Imperfect: An Improbable Life Read Online Free
Author: Jim Abbott, Tim Brown
was especially remarkable, given how it bounced back, no matter what, win or lose. The trash was gone, along with the people, and any lingering regrets. Workers in galoshes hosed it all away, from one end of the stadium to the other. Aided by my own game-day regimen of an anti-inflammatory pill and a few Advils, fending off the normal late-season wear, I felt a bit like the ballpark must have: scrubbed and ready for another day.
Just inside the building, a narrow staircase descended from the main concourse two flights to a dark, low-ceilinged hallway. A left led to the visitors’ clubhouse. Straight ahead were two doors—one to a room where news photographers and radio broadcasters worked, the other to the media dining room and, beyond that, the writers’ workroom. My route took me past those rooms, a door to the manager’s office and eventually, after another right, the clubhouse.
When the door swung shut behind me, I dragged a finger down the batting order: Boggs 3B, James LF, Mattingly 1B, Tartabull DH, O’Neill RF, Williams CF, Nokes C, Gallego 2B, Velarde SS, Abbott P. The Indians’ lineup would arrive by clubhouse attendant later, but I knew it well enough anyway.
It was ten o’clock. The clubhouse smelled clean, insomuch as any clubhouse can. My locker was on the right side of the room, not far from the short hallway that led to Showalter’s office, and across from the bathroom and showers. Don Mattingly was in the corner locker, the one reserved for Yankees royalty. And, yes, he could have been in it. The locker was large enough to pull a folding chair into, allowing Mattingly to sit almost completely out of view, a handy thing when the clubhouse was at capacity. Downtown, people were paying thousands a month for studio apartments only slightly larger and with less of a view. Fellow pitchers Jimmy Key, Rich Monteleone, and Bob Wickman occupied the same wall.
Then it was 10:10. I was constantly checking the clock. I’ll grow old waking up to the same dream, I’m sure, the one where it’s time to pitch and I’m madly searching for my glove while a tight-faced pitching coach is screaming my name and then, huffily, asking for volunteers to take my place.
I got comfortable in a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and shower shoes, CD player in my hand, Billie in my ears. I listened for the emotionin her voice, the crackle when she really meant it, the patience she had for the song. I tapped in to her pace, the tempo I’d seek on the mound. Lined end-to-end, every note became the song, like every pitch could become a game. A win.
She sang:
Might as well get used to you hanging around ,
Good morning, heartache, sit down .
Yes, yes.
The trainers’ room was homey and clean, but without the sterile feeling of a doctor’s office. The guys in there—Gene Monahan and Steve Donohue—kept it that way. The mood was soft lights, the aroma was strong coffee, and the conversations were friendly but muted, unlike the clubhouse, where the loudest wins. We’d chat, but I’d be there for the comfort and the quiet, to clear my head and body for the day, and soon I’d again don the headphones. The trainers would go about their routines, patching the wounded and bringing old bodies back to life. My routine was about visualization. I’d lay a towel over my eyes and begin the sequence, gently flexing and relaxing my feet, working upward until I reached my shoulders and neck. I saw only darkness and felt only awareness. So few times would players actually focus on how, say, their calves felt, unless one hurt.
My eyes closed and my body awakened, I’d see my warm-up in the bullpen, my fastball hitting the corners, staying down, the baseball jumping out of my hand, the ball pulled toward the catcher’s mitt. I’d experience the walk from beneath the dugout roof to the mound, something loud on the stadium speakers, the crowd getting excited, breathing strength. I’d pitch the first inning, Matt Nokes lowering his mask from
Just inside the building, a narrow staircase descended from the main concourse two flights to a dark, low-ceilinged hallway. A left led to the visitors’ clubhouse. Straight ahead were two doors—one to a room where news photographers and radio broadcasters worked, the other to the media dining room and, beyond that, the writers’ workroom. My route took me past those rooms, a door to the manager’s office and eventually, after another right, the clubhouse.
When the door swung shut behind me, I dragged a finger down the batting order: Boggs 3B, James LF, Mattingly 1B, Tartabull DH, O’Neill RF, Williams CF, Nokes C, Gallego 2B, Velarde SS, Abbott P. The Indians’ lineup would arrive by clubhouse attendant later, but I knew it well enough anyway.
It was ten o’clock. The clubhouse smelled clean, insomuch as any clubhouse can. My locker was on the right side of the room, not far from the short hallway that led to Showalter’s office, and across from the bathroom and showers. Don Mattingly was in the corner locker, the one reserved for Yankees royalty. And, yes, he could have been in it. The locker was large enough to pull a folding chair into, allowing Mattingly to sit almost completely out of view, a handy thing when the clubhouse was at capacity. Downtown, people were paying thousands a month for studio apartments only slightly larger and with less of a view. Fellow pitchers Jimmy Key, Rich Monteleone, and Bob Wickman occupied the same wall.
Then it was 10:10. I was constantly checking the clock. I’ll grow old waking up to the same dream, I’m sure, the one where it’s time to pitch and I’m madly searching for my glove while a tight-faced pitching coach is screaming my name and then, huffily, asking for volunteers to take my place.
I got comfortable in a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and shower shoes, CD player in my hand, Billie in my ears. I listened for the emotionin her voice, the crackle when she really meant it, the patience she had for the song. I tapped in to her pace, the tempo I’d seek on the mound. Lined end-to-end, every note became the song, like every pitch could become a game. A win.
She sang:
Might as well get used to you hanging around ,
Good morning, heartache, sit down .
Yes, yes.
The trainers’ room was homey and clean, but without the sterile feeling of a doctor’s office. The guys in there—Gene Monahan and Steve Donohue—kept it that way. The mood was soft lights, the aroma was strong coffee, and the conversations were friendly but muted, unlike the clubhouse, where the loudest wins. We’d chat, but I’d be there for the comfort and the quiet, to clear my head and body for the day, and soon I’d again don the headphones. The trainers would go about their routines, patching the wounded and bringing old bodies back to life. My routine was about visualization. I’d lay a towel over my eyes and begin the sequence, gently flexing and relaxing my feet, working upward until I reached my shoulders and neck. I saw only darkness and felt only awareness. So few times would players actually focus on how, say, their calves felt, unless one hurt.
My eyes closed and my body awakened, I’d see my warm-up in the bullpen, my fastball hitting the corners, staying down, the baseball jumping out of my hand, the ball pulled toward the catcher’s mitt. I’d experience the walk from beneath the dugout roof to the mound, something loud on the stadium speakers, the crowd getting excited, breathing strength. I’d pitch the first inning, Matt Nokes lowering his mask from
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