Chapter Three: The Drive For Respect
Sometime in 1988 The Beat almost got into its first fight. We were beating a team quite handily, and they were in a foul mood. I forget the spark, but I remember Jim striding onto the field, jaw set, fists clenched. But the ump intervened quickly, and no punches were thrown. Later, after we had won, the other team didn't come to the center of the field for the customary handshake, but some from our team, not to be denied, walked to their bench area for a few forced shakes. Grumbling continued, and ill-intended stares, as the teams milled about after the game. For the first time, we made sure no one left alone. As we gathered our belongings, Steve Bruckman said, "We learned how to handle losing. Now we need to learn how to handle winning."
Apparently, beating the crap out of your opponents and rubbing their noses in it is not how to gain respect. We would have to find others.
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Oh, I've heard that there are B and A leagues, but I've never seen them, or talked to anyone who has. Semi-pro or fast-pitch, I suppose. But as we sat there that day, we sensed that our Valhalla would be to play in C-league, and began to hunger for the championships needed to reach there.
We also sensed what the practices were doing to us. Timing, rhythm. As Jim would set the lineup each week, he would often favor the player who practiced over the player with talent. Though not always, as that winning thing kept coming up. Even respect was awash in the emotional sea that is sport.
And we were not wanting for eager and deserving players. Willie Doyle had convinced Jim to check out two midyear additions, guys he played with in the advertising league. Who could have imagined how much the team would be affected by Peter Wenner and Mark St. George?
Peter was a tall, dark-haired, bespectacled lefty, the son of a judge who brought his own balanced demeaner to the game. It wasn't long before this son of a policemen started having long post-game talks with him, trying to figure out that day's lessons. As a first-baseman, he would hand the ball to me after between-inning warm-ups, always with some word of encouragement before I entered the pitcher's zone. He and I would share many an eventful moment.
Mark quickly showed himself to be Mars, the God of War. Straight out of Baron Munchousen. Hottest car on the block and proud of it. Proud, proud, proud of his ability to hit the ball where he wanted and never, ever conceding an error in the scoring. A New Yorker's New Yorker. Mr. Intensity. But somehow not quite too arrogant. Perhaps. Yet. Oh, those Shakesperean characters, whose greatest strength is also their flaw. Mark would see both heaven and hell; without him, we might not have seen either.
These two would be joined the following Spring by four more titans: Wilfred Spoon, Frank Green, Mike Laffey and Dan Carroll. These six, along with later-arrival Jeff Ricketts, formed the second generation of The Beat. Each came as a stranger, yet each took up the twin banners of dedication and friendship.
As Summer '88 played itself out, we realized we would be losing one of our favorite players. Michael Harvey had thought long and hard about his life and his family. His wife had left him and taken their two sons to Hawaii. He decided the only way to become part of their lives again was to move there and clean up his act. Or at least the drinking part. Michael was fun-loving, booming-voiced, with a gut so big you'd have thought his skin was going to burst. But his year with the team had given him the additional strength and perspective nurtured by the comreraderie of sport. "This will be my last game," he said that September afternoon. "The car's already loaded on a boat. It's time to be with my sons."
His last at bat he hit his only home run in city league softball. A crushing shot; with no fences, he needed every bit of it to wheel that huge gut around the bases. He looked so happy, so content as we gathered afterwards. Already singing dirty Hawaiian songs, luck-a-luck-a-wei-a. If you go to a beach on Maui now you might still find him, playing his ukulele, sipping his Shirley Temple, ready to tell you how he taught Jim everything he knew and turned The Beat into winners. None of us would disagree.
We knew we weren't yet champions, but we were just as sure that we would be around for a while. A sense of tradition was already in our psyche when Kevin stepped up at that post-game gathering, hiding something in his hand.
"We've given away game balls before," he started, referring to our practice of giving one of the balls from a win to the day's best player. "But we've never honored anyone for what they've done over time"
He opened his hand, and there sat a gleaming quarter note, golden colored, maybe four inches tall and over a half-inch thick.
"This," he said, "is the Brass Beat.
"The Brass Beat is not a most valuable player award. It will be given each year to that player who most represents the spirit of The Beat, both on and off the field."
There was more, but those words have been repeated each year after the last game. And we all knew then, even as Kevin spoke, that the first recipient would be Jim Harvey.
I forget what Jim said, though at first he was speechless. I can picture his face, nearly overwhelmed by the immensity of an award that so captured the essence and camaraderie of the game, that would be shared with others throughout time. We knew then that we had learned how to win without losing our souls. The future was boundless.
1989
1989 has been called by some The Beat's breakout year, when we became contenders and felt the excitement of a pennant race. If so, then it was also a breakout year in our personal lives.
A big part of that was the newcomers. Wilfred Spoon and his wife, Anne, were just awesome. Newly arrived from North Carolina, she a CPA, he a painter. Pictures, that is. A couple seemingly meant for San Francisco, ready to enjoy a new life with their new friends.
Frank Green stepped in immediately as catcher following Roy's injury-hastened retirement. Started calling the pitches and working with my head. Not tall, but broad chested. Broke the color barrier on The Beat and, for this Yankee country boy, a lifetime of team sport.
When Mike Laffey first joined the team, he was living with a woman who fought with him a lot, finally locking him out one night and calling the police. Yuch. For a few days Mike was very, very sullen. Someone suggested an evening of cards to get over it. As we sat down in a circle on a friend's living room rug, someone suggested, "Poker?"
Pause. "Poker?" says Laffey. "I hardly even knew her."
We all burst out laughing. Thus began Mike Laffey, the Jester.
Dan Carroll was much quieter, a giant teddy bear with a mustache. Solid hitter and outfielder, though a little older and a little slower than some others. Another with whom I commiserated at game's end, gauging the team's psyche.
There was a fifth addition in 1989, one Shawn (as in Dawn, or Fawn) Katz. Rumored to have the bluest eyes in baseball. The less polite might have asked, "But can he type?" A Beat prospect who lasted three seasons, his smile and enthusiasm helped nurture the developing team.
1989 is often remembered for some serious injuries to opposing players, two of which illustrated the danger "envelope" of the game.
Eric was playing second with a runner on first. Grounder to short, a flip to Eric, who wheels to throw to first but the runner, who did not slide, is in the way. Eric holds the ball and we claim interference, as the runner is required to slide. The ump explains that you can't get an interference call if you don't throw the ball. O.K. Two innings later, runner on first, grounder to short, flip to Eric. Who turns and just fires a shot to first from that cannon arm of his. Toward the runner. Who did not slide.
Writes Eric Meyer:
"As I recall the incident where I hit the guy in the head with a relay throw, it was in one of the years where I was playing shortstop, not second. If my memory is correct, it only adds to the horror of the story, since a shortstop can really step into the relay throw when the runner from first is only half way down the line, in the line of sight between Peter Wenner and I. Like he has the proverbial bull's eye on his forehead (maybe he borrowed it from Willie Doyle's chest!).
"Nonetheless, it's how I remember it. The ball hit his head, and deflected pretty much straight up in the air, and landed in shallow right field. I felt quite guilty about that, and as you well know, the rules favoured hitting him, since that is the only way you could get a double play in that situation."
It's an awful sound, softball against bone, while watching it carom off someone's head, the ball into right field, the player to the ground. And to know that the game requires us to make that throw. Oh, the runner was o.k., and we all slide into second now. But what if someone didn't? What would you do?
Another incident involved a pitcher. "Hit the ball off his forehead," Jim would tell us, echoing a hitter's focusing mantra he learned from his brothers. Yet perhaps he never should have said it to John Palmer. Undoubtedly the strongest player on the team, the big lefty pull-hitter would sometimes fall into pop-up/foul-ball slumps. Jim moved him to lead-off to force him to hit more straightaway. And repeated the mantra. Which John did.
It was late in the game, and their pitcher was tired. Perhaps new, he had no uniform or hat. For whatever reason, he wasn't protecting himself, with either glove or stance. Just standing there slack-armed, and then he wasn't, an even louder sound barely preceding his limp drop to the mound. Several minutes passed before any part of his body moved, and I was surprised when he eventually walked off the field.
I have never seen anyone in a sporting event closer to death. The ump called the game, I believe officially for time, though I'm sure some was left. And just as sure that he, and we, were in shock, and that the game required us to step back. In awe of it's awful beauty. It's need to be that close to the edge. Our need.
Certainly the game provided excitement beyond the potential danger. We were fortunate enough to share that with a troupe of loyal fans. Indeed, they were part of the excitement. I especially remember Sherilyn leading the "Beat" cheer. Only one word, "Beat, Beat, Beat, Beat . . . " but it started like a rhythmic, ritual drumbeat, a call to the hunt, to pick up our clubs and stones and prepare for action. It would rise in tempo and crescendo as a player stood in the box, bearing down on a pitch, ready to strike. And it would burst into full-throated fury if the hero struck true, seizing the moment as much as they had created it.
Many of them were former players. We were them, they were us. They gave us great strength, a strength we would need to call upon if ever we were to become champions.
It was during this era that the Harvey-McClure axis went domestic. Jim, Marc, Sherilyn, Kevin, and Eric all moved into a flat on the west side of Nob Hill. The bohemian side. Polk Street, near the cable car line. I don't know who coined the phrase, but it quickly became known as the Beat House.
Hardly a weekend went by when there wasn't a party at the Beat House, especially after a game. It was at one of those parties that we first met the gods of baseball.
Pepe (Frank Green) and I were sitting at the kitchen table, with others milling about. He and I were discussing once again why we played -- to win or have fun? We talked of the samurai ethic of sword and chrysanthemum, of Worf's exploration of the Klingon warrior. At some point everyone in the room, almost simultaneously, stopped talking and turned to listen. "The game is a ritual," I said at one point. "We are changed by playing it. But only if we give everything we have to each and every game, no matter what the circumstances. We actually create something that needs us to exist."
The philosophically inclined should refer to Plato and his "nous," the reality of a shared thought. The religious might consider Jesus' "Wherever two or more of you gather in my name, I am there." For Joseph Campbell and the anthropologists, it's the power of totems and myths. They are effectively all the same -- absolute dedication, even if only for a short time, to a shared adventure, willing to accept both glory and disaster.
As The Beat kept winning in the summer of '89, dedication came easy. Almost every week, around Tuesday or Wednesday, Jim would call me and say, "On Saturday your going to be pitching the most important game of your life," or, "in the history of The Beat," or something to that effect. Jim was the ultimate motivator. He kept detailed stats on every player, so as to chart streaks. He always consulted with Kevin and me when it came to setting the lineup, but he took it as his personal responsibility to engage every player, keep them pumped up. The perfect combination of toughness and caring. And he loved the game.
The Beat finished 6-2 that season, our fifth in the league, just one game back from forcing a playoff for the championship. No one game stands out, though one image does (perhaps from the next season?). It was a close game, hard fought, and we entered the bottom of the seventh with a slim lead. The other team rallied to tie the game, but there were two outs, and escaping with a tie can mean a lot in the standings. The next batter popped the ball up, somewhere between shortstop and second. Eric drifted left, Kevin drifted right. Absolutely no one called anyone off. They collided, the ball dropped, a runner scored, and we lost the game.
Kevin was crushed, sitting on the bench after the game, head lowered, shoulders sagged. Nearly inconsolable. Yet I felt a need, beyond that individual macho thing, to help with the burden. I went over, rubbed his shoulders, sat down with an arm around him, and said something. Can't remember what: I try to be understanding, but sometimes the only thing that comes out is, "You'll have that next time." What mattered was that we weren't going to take out a loss on any one person, or two. The only way we could share victory is if we could share every aspect of defeat.
As the season ended in early October, we were confident we would be sharing many victories. And personal triumphs. Like a yellow submarine, the Beat House seemed to nurture the best in everyone. For Kevin and Sherilyn, it was a second chance. They had married young, perhaps too, and after a few years had lived separately. Yet the common adventure seemed an adequate focus for their very strong personas. Jim and Marc had also faced dissolution, but likewise seemed recharged by to move to Polk Street. Even Eric felt inspired, beginning a relationship with D'Arcy that seemed "just right." He certainly represented the spirit of The Beat both on and off the field that year, and was the proud recipient of the Brass Beat from Jim Harvey. In his words:
"As for your description of the Beat House, on the west side of Nob Hill, the bohemian side, I would consider that quite a flattering description, since our neighbourhood had much more in common with the Polk Street drug and flesh trade than the hoity-toities on Nob Hill. Remember Royal Liquors, right downstairs, open until 2am, any time you needed a fix? Polk Street was like that, any time you needed your fix, just cruise Polk Street, you were likely to find it, be it greasy fish & chips, a young male body, something to burn on your foil, or a case of beer.
"The whole Beat culture had the Beat House as it's centre. I've traveled many miles down the road since then, and the Beat House still has a place in the centre of my heart. I left a piece of my heart at 1414 Polk Street.
"P.S. No one has ever used 'chaffed' in reference to me before, but I think you're right, I did 'chaff' at being called a rookie."
The Loma Prieta earthquake in the middle of the World Series only served to strengthen the group, as people gathered to help each other through disaster. Annie in particular enjoyed the sanctuary of the Beat House, as Wilfred was in Carolina, ironically to assist with the devastation of Hurricane Andrew. The deepening personal bonds seemed to confirm the attitude that was polishing our diamond-in-the-rough team of friends into a shining jewel.
Even the darkness and cold of the approaching winter did little to diminish enthusiasm. Thanksgiving was a scrumptious potluck with Eastern/Southern expatriates and other family escapees, together as a family of friends. The personal warmth was nurturing and inspiring. We all seemed eternal and invincible. And, indeed, within our realm, we were.
But our realm had its limits, even geographically. To the north, a few hours drive from the Golden Gate, the climate changes. The Mediterranean palms, eucalyptus, and scrub oaks give way to Douglas firs and giant redwoods, the evergreens of the cooler Klamath region. On December 1, 1989, Sherilyn was driving north to Humboldt State University to participate in a college speech tournament. Having left high school early to create a new life, she had focused her fresh inspiration on obtaining a college degree. None of us were surprised that she excelled, and were delighted that she had thrown off the stereotypes of youth. It was the beginning of her second blossoming.
Perhaps a northeastern boy might have been familiar with the black ice that forms on seemingly clear roads, and driven accordingly. But for a hot-blooded daughter of the central valley, there would be no warning. It probably started out innocently: a tire slightly off the road, a bad pothole, some little jolt that suddenly became an uncontrollable spin. If you're lucky, you can turn into the skid, rotate back and forth a few times, keep going generally straight until the ice ends. If you're not, you hit it as you're entering a turn.
As did Sherilyn.
What's amazing is that she didn't die immediately. Oh, her brain did. But her heart refused to give up. For another month she held on, as family and friends came and had their final conversations. The New Year's Eve gathering at the Beat House was certainly subdued, with endless toasts to the light of our lives, and endless talk of miracles. But the next morning the phone rang. Kevin answered it, and began sobbing. And we knew it was over.
There was no funeral as such. Her ashes were buried next to a young tree in Golden Gate Park. We gathered there in a chilly mist, hanging mementos from the branches, trying just to survive the loss, far from understanding or accepting it. At the Beat House someone put up a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon, which ended with the statement, "I don't like the way this decade is starting."
The Poet tells us that the flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long. In our lives, we will never know as bright a light as Sherilyn.
1990
In the face of catastrophe, a warrior consolidates, turning to inward strength and discipline to survive the onslaught. Such an experience will often bring out the best of what already exists in a person, or team, even as freshness, creativity, and other aspects of change are suspended.
Thus did The Beat of 1990 become perhaps the most efficient team in the franchise's history. Not the strongest, nor the fastest, but certainly unsurpassed in its attention to the mechanics of the game. It was in many ways Tim Hesselgren's team. The former coach had evolved into an on-field manager, directing practices and guiding the defenses during games. Perhaps it was natural for Jim to surrender some of his instinctive authority that year: having lost his confidant, he had lost some of his confidence, and allowed another to focus the team's energies.
Regardless of the change, we had a mediocre spring season. But we always did. Although counting on your luck, or other intangibles, is risky business, the team always looked forward to playing better in the summer.
My life had also gone through changes during the Great Inspiration of '88-'89. I had fallen in love and began living with Robin McCallum, a fun-loving pixie with all the enthusiasm of Tinkerbell. You will remember Tinkerbell. She loved Peter Pan so much that she was extremely jealous of anyone or anything that took away his attention. She even tried to poison the distraction, but when she realized she was about to poison Pan instead, drank it herself, and could only be saved by someone who believed in her.
For Robin and I, San Francisco was like Never Never Land: there was no room between the adventures. But in late 1989 we moved to Sacramento so I could be a legal aid lawyer. Throughout 1990 we would visit often, certainly for the games, and always find a place to sleep at the Beat House. But the physical detachment was mirrored emotionally. I likewise was less of a directing force on the team. And Kevin - well, he finally gave his notice-to-give-notice, needing to get away and let things settle down. He would leave the team, and The City, by the end of the year.
Even the eternal rookie lost his focus. Eric, also inspired, had entered law school, but was in danger of becoming "one of them." The final straw was the kegger he held for many classmates one Saturday, evil corporate wannabes who bespoiled the sanctity of the hallowed residence. Most of us huddled in the front room, D'Arcy lamenting her newfound isolation, all of us listening to the rising crescendo of jackals and hyenas.
Even the fans were dispirited. The famous "Beat" cheer, so long our rallying call, withered away. Oh, a few tried it early on, but it was now tinged with as much sadness as excitement, and could not sustain us, or itself.
So after we stunk up the spring season, we didn't have nearly as much to renew us. Nothing to look forward to except another quietly desperate effort to keep our lives going until the game, which itself seemed to have died, returned to us. Like Job, we were on the verge of losing faith. There appeared to be no reason for our dedication.
It must have been late June or early July when I got the call from Jim. He was excited. I could tell from the moment he said hello that something was happening. I hadn't heard that voice in months.
"The schedule just came out."
"Great, when's our first game."
"We're playing The Monsters."
"What?!"
"We're playing The Monsters Game 7. It could be for all the marbles."
I smiled. My eyes lit. As did dozens of players, friends, and fans on two teams, as the word spread like a ripple, a single note dispelling the silence. In a moment, the game had given this efficient yet faltering team the one battle cry that could re-ignite it:
Beat The Monsters!!
There would be three significant events before the showdown with the Monsters. The first, with the greatest impact, was the springtime arrival of Jeff Ricketts.
"The Rocket" was a ballplayer's ballplayer. A bit shorter than average, but with a baseball build on the wiry side. With full dreadlocks, he was instantly the long-hair leader. Speed to burn, and the hustle to use it. Covered so much territory in left field that other outfielders could cheat toward right. If a ball was hit the other way, he would run in to back up the bases. Ditto on a run down. But what most endeared him to me was his unflagging support. I could throw an almost strike, not get the call, and amidst the sometimes-silence would hear Ricketts yell in from the outfield, "Nice pitch, Ohhh-Beee!" How could you not love the guy?
The second event was our first Old Timer's Game. Perhaps the mark of a maturing team, or a determined manager, the game was Jim's brainstorm, and an instant hit. The lasting memory is of Roy Nelson and Frank Green singing the Canadian national anthem in honor of Eric Meyer, the Say "Eh?" Kid. We all joined in the last chorus, as loud as possible in our enthusiastic camaraderie. Who won? Who cares?
And the third event was a loss.
It's not so much that we were looking ahead to game seven. We just hadn't learned yet the importance of a tie. We wanted to be undefeated when we played the Monsters. But after six innings against The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, a perennial D-League rival that had already lost a couple, we were tied, 9-9. As visitors, we took our turn at bat, but failed to score. As we took the field, the look on everyone's face was horrible. Downcast. No intensity, no focus. Feeling beaten already, hardly caring what happened. And of course we gave up a run and got tagged with a loss. Which meant going into the crucial matchup, we needed a win just to tie, perhaps force a playoff if both teams won out.
In spite of the setback, no one's
spirits were flagging heading into the game. Several of the boys in gray painted
"Beat Rules" on a sheet, then snuck out to Dennis Harvey's house in the middle
of the night and hung it on his garage. This was not just a game, it was
rivalry, sibling and otherwise, at its finest. Even the weather gods seemed
poised to watch as we gathered that fateful September Saturday - sunny and
windless even at West Sunset, where there's fog if there's fog anywhere.
Writes Eric Meyer: "Do you remember when we first played the Monsters, out at
West Sunset? We all got there early, all pumped and psyched. We had an intense
practice on that practice field and then got smoked in the game, mostly because
we had spent our 'mojo' out on the practice field."
Ah, Eric-sama, you are so close.
West Sunset, like many parks in The City, held more than one field. As The Beat began to assemble, The Monsters, who had arrived even earlier, decided to use one of the side fields to take batting and fielding practice. This was unusual, both because such fields were seldom available and because teams just didn't do that. We watched, admiring their dedication, as we went through our normal stretches and warm-up tosses.
We would indeed play a game for the
ages. No blowout here. Both managers, Jim for us and Ellory Brown for The
Monsters, shifted their line-ups throughout the game, maximizing their players'
offensive and defensive talents. For The Beat, this meant starting Jim at third
base but closing with Mike Laffey, while starting Tim Hesselgren at pitcher,
bringing me in for the middle innings, then re-entering Tim for the final push.
The result was a defensive gem, real baseball by devoted players, with each
offense stranding runners in scoring position. At the end of six, we were tied
at four, wondering which team would crack first under the pressure.
It was The Monsters.
I can't remember who got what hits. I do know that Mike and Tim were part of the rally. But the key play was a comebacker to the pitcher, Dave Tooley. He was a relative newcomer to The Monsters, having taken over for legendary Bob Cain, my role model and hero. And he had not yet lost any of his starts. But on that play, he deftly snagged a sharp one-hopper, wheeled toward second to start the game-ending double-play - and threw the ball into center field.
Folks, when you're in a game that close and well-played, if one team makes a mistake, the other suddenly feels that perhaps it is the better team, that perhaps this is their day. One hit later, The Beat broke through for a 5-4 lead. The Monsters righted themselves for the last out, but the bar had been set.
It was a bar they could meet. Against Tim's re-entry relief pitching, they moved runners to second and third with two out, just one hit away from clinching the title. Dennis Harvey came to the plate, and after taking a pitch, hit a line-drive shot straight up the middle.
Over a hundred years ago, William James and the American pragmatists created an entire philosophy based on the reflex action. Certainly there are parts of our psyche that act before consciousness, that themselves understand what is important, and what must be done. Thus it took a moment for Tim and the rest of us to realize that loud sound we heard was the ball hitting his glove. And for just that moment he looked down, stunned, half-expecting to see the ball ricocheting away, and instead found it safely waiting in the palm of his hand. For just a moment. And then he screamed triumphant, as did we all.
The Beat had beaten The Monsters.
Dave Tooley sat on the bench, head in hands, seemingly inconsolable. "I lost the game," was all he could say, "I lost the game." Yet his teammates did console him, vowing to come back, to give him another chance.
To do so they would have to win their last game. But not The Beat. Amazingly, the same Good, Bad, and Ugly that had defeated The Beat had forfeited twice and were dropped from the division, thus handing the boys in gray an automatic win. I went instead to watch The Monsters play at Jackson Field, a close game that saw them work for a two-run lead in the late innings. Suddenly a limousine showed up, and out popped Jim, Kordt, and one or two others, all much more animated than humans normally are, almost giddy with a win in hand while The Monsters had to sweat one out. After a few minutes of cavalier commentary, they left. As The Monsters took the field for the last inning, Dave Hamner stepped behind the plate, yelled out "Let's shut the back door!', and snapped his catcher's mask down. I had never before seen so determined a group of athletes. Three outs later they were walking back to the dugout, slapping hands and talking strong. They had earned their rematch.
I tried to diffuse the speedy cameo
by my teammates, saying I hoped they hadn't woken The Monsters up. Again Dave
snapped his head in reply: "The last game woke us up." I slid away without
further comment, wondering who was the better team.
Jim, Kevin, and I met before the playoff to discuss lineup and strategy, as
before every game. One comment by Kevin, who would lead off, stands out: "I'm
going to hit the first pitch right at Dave Tooley and rattle him. He'll be
worthless the rest of the game." We didn't disagree.
We played the next Saturday at beautiful Rossi Field in the Richmond district, another perfect sunny afternoon. Rossi was not as big as other venues, but did have two fields. As the teams began arriving, there was a growing tension, much more than the first meeting. No jovial banter this time, it was all business. Even the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Harvey to watch their sons compete could not break the mood. Though not bitter, neither team could hardly stand to be in the presence of each other. Then someone on The Beat (Tim? Eric?) suggested that we go to the other field to get in some batting and fielding practice. Folks gathered their gear and started over.
I stood there in a daze. Wasn't this just what The Monsters had done before their loss to us? Were we not walking into that same too-tight trap that they had experienced? Yet I did not feel the strength to call the team back. I paused, one of those moments in life when you feel balanced on the edge of something, but know not what. I turned toward The Monsters, and saw one of their players walking my way. A new guy, one I didn't know personally, his head down, lips tight, needing to get by me without any contact. For some reason, as he got near, instead of turning away, I looked at him and said simply, "Good luck."
He looked up and smiled. I saw great relief, a sense of camaraderie that transcended even rivalry. "Thanks," he said. "You, too."
At that moment, more than ever before, I sensed the game. That same game that had touched us briefly in thoughtful late night talks. But now it was so much more real, with a life of its own, far greater than even the argument over whether we're here to have fun or win. I thought of Vince Lombardi, exhorting his players to make the game proud of them. That was our philosopher's stone. We had to want both teams to play their absolute best, to sweat and bleed and exhaust ourselves in creating a game for the ages. Indeed, the game itself could not live unless we did so. Yet somehow we were letting the petty aspects of rivalry stand in our way.
The game began, Kevin leading off. Dave Tooley's first pitch was a fat one, as first pitches often are. Kevin swung down and hit it square, a vicious short-hopper straight up the middle.
That Dave snagged cleanly as it went by and threw to first for the out. The Monsters cheered, The Beat groaned, and every player knew that whatever fear we had instilled in them the first game was gone.
The rest of the game was a mirror image of the first. Same scoring, same personnel changes. Going into the seventh we were tied at four. Again The Beat offense rallied, but this time we stranded the winning run at third. The Monsters came to bat, with Dennis Harvey leading off. Singling to right. Making his way to third with two out. Sixty feet from a championship.
The next Monster worked the count, then hit a shot over shortstop, an apparent hit. But Eric Meyer, playing center field, had decided to gamble, moving in as a short rover earlier in the inning. He one-hopped the ball moving to his right, and threw a screamer toward home plate. It was the perfect play, the only one that could have saved the game.
It did not.
Dennis Harvey was a leadoff hitter for a reason, and The Monsters could not have had a faster or more determined runner. He flat outraced the ball home, crossing the plate with hands raised high as Pepe caught Eric's throw and swept his tag, too late. Dave Hamner, Ellery Brown, Dave Tooley, and the rest of The Monsters came pouring out of the dugout, lifted Dennis for a moment, then collapsed in a mass of celebration, while The Beat watched.
The Monsters were D-League champions.
It was tough to absorb, as we changed our shoes for the last time, watching them drink champagne. Hard even to think of next year. Hard to think of the effort it would take just to have a chance for a championship. In an instant, the summer had ended, and the cold chill of autumn crept into our bones.
For many of us, it was not just the end of a season; it was the end of an era. The Beat House was dissolving. Kevin Austin, The Beat's captain since he had helped start it, was leaving the team and moving from San Francisco, never to live there again. Tim Hesselgren, the master of efficiency and defensive coach, would not be asked back. Even Jim and Marc would leave The City, hoping to regain their strength at Marc's family home in Albany.
Oh, we still found ways to get together. Robin and I hosted Thanksgiving in Sacramento that year, yet another sign that the great San Francisco experiment had ended. Most of the old gang, sans Kevin, showed up, including Kordt's mom, Rita Reel, our earliest matriarch and founder of the first AIDS hospice in northern California. Even Eric showed up with his girlfriend de jour. We stayed up late and laughed ourselves silly singing "Good Old Rocky Top; Rocky Top, Tennessee!" Most folks stayed over, and the next evening we played football in the park nearby. Eerily. Sacramento's notorious tulle fog had begun, but that night hovered just a few feet above the ground. We ran through lighted fields like ghostly spirits, trying to keep alive the great friendship that the sport had helped nurture. Yet at the same time it felt like a last hurrah. We had lost our captain, our most knowledgeable coach, our greatest fan and inspiration. We had even lost our home. We had given everything we had, and come up short. Could we possibly make another run?
All I could think of was Dennis Harvey's last prediction, made earlier in the year before we knew we would be facing each other:
"The Beat will never win a championship without Sherilyn."
He was right.
