Orklord’s Haven

Last week, I went to see a spring training game between the Yankees and the Reds.  My parents drove down to FL to meet with me so we could go see a couple games together.  It was going to be a nice vacation.  We showed up at the Tampa Bay Yankees ballpark 90 minutes early in hopes of seeing players up close, maybe getting an autograph.   I saw Alex Rodriguez, Derek Jeter, Hideki Matsi (my fave) and several others. They were all taking batting practice on the field outside the stadium.  It was a beautiful chaos. The batters hacking away while infielders did drills and outfielders shagged flies.

But the big surprise was the staff.  My Dad immediately pointed out Craig Nettles, a NY 3rd baseman from when I was a kid.  He was hitting grounders to the 2nd basemen on the right side of the infield.  And then, we walked over to the left side of the batting cage. There he was, this 6′8″ man in his sixties, tall and lean, his face hard.  My dad recognized him, but couldn’t recall his name.  A man standing near us said his name was Frank Howard.  He was a hard hitting outfielder for the Dodgers and the Senators (the old Washington team) of old.  He wasn’t just standing there, he had a bat in his hand, and he was hitting grounders to one of the Yankees young 1st basemen, Shelley Duncan.

He would toss up a ball and in one smooth motion, choke up on the bat and smack a hard grounder towards 1st.  He was so old, and when he walked, it was with this old limping gait.  But his hands were so practiced, he never missed the ball.  Shelley would snag the grounder, then he would one hop it back to Frank. And Frank would catch it one-handed.  There was this respect, this understanding between them.  It was amazing to watch, as if  the two men were this connection between when baseball was good and pure and now.

The players all wore these top of the line baseball caps, fitted, all nice and neat.  But Frank Howard wore an old adjustable cap, the kind with the half moon circle on the back between cap and strap.  Then, I looked in the program my dad bought, he wasn’t there.  Everyone else was there: Tony Pena, Bobby Mercer, Rich Monteleone, Craig Nettles.. but not Frank Howard.  He wasn’t an instructor, or even a noted attendee.  He was just an old baseball player hitting balls and walking around the field.

Once my Dad told my Mom who he was, she called out to him, “Mr. Howard!”

He turned around, not surprised, but he responded, unlike the other ballplayers (they had many fans calling to them).

She called out, “How are you, Mr. Howard?”

He replied simply, “Just fine, champ.”  Then he turned to whack another grounder.  He was all work.

All the other players fell away as I watched him.  That repetitive motion, tossing the ball, sliding up to grip the bat, cracking it to first, then waiting to one-hand catch the return throw.. like this kind of zen.