FanPost

'Paper Cub" from 1972, Part 4

Fourth and last in a series of posts comprising the full text of a story published in the Chicago Tribune's Sunday magazine 50 years ago, on April 23, 1972: a description by Ron Berler, a 22-year-old freelance writer, of 3 days he spent in spring training as a would-be outfielder for the Cubs.

..........

ONE HOUR to game time. Yosh lugs out a bucket of soup, and we all wolf down a ladleful. Salt tablets and Gatorade disappear like they are going out of style.

Billy Williams strides past me to the bat rack. "You better be on your toes out there, because I'm going to be watching you.

I pound my mitt and approach Phil Regan.

"Well, buddy," I smile, "I guess it's going to come down to either you or me."

Randy Hundley overhears and saunters over. He looks from me to Regan and advises his battery mate, "If you go 3 and 0 on him, just hit him."

"That's right," nods Regan, turning again to my direction. "The only way to really test a hitter is to throw him some 'chin music.' It's the job of a pitcher to continually intimidate his hitters. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if one were to sail in on you."

Regan rubs his chin and walks coolly away, leaving me heavy with The Fear.

..........

THERE'S NO TIME tho, no time to worry about chin music. The game is about to begin.

I can't even remember hearing the national anthem, but I suppose it was played. My major concern now is making the final decision whether to use Popovich's bat instead of Beckert's.

Swinging them both around my head, I strike to the plate as my name is announced over the public address system.

"Playing left field, batting lead-off, No. 0, Ron Berler."

A wave of polite applause. I toss aside Beckert's bat.

Good Lord, [ital]what can these people be thinking?[end ital]

..........

GEE, IT'S A nice day. I step into the batter's box and glance up the remarkably short distance to the pitcher's mound, where Phil Regan is bearing down on me with the longest face and stoniest countenance I have ever seen.

I smile pleasantly and take a short practice swing. Yet Regan quite ignores my sportsman's offering. He dips into that big windup and uncorks one -- 40 feet over my head, almost over the backstop into the stands.

No way I'm going to embarrass myself like that, I decide, pounding Popo's bat on the home plate.

The ump tosses Regan a new ball, and the Vulture rubs it up awhile, kicking dirt determinedly across the pitching rubber.

He stares down hard at home plate again, and delivers one high and disturbingly tight. But I accept the challenge; I don't bail out.

"Ball two!" bellows the ump, and Leo and Pete are on their feet yelling: "Attaboy! Attaboy! Stay in there!" No matter they are sitting on the opposing team's bench.

The Cub infield decides to gamble. They adopt a Boudreau shift, shutting off the entire right side of the diamond. In doing so, tho, they leave open a huge gap between short and third. Santo has pulled all the way over to a normal shortstop's position, but he sneaks up on the edge of the infield grass.

This unorthodox action demands a reassessment of strategy, and I step out of the batter's box to plan my countermove.

..........

AS BEFITS any great lead-off hitter, Coach Q. V. Lowe has placed all decisions in my minds. Well, right field is definitely scotched. I figure as long as Santo is giving me third base, I might as well make use of it.

The situation calls for a drag bunt down the third-base line. That's what it's got to be. But just to be on the safe side, I motion Santo a few steps back off the grass. I wait till he's set, and then move back into the batter's box.

Regan winds and fires. I square to bunt and note with glee out of the corner of my eye that Santo is slow breaking in.

But alas, just as I have failed all spring trying to bat a ball to the left side of the field, even now do I find myself incapable of accomplishing my long-sought goal. My best efforts are met with a meager roller to the pitcher's mound.

..........

I SPRINT all the way to first base. Still, the throw to Pepitone beats me by a good 15 feet. And yet . . . and yet as I watch, the incredible occurs.

Regan's toss smacks true into the center of Pepi's mitt [ital]and then pops out![end ital] Safe!

You can't be too careful in this game.

I adopt a conservative lead off first base. Rookie Matt Alexander steps up and smashes a drive back to the box. Too hot to handle, it caroms off Regan's glove and rolls toward second base.

Beckert's only play is to first base, and here in the first inning, Lowe's Highs are threatening to break the game wide open with a score.

..........

TIME IS CALLED while Glenn Beckert retrieves my fallen hat and helmet. More confident now, I grab a good sized lead off second. I have no intention of stealing -- it's just a bluff -- but how is Regan to know that?

On the second pitch, he wheels around to pick me off.

You won't believe this, but Regan's peg sails high over Beckert's outstretched mitt into short center field. Yet my foul instincts send me diving back for second base.

My instincts also inform me that there is something blocking my way. Something case-hardened, I decide, as my nose meets head-on with Beckert's kneecap.

No time for that now -- the ball is still dribbling out into center field. Dizzy and dripping blood, I hit out in search of third base. My efforts are rewarded with an unseemly but nonetheless safe slide into the elusive third sack.

..........

Q. V. LOWE, curiously unmoved by my facial disorder, sends me on a quick lead off third. Two pitches later, rookie infielder Terry Hughes renders all strategy useless by rifling a single up the middle. I am home with the first run of the ball game.

"Let's make that run stand up!" claps Q. V. as he hustles us out on the field for the bottom half of the inning.

I'm so nervous about committing a foolish error, I neglect to take my shades, and left field has a very tough sun.

..........

DON KESSINGER is the first man up. He jumps on a Regan fastball and booms it up the alley in left-center for a double. I stay clear of it, leaving all responsibility to center fielder Bill North.

And to myself I scream, "Bear down, Regan, you've got to bear down!"

Beckert thoughtfully grounds to second, moving Kess to third. Billy Williams steps up.

I have a real bad feeling about him. I try to figure out what to do. Well, it's obvious that Kessinger will tag up and score; I better concentrate on hitting that cutoff man at second.

"Where should I play him?" I shout frantically to North.

"Back! Get back!" he yells.

I move almost to the warning track, shading toward left center.

..........

I DON'T KNOW what I'm worrying about; Williams is a lefty. He won't hit it out here. Santo is on the deck. [ital]He's[end ital] the one I should be shivering over.

"Back! Get back!" yells North.

Sure enough, there it is. A long, high drive dead to left field, curving painfully close to the line. No chance here, not even close enough to hoodwink the crowd with one of my flamboyant dives.

The ball whacks off the wall and I heave it to the cutoff man, holding Williams to a stand-up double.

..........

SANTO LIFTS his cudgel, and I start to get the willies. For the last two days, Ron has been booming everything into the left field corner. I play him deep and tight to the line, but I see no hope.

Something goes wrong. There it is, that same powerful, smooth swing, but the ball somehow rolls to second base.

The danger is over; I'm sure no one else will hit to me. The inning ends without further incident, and I trot tremendously satisfied back to the dugout.

..........

THERE IS LOTS of laughing and cheering as we watch Ortiz's name written into my place in the lineup. Ortiz, Popovich, North -- they all shake my hand as I plop proudly down on the bench.

In the midst of all this ballyhoo, my name is called over the public address system, requiring my appearance at home plate.

Bewildered, I hop out of the dugout and approach [coach] Pete Reiser, who is waiting for me at the plate.

He is holding a form of some kind, and as he smilingly offers me the slip of paper, the announcer explains to the crowd that I am being handed my unconditional release from professional baseball, signed by John Holland, vice president of the Chicago Cubs National League Baseball Organization.

"Won't this hurt my chances for sticking with another club?" I ask Reiser.

"Leo can give you [Dodgers owner] Walter O'Malley's number if you'd like."

There is a pause.

"Look," he said. "We don't want to lose you just yet. How would you like to be batboy in the fifth inning, after Ron Santo Jr. has to go home?"

..........

I HAD A DATE that night with Joe Pepitone's ex-girl friend, the wondrous Edwina. She had tole me to pick her up around midnight at the Pink Pony, the restaurant where she works.

But it was apparent as I swung the door open on the dark booths that Edwina was . . .

"Gone," smiled the other waitress, busing a final table of empty wine glasses.

She gave me the once-over and shook her and strayed away.

"Nah, you don't look like major league material to me, either."

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