Teammate, p.16
Teammate, page 16
I hadn’t caught Chapman since Game One of the National League Division Series against San Francisco on October 7, almost a month earlier.
With two outs and Ramirez on first base, Chappy threw Brandon Guyer a series of fastballs averaging 100.3 mph. Despite the heat, Guyer worked the at-bat to a 3-2 count. On Chapman’s next heater, he socked a double to deep center field, scoring Ramirez and cutting into our lead at 6–4.
With right-handed hitter Rajai Davis up, my mindset hadn’t changed when it came to my pitch selection. I mean, our guy threw 100 mph on every pitch and, in the back of my mind as a catcher, I don’t want to get beat in a big situation with a pitcher’s second- or third-best pitch. I thought we should stick with what I knew Chappy did best. If Rajai hit a home run off a slider, I’d never been able to forgive myself. So the scouting report had not changed. We wanted to pound Rajai with fastballs.
Chappy worked a 2-2 count on Davis and I thought I could get a fastball inside on him. But Davis dropped the bat head right on it and hit a line drive down the left-field line for a two-run home run that tied that game at 6–6.
Watching that ball go out was gut-wrenching. Chapman had only given up two home runs that entire 2016 regular season, and only nineteen in his six seasons in the majors. What were the chances he’d give one up now?
As I watched Davis’s ball sail skyward, I was thinking, Hit the wall, hit the wall. No such luck. The game was now tied.
I know “Monday morning quarterbacks” will second-guess the pitch selection—they always do—especially in games that end in a loss. I also second-guessed myself. Why didn’t I throw something else? Rajai had a good feel for the slider—which was Chappy’s second-best pitch—that year from left-handers, but bad on changeups. Chappy had a good changeup and I probably should have gone with that. Of course I should have gone with that—I should have gone with anything but what I called. It’s easy to think that way.
Looking back now, however, I wouldn’t change a thing. I tell Cubs fans, we had to have a little drama, right? What fun would it have been to win by three or four runs. We wouldn’t be able to say we were a part of one of the greatest World Series in history.
Anyway, we couldn’t dwell on Rajai’s home run. Our lead had vanished. We needed just one more out to get out of the inning. For a moment, it looked like it would never come. With the bases now clear, Coco Crisp singled between shortstop and third base.
Yan Gomes, who entered the game in the top of the eighth at catcher, was up next. We got the first two strikes with sliders, and then got him swinging at a fastball to end the inning.
Everyone tried to stay positive as we headed into the dugout. We were so high an inning earlier with the lead, and you could sense a letdown. That’s only natural. All I knew was I had to have the at-bat of my life.
I led off the top of the ninth inning and worked a five-pitch walk off Cody Allen. I knew I had to get on base any way I could, but I never even considered that it might well be the last at-bat of my career. Even when Chris Coghlan replaced me as a pinch runner—which made it official, it was my last time competing in the major leagues—nothing really registered. I was focused on winning the game. It never occurred to me that I was walking off the field as a player for the last time. You know how your brain works when you’re in the middle of competing? That’s where I was locked.
I knew Game Seven would be a grind—it was my first Game Seven ever, so I was in a new element and I didn’t have time to reminisce or play “what if.” A lot of other people had reminisced for me, especially when you look at everything that was being said about me by the broadcast team. But I never had a chance to think that way.
We were in a tied game, 6–6.
DAVID’S iPHONE JOURNAL
5/19/16
“Everyone on this plane is a professional, but not everyone is a pro!! Only one name on the marquee.”—John Lackey
Baseball is, of course, a game. As a game, it’s supposed to be fun, across all levels—from Little League to pro baseball. Yes, there was tons of pressure in professional baseball—it was my job, and I had to perform. I am trying to provide for my family, just like the next guy. But everyone has to have fun at their job, too, right? If it isn’t enjoyable, you’re probably not going to be very good at it. I’m going to miss professional baseball for many reasons, and the fun I had playing is one of them.
It would sound pretty cinematic to say that, as I trotted off the field for the final time after my ninth-inning walk in Game Seven, all of the great memories from my fifteen-year career flashed before my eyes. The truth was that I was totally in the moment. Nostalgia would come later. Now, months later, I’ve had the chance to process some of these incredible memories. It seems like every day I think of something else that made me smile during my career. I couldn’t resist sharing a few of the most cool, fun, and sometimes random moments and facts from my career.
Jersey Number. I wore six different jersey numbers at the major-league level—No. 40 with the Los Angeles Dodgers (2003–05), no. 29 with the Pittsburgh Pirates (2005), no. 9 with the San Diego Padres (2005), no. 26 with the Cincinnati Reds (2005–08), no. 8 with the Atlanta Braves (2009–12), and no. 3 with the Boston Red Sox (2008 and 2013–14) and Chicago Cubs (2015–16).
Number 8 was my favorite because of the success we experienced as a team in Atlanta, and it was my wife’s softball number in high school, so she was pumped. When I signed with Boston in 2013, the team asked me what number I wanted. I really hadn’t thought about it but said, “Oh, about eight?” They told me it wasn’t available. I should have known. It was retired by the organization, having been worn by the great Carl Yastrzemski.
I was told nos. 3 and 5 were available and no. 3 clicked immediately in my mind. I liked that, in addition to myself, my family at that time had three others—wife, Hyla, and kids Landri and Cole. And the number 3 is like a half eight—that’s how my brain works. But, as a backup catcher, I wasn’t about to demand a certain jersey number from any organization. I was just happy I had a jersey.
Toughest Out. Lance Berkman, Todd Helton. These guys had it all, power to all fields, didn’t give away one pitch, and I always felt like they knew what I was thinking. Todd was the most difficult in Colorado. I will never forget how he had a little grunt when he swung. It felt as if he were trying to cut the ball in half. The worst part about Helton was that you would work to get him to two strikes and your pitcher would make a perfect pitch and he would foul it off. He would do that till the pitcher made a mistake, and then he would hit a rocket somewhere.
Lance played in the Major Leagues fifteen years, was a National League All-Star six times, and won the 2011 World Series with the St. Louis Cardinals. He was a switch-hitter who averaged 30 home runs and had a .410 on-base percentage during his first twelve seasons. There weren’t a whole lot of holes in his swing. I used to love when he would hit homers and set the bat down ever so gently because he knew it was gone.
Best Conversation at the Plate. I loved chatting with the umpires. I remember one with Bruce Froemming. Bruce umpired thirty-seven years in the major leagues, from 1971 until 2007, before he became the league’s special assistant to the vice president on umpiring. He was one of the older umpires when I reached the big leagues, a real salty guy.
I was catching Paul Quantrill during spring training when I was with the Dodgers. Paul could hit a gnat’s ass from the pitcher’s mound at the tip of the plate. He threw a fastball and I was set up a little bit away, but the ball was almost middle of the plate. I caught it and Bruce called “Ball.” I always tried to learn the umpire’s names.
I said, “Hey, Bruce, where’s that?”
And he said, “I had that ball down.”
Next pitch was the same exact spot, maybe even right down the middle. I said, “Bruce, where’s that.” And he said, “What the heck is this, twenty questions? Throw the ball back.” I tossed the ball back to Paul, but I nearly died of laughter. That line has stuck in my mind all of these years.
Another favorite umpire memory is of Joe West. As of 2016, Joe was the longest-tenured umpire in the league—he started in 1976 and joined the National League staff full-time in 1978. Joe could be a little rough around the edges, too, but I always liked him. He was brutally honest but a good umpire.
He did have a little bit of an ego and some showman in him. I was with the Red Sox in 2013 and one day we were playing the Yankees in Yankee Stadium. Jon Lester was on the mound, I was behind the plate, and right-handed hitter Vernon Wells was at-bat. Lester threw Vernon a cutter down and in. Vernon checked his swing, and as he did, he said, “Aww, my mind was telling me no.” And for some reason R. Kelly popped in my head. I started to sing, “But my body, my body’s telling me yes.”
That’s a lyric from the old R. Kelly song “Bump N’ Grind.” So I started to sing. And, without skipping a beat, Vernon started to sing the same song back to me. I mean Joe was like “What the…?” He thought we were absolutely nuts. I loved that song in high school and it just popped into my head. Two guys at the plate singing R. Kelly to each other? It was a hilarious, almost unbelievable moment.
Best Conversation on the Mound. I have a few favorite memories of chats on the pitcher’s mound, most of them with Jon Lester, of course. In 2014, when we both were with the Red Sox, Jon was dealing in a home game against the Oakland A’s in early May. He’d struck out at least one batter in seven innings and struck out three in the third and the eighth innings. He was punching out tickets left and right, but he got a little sloppy with his pitches in the seventh or eighth inning. I felt like he let off the gas because the game was pretty much over and he had been cruising.
I had a sign I signaled to manager John Farrell when I thought the pitcher was done—I grabbed my uniform pant leg—so I grabbed my pant leg and walked out to the mound. First thing I said to Jon was—and it wasn’t in a pleasant tone—“Are you done? Are you fucking done?” Jon was like, “No, no I’m fine.” I screamed at him this time. “I will tell John you’re done and he will get you the fuck out of here. We have guys in the bullpen if you are done. I’m not going to sit back here and catch this shit if you are not into it.”
Of course, Lester got mad and said, “No, I am not done.” I ran back behind home plate and he proceeded to strike out the side. He threw eight innings and finished with fifteen strikeouts.
DAVID’S iPHONE JOURNAL
5/23/16
We have not been swinging the bats real well lately. We are not playing terrible, just can’t get anything going offensively. I am playing more than normal and I am enjoying it. Can’t seem to find a good workout program playing this much. At the end of a long road trip, two more with St. Louis. Lost tonight on a walk-off homer. Kids out of school Thursday and are meeting me in Chicago. So glad summer is here and can spend more time with them.
Toughest Pitcher I Faced. Randy Johnson, hands down. The six-foot-ten lefty nicknamed “the Big Unit” was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2015. With Randy, every time I saw a fastball or I was certain the next pitch was a fastball, I’d swing at 98 mph over my head. He just owned me.
The funny thing was, I got this thing for left-handers. I was good at hitting lefties but not Randy. Ted Lilly was another one. Ted played fifteen years in the major leagues and was a two-time All-Star. I could not hit his breaking ball. He was a pitcher who just baffled me. I would go up and look for his breaking ball, and he’d throw a fastball right down the middle of the plate and I’d just sit there and take it. It was awful.
However, the most defeated I had ever felt at the plate, simply because I was so overmatched, was when I faced the Yankees’ Mariano Rivera. He carved me up like nobody’s business. I watched strike one because I wanted to see what his cutter looked like. And then he threw me a front hip cutter, which I didn’t even know was possible. I was still young enough in the league that I had never heard of a front hip cutter. I’m a right-handed batter and he threw the pitch at my left hip. I moved out of the way because I thought it was going to hit me and the pitch cut right across the middle of the plate.
The count was now 0-2 and I had no idea what pitch he’d throw next, but I knew I had to swing. I looked for another cutter, but, of course, he threw me high heat, probably 96 mph. I swung right through it, had no chance, and walked back to the dugout and said to myself, Whoa, okay. Now I see what all the hype is about this guy.
Favorite Pitcher to Face. I think I always had better results as a batter against pitchers I had caught. I had an advantage when I knew what their pitches would do rather than just seeing them for the first time.
I caught Zach Duke when we were with the Pittsburgh Pirates in 2005. I always saw the ball pretty well off Zach. Aaron Harang was one of my best buddies. Aaron was really dominant when we were together with the Cincinnati Reds, but he started to run out of juice later in his career so I managed to get the best of him a few times.
Favorite Stadium. On the road, San Francisco, by far. One of the game’s best atmospheres, AT&T Park is just a beautiful place to play baseball. Situated on China Basin, a section of San Francisco Bay, it has the Coca-Cola Superslide, a big scoreboard, and a female announcer, Renel Brooks-Moon, who in 2016 was the only female public address announcer in Major League Baseball. She brought a different and cool vibe to the stadium.
As for home field, it’s a tie between Wrigley Field and Fenway Park. There’s so much atmosphere and history in those two spots.
Alias. When we went on the road, the name I used to sign into the hotel was Jake Taylor. It’s the catcher’s name from the movie Major League. Actor Tom Berenger played Jake Taylor in it. He was the old, salty catcher. “Come on, Dorn, get in front of the damn ball.” It was easy to remember!
“Tallahassee.” When fans I knew attended our games, they knew to shout “Tallahassee” when I walked by on the field to get my attention. It started when I was with Atlanta because a lot of people from my hometown of Tallahassee made the four-hour drive to watch games. I mean, nobody says “Tallahassee,” so it was an easy way to get my attention.
When you stopped to sign autographs, it could be a process. It might take fifteen minutes to sign for everyone, and there were days I simply didn’t have those fifteen minutes. But when somebody shouted “Tallahassee,” I made sure to go out of my way to at least say hello. I started to tell my parents to tell people to say “Tallahassee” if they were coming to a game so I knew to look out for family and friends.
Perk I Will Miss. Man, it’s just being catered to. I never picked up my equipment bags; everything already was there for you, ready to go. All the planning was done for you. I guess just the luxury of playing Major League Baseball, because everyone else takes care of you. But the competition, in my heart, is what I will miss the most, especially at the end of my career and the playoff atmospheres at Wrigley Field. There were fifty thousand people screaming for you, everyone watching on television. When I walked out of that stadium it was a pretty special feeling. I am really, really going to miss that.
As that last career at-bat came and went in Game Seven, I wasn’t thinking about these amazing memories that the game had given me. These thoughts had to wait… at least through a rain delay.
CHAPTER 14
RAIN DELAY
11:55 P.M.
Game Tied, 6–6
There may never have been a better-timed rain delay in the history of Major League Baseball. Thank you, Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, and other great Cubbies who watched from above, negotiated with the Big Guy, and created a little rain. Or as Ryan Dempster put it, Harry Caray spilled his Budweiser. The delay ended up being exactly what we needed.
Rain was in the forecast for Game 7, and it was expected to arrive around 11 p.m. It started to fall a little later than forecast, and we actually had a chance to snap the 6–6 tie in the top of the ninth inning prior to the delay. After I led off the inning with a five-pitch walk and was replaced by pinch runner Chris Coghlan, Jason Heyward grounded into a fielder’s choice to force Coghlan out at second base. The Indians then brought in right-hander Bryan Shaw to replace Cody Allen.
Jason immediately stole second base and advanced to third base on a throwing error by Cleveland catcher Yan Gomes. With Jason on third, Cleveland manager Terry Francona made a defensive move. Right fielder Brandon Guyer moved from right field to left field, and Michael Martinez entered the game in right—replacing Coco Crisp—to help prevent a sac fly that could score Heyward from third base due to Guyer’s strong throwing arm.
Shaw, however, struck out Javier Baez when Javier fouled off a bunt attempt on a 3-2 count. Two outs. Dexter Fowler proceeded to ground out to shortstop. The Indians’ Francisco Lindor made a great snag up the middle of the field to throw out Dexter and end the inning.
Though Chapman returned to the mound for the bottom of the ninth, I was out, owing to the pitch runner. Miggy Montero replaced me at catcher, while relievers Carl Edwards and Mike Montgomery started throwing in the bullpen. Chappy, who had lost some zip on his 100-plus mph fastball, relied on more sliders in the ninth. But he was effective and retired the top of the Indians’ order on a fly-out (Carlos Santana), a swinging strikeout on a 97 mph fastball (Jason Kipnis), and a second fly-out (Francisco Lindor).
Game Seven was going to extra innings.
We were headed to the top of the tenth inning and “free baseball” but Mother Nature intervened. As the rain fell harder and the ground crew pulled the white tarps to cover the field, J-Hey immediately came to me and said, “Rossy, get everyone in the weight room, players only.”
