The Tao of the Backup Catcher by Tim Brown

Author:Tim Brown [Brown, Tim and Kratz, Erik]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2023-07-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

ECHOES OF VELCRO

For those whose careers exist somewhere between the minor and major leagues, between baseball and the rest of their lives, the darkest of omens is a general manager on a couch.

“Hey, the manager needs to see you in his office.” Usually this coach, sent to fetch you, employs your nickname, a chummy effort at delaying the severity of what you both know is coming. But, then, maybe this time—this one time—the manager would like to tell you what a nice job you’ve been doing or wish you a happy birthday.

So here comes that coach, walking across the clubhouse, which is crowded with teammates who watch him lean over. They hear the nickname and think, “Oh no, not Kratzy,” but mostly think, “Oh thank God, not me.”

The door is open. The manager is behind a desk. There’s a coach in there, too, usually standing, so you can sit. You don’t feel like sitting.

And there, in Lululemon pants, Allbirds shoes, and a quarter-zip pullover with a Titleist logo, his legs crossed, his expression friendly but serious, is the GM, and he’s on the couch, and that’s when you know. The GM is not there to fill out the chorus of “Happy Birthday to You.” He’s there to demote and/or fire you. What’s left are the details. How bad is this going to get? Is it another trip to the minor leagues or is it permanent? The manager asks you to close the door. He gestures toward the chair. The coach sighs. You won’t be taking batting practice that day.

“Yeah,” the general manager says, followed again by the nickname, “we’re going to have to make a change…”

Then there’s something about roster flexibility or production out of your position and how much we appreciated your effort and professionalism and go down there and keep doing what you’ve been doing, but honestly, by then, you just want to get out of that room and out of the clubhouse as quickly and quietly as possible.

The best it could go: to be sent down. For the men who bounce between the major and minor leagues, it stinks, it’s humiliating, it’s a logistical pain, but at least it’s still a job. The worst it could go: “We’re going to have to release you.”

Either way, you’re leaving and might never be back.

You shake hands with everyone in the room because it’s the mature thing to do. You open the door and mutter helpfully, “Leave this open?” and hate yourself for it. You ignore the eyes that follow you through the clubhouse. If there is any question about what happened in there with the couch-sitting GM behind the closed door, it is answered when you hoist your duffel bag from the top of your locker, wrap your arms around the clothes hanging in the locker, give them one good fold just as they are, hangers and all, drop it all in the bag, then shuffle off to find your bats.

You call your wife. Maybe your dad, if you’re Erik Kratz.

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