKinney to throw it high.
“All right Santos, lets see if you can lay off of the high stuff,” McKinney said as he sailed the ball over the umpire’s head. “OK, that was my bad. Not even you would swing at that Santos.” An uneasiness swept across the stadium. Smiling faces turned into nervous frowns as they began to realize that this perfect pitching performance was too good to be true. If things continued this way, the boos would come back. McKinney tossed the next two pitches low in the dirt and the one after that far outside. Man on first. “It's ok, I’ll just get this next guy.” He grabbed the ball and spoke sternly to it: “So, what I need you to do is go low and away. Stay away from the middle of the plate or he’ll hurt. He wants to hit you. Neither of us want that to happen, do we?” He went into his windup and tossed a breaking ball that didn’t break. It went for a two run homer. McKinney had to leave the field almost as quickly as the ball, as his coach took him out of the game. However, he wasn’t alone: he brought his embarrassment and the anger of thousands of fans with him.
He walked back trough the long dark tunnel and took a long, hot shower, hoping the water would wash away his embarrassment. It couldn’t. Mud, dirt and dignity dripped off of his body and disappeared down the drain. Seconds later he made some of his magic powder disappear and washed it down with a couple of beers, erasing this nightmare from his memory, but not from the scorecards.
July 23rd, 1979
McKinney woke up with no help from his alarm clock and no hangover. No mystery woman in his bed, and no throw up in the toilet. “It’s a beautiful day for baseball,” he joked as he looked towards the dark rain clouds overhead. “You guys are going to have to save me if I get into trouble, ok? Just start raining when they’re starting to hit me.”
He made his way towards the bathroom for his early morning relief. Jack took a long look in the mirror. Emerged gray hairs covered his leathery face. “What are you doing to yourself Jack?” he questioned. “What happened to the old Jack? The Jack who didn’t need to drink to live?” The mirror said nothing in return. “It’s a new day today, and I’m a new man.” He reached for his razor. Warm blades wiped white hairs from his worn face, showing a slightly younger, less used man. He was a new Jack, but he looked like the Jack of before. The Jack who used to win. After grabbing a bite to eat, he made his way to the ballpark, and for the first time in a long time, he prayed it would not rain.
He entered the clubhouse with an air of confidence, a twinkle in his eye. He wanted to pitch; he could feel something good. “No nosebleed today?” Gibbons asked with a smirk on his face.
“Nope, not today,” McKinney responded without even turning to look.
“That’s what I like to hear. How about one just like the old days?” Upon hearing that McKinney sifted through his articles and found his favorite: McKinney beats flu and San Diego in same day; August 1st 1973.
McKinney marched onto the mound like he meant business. No stalling. No excuses. He scraped the dirt off of his feet and looked in towards the plate. As the umpire wiped the plate clean, McKinney wiped his mind clean, removing all distractions. The first inning went flawlessly. Two strikeouts and an easy popup sent McKinney into the dugout feeling good. The following three innings went just as smooth with no batter reaching first, leaving the opposing team helpless as they were unable to get the ball beyond the infield. After four innings the scoreboard read:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 R H E
Philadelphia 0 0 1 0 1 2 0
Cincinnati 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
As McKinney trotted out towards the mound a slight trickle of rain began to fall upon him. ”No, come on, not now. Please not now.” If the rain continued to fall so lightly, McKinney would be able to carry on and pitch the rest of his game. The first batter struck out on four pitches and the second was forced to return to the dugout almost as quickly as he had left it. Two outs. Art Robison marched to the plate with a deeply determined look drawn onto his face. McKinney returned his face to his glove and spoke to the ball once more. “This guy can’t hit the high stuff, so stay low and do what you’ve been doing.” He positioned his fingers on the corner of the seams. Curve ball. He snapped his wrist, yet the rain combined with the slick leather resulted in disaster: a hanging curveball. Robinson swung and smashed a drive deep into left field. The boisterous crowd took a deep breath inwards. The small ball sailed through the somber night, shooting straight for the flaming yellow foul pole. The umpire ran from beyond the plate and screamed, “Foul Ball!” The crowd exhaled. “Just a long strike,” Jack mumbled. The umpire made his way to the mound.
“We’re gonna have to delay this game, and the way things are looking we’re prolli gonna have to call it. You’ve pitched a great game. I don’t know what else to tell you.” He placed a ball in McKinney’s glove. A souvenir of what could have been. McKinney marched off the field with thousands standing: a thank you for his pitching. A slight smile showed on his face for a split second but was quickly removed by the tear that trickled to his chin. Fortunately, the million drops of rain and mist masked his liquid emotions.
McKinney shot through the clubhouse in search of his secret stash. He poured more of the white powder up his nose until is body went numb. He sat quietly in the corner thinking of how he almost accomplished the impossible.
After nearly a half-hour, the coach entered the clubhouse “Jack, you still got anything in you?”
“Ya, I got more in me than when I started the game,” McKinney responded with a snarl.
“Well, prove it. The rain stopped. You’re back on.”
Jack couldn’t believe it, he was throwing a perfect game and he was about to fuck it up because he thought it was over. Oh well, he thought. With his added energy he bounced from his plastic chair and ran out towards the field.
The sound of the crowd was deafening as they all stood to watch a washed up veteran who overextended his stay in the big leagues prove everyone wrong. McKinney tipped his cap ever so slightly as he made his way to where he felt most comfortable- the mound. He had spent a majority of his life here and this is where he wanted to die.
The fifth, sixth and seventh inning went without incident as he retired all nine batters in a row. He was in full control, his mind was racing and he had gathered a little extra juice on his fastball. Unhittabble. As he ran out to start the eighth inning he gazed at the scoreboard.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 R H E
Philidelphia 0 0 1 0 0 2 1 4 7 0
Cincinnati 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0
McKinney leaned his face into his glove and stared at the ball. As he reached to grab the ball, a drop of blood slipped from his nose and splashed upon the ball. The bright lights temporarily blinded him as he was in his windup towards the plate. It didn’t matter. The first batter grounded out to first, the second popped out weakly to center and the last batter of the inning grounded a ball right back to McKinney for the third out. As the next inning rolled around, McKinney was beginning to feel hot and overworked but he carried on, striking out the first batter of the ninth inning. McKinney rocked back and forth as he began to feel dizzy and nauseous. Cincinnati put in a pinch hitter for the pitcher as the game was coming to an end. George Clay walked to the plate, keeping his eyes fixed on McKinney the whole time. There was bad blood between the two. Clay always hit McKinney well, going 14 for 19 against him. The latter of these two caused a benches clearing brawl.
“Well, what do you know Clay? Me and you all over again. You hit everything I normally throw at you but I don’t normally throw this hard. See if you can hit it.” McKinney fired the ball towards the plate and Clay layed down a bunt on the right side, breaking the number one rule of baseball, bunting during a perfect game. Gibbons flew down the line, grabbed the ball with his bare hands and threw Clay out by a step for out number two.
“You’re chicken shit, Clay. You’re fucking chicken shit!” McKinney yelled as he watched clay remove his helmet and enter the dugout. “Alright Jack, you got one out left. You’re almost there. Leadoff hitter. Just throw strikes,” McKinney said as he dropped a curveball in for strike one. “How about another one of those?” McKinney dropped another curveball in for a second strike. “Now I know what you’re thinking, I’m not gonna throw you another curveball,l but you’re wrong. Here it comes.” McKinney tossed in a low curveball which the hitter skied straight upwards. McKinney stared up into the big dark sky in search of the little white ball. Again, the lights blinded McKinney as he dizzily swayed back and forth, looking for his lifelong dream. At the last second, McKinney spotted it and stabbed his glove outwards, barely spearing the ball. He did it. He had achieved perfection. Gloves and hats flew into the air as McKinney’s teammates formed a dog pile on top of him. For minutes upon minute the crowd cheered as they watched the players celebrate. All of McKinney’s teammates got off one by one only to reveal a sprawled out man lying motionless on the ground. It was McKinney. The cheers of the crowd slowly went silent as they paid their final respects to a regained Hero.
A Perfect Ending To A Not So Perfect Life; July 23rd, 1979