A Farewell To Arms

It's been a somewhat tumultuous spring training for me personally, but until the Corey Belle/Lyman Gaye incident the other day, the rest of the team has been fairly sedate. That the Belle/Gaye incident is all anyone will remember from this spring is good in that we didn't have any major injuries (even Lyman escaped his car accident in one piece) and had a winning record (we're 18 and 10 with 3 games left). It's bad because, well, that means everybody's going to remember the day Corey Belle and Lyman Gaye, teammates, got into a fight.

As you all know by now, the fight escalated a bit yesterday. (I say "a bit" sarcastically.)

At this point in spring training, doing drills is a thing of the past. Players are still working on some things, but mostly we're all about starting the season. We've been down here since Valentine's Day and it's time to go home. At least that's what I think. Only I'm not going home, I'm going to Nashville to start my season. My arm strength is improving and I'm hoping to spend only a couple of weeks there instead of a month. I think Rick and Alvin are set on the latter, but I'm going to try to convince them otherwise.

Which leads me to yesterday's simulated game. Wait, before that... Before yesterday even started, the team announced a 10-game suspension for Corey Belle to start the season. Personally, I was hoping for about three times that, just to make a point, because 10 games will be reduced to 4 or 5 after Corey appeals. But it's still something, and I credit manager Rick Churches and GM Alvin Kirby with willing to risk losing our best hitter for the first two weeks of the season.

Turns out they were risking a little bit more.

Back to the fake - sorry - simulated game. I didn't want to travel 2 hours by bus to Daytona to play the Commons, so I found myself on a back field with Willie Cordero, Diego Munoz, Steve Pond and a handful of minor leaguers, pitchers who were about to be sent to their own camp. We were going to get some work in and face mostly minor leaguers. Lyman Gaye was part of the offensive squad so he could get 8 to 10 ABs and work on his timing.

Rick didn't make the trip to Daytona either. He wanted to get a good look at Willie and me and a couple of other guys coming off injury and trying to make an impact as soon as possible. Alvin, as always, was floating around the complex too.

I guess it was the fifth inning. I was on the mound and Lyman was at the plate. Funny to me, since Lyman was the guy at the plate last April when I blew out my elbow. That made this a good test for me. Could I overcome my demons? Could I overcome my recent past? Would I have a bad, superstitious feeling and be unable to perform?

The questions have yet to be answered.

I toed the rubber and looked down at Lyman as he dug into the box. The ball was hidden in my glove and I began my motion. But then something caught my eye and ears. It was Corey Belle, in streetclothes (not fatigues like a few places reported), jawing away. Apparently, he'd gotten the memo about his suspension and wanted to speak about it. He was yelling, "The Belle tolls, mother******! The Belle tolls, mother******!" I was sort of a Hemingway buff in college and pleasantly (under the circumstances) surprised at Corey's literary reference. (Later I was told he'd heard it from a rap song by Lil' J. I have a call into Lil' J's reps for comment.)

Normally, a pitcher can work through this kind of distraction. I've pitched while 50,000 fans (not mine) have booed me. I've pitched while drunken fans brawl in the loge level. I've pitched while The Kissing Thief has run onto the field to make out with a good looking shortstop. But simulated games are different. No matter how hard anyone tries to make them appear real, they're not. So I didn't have my regular intensity. I didn't have the focus I usually have on the mound. That's why, when Corey came barrelling onto the sidelines, I stopped and didn't throw my pitch to Lyman. Instead, I watched.

Corey went straight for Rick. "You ballheaded me, man! You turned it off!" Rick, who had been sitting in a foldout chair in front of the dugout, stood up, not in any threatening manner, just like one would stand when guests came over for brie and crackers. Corey didn't stop. He walked right into Rick. Rick told him to back away. Corey said nothing (finally) and attacked. He threw a punch at Rick's face, made contact, and followed up by starting to strangle (not choke) him. Rick was down on his knees in less than a second (remember these are two very big men, one who hit 40+ HRs last year and one who did 15 years ago).

Corey was now involved in his second fight in three days with a member of his team. The worst part about this one is he was beating up, and apparently trying to kill, his boss. Not a smart move.

By now, Lyman had joined the two-man fray. He made a running tackle of Corey, who didn't release Rick from his grip. The three men rolled. I started to hear the sound of staggered, struggling breathing. Sweat and spit were shooting into the air. A little red, the red of blood, was joining the colors of the men as they battled.

The pile grew. Everyone was trying to get at Corey, who was determined - it seemed - to either kill or send a very pointed message to his field manager.

I had not become involved in the melee. While I've been in my share of on field fights (usually involving some hard playground-type shoving and calling one another's mother nasty names), I've never been in one while rehabbing from an injury. I won't say that wasn't on my mind. I've seen guys get injured during fights and I've seen guys get re-injured during fights. While my first reaction was to join in, my other, somehow mature reaction was to hold off.

To my credit, Willie Cordero, coming off shoulder surgery, was trying to stay out of it as well. I could see him through the bodies, sitting in his chair in the dugout, watching the action like it was the WWE. Steel cage match.

Complex security made it to the scene rather quickly. Two guys in shorts, polo shirts and sunglasses (that's Florida spring training security for ya) jumped in, soon joined by another couple of guys. They succeeded in pulling people away and holding onto Corey (while on the ground).

Rick was up now. So was Lyman. Our on duty trainer was looking at Rick's neck, which was bleeding, and his upper lip, which was bleeding. His uniform was torn and muddy (we had rain last night). Lyman took a knee so he could catch his breath. From where I stood, still on the mound, he was unharmed.

Corey was escorted away after a couple of minutes. Still upset, still yelling stuff, it felt safe to say we weren't going to see Corey again for a long time.

The game was called before I got to throw my pitch. Rick needed some medical attention and everyone else had had their workout. So we retired to the clubhouse, which is a five-minute stroll away.

We were a pretty quiet bunch, even the minor leaguers who must have been in total awe about what they'd just seen. Rick was taken to the training room in the clubhouse and most of us either hit the showers or sat in front of our lockers feeling kind of weird. That was no baseball fight. That was assault and battery and, to most of us, attempted murder. This was the kind of thing that guys get arrested for; that guys go to jail for. There were 20+ witnesses. Corey didn't have a chance.

I showered and just stood under the water. I hadn't lifted one finger for the day (besides my personal morning workout, which doesn't count here) and was exhausted. The hissing of multiple shower heads in action, the heat of the water on my semi-balding skull, it was just what I needed. It was like yoga. Relaxing.

"MOTHERFU****!"

I knew the voice. My stupor was jolted back into the real world. My reaction was to run, not away, but toward the voice. Three or four other guys, also showering, did the same thing. (In retrospect, it must have looked kind of funny to see four wet, grown (one with a good lather on his head) athletic men slipping and sliding around the locker room naked.) We had to find Corey before he found Rick. This was bad.

It got worse.

By the time we got into the training room, Corey was already there. He was in Alvin's face though, not Rick's. Before we could get in between them, Corey attacked. He shoved his forearm into Alvin's face (broke his nose) and pushed him into a cabinet, which shook. You could hear the stuff inside falling about, some glass breaking, some metal objects clanging together.

I was the first one on Corey this time. I grabbed his jaw and pulled upward. Some other guys went for his midsection. We all fell together onto the cold tile floor, Alvin included. I was now at the bottom of the pile. My grip was gone and I was at this point trying to protect what a jock strap was invented for (never fight in the nude, you're not as effective as if you'd been wearing, oh, let's say a suit of armor). Bodies shifted violently. Voices roared. I felt like I was in the middle of the kitchen while a tornado was striking the house. Scared the hell out of me.

And then, suddenly, all of the bodies were off. I layed (or lied?) on the tile, hands covering "down there," legs trying to remember the fetal position I recall I liked so much in my mother's womb. Somebody threw a towel onto me. The action had moved into the locker room, only it was just voices now, Corey's voice and Alvin's voice and Rick's voice and a number of other ones, all yelling insults, screaming some terrible things. The noise moved further away from me and I got up.

The trainer's room was a complete shambles. I had to watch my step as I left. Medical supplies were everywhere. A table was on its side. Chairs were upended.

In the locker room, I could tell things had improved. Corey was definitely gone now, literally and figuratively. His voice carried away quickly and was finally muted for good. Really for good this time.

I wiped the sweat off my brow with the towel and went to my locker and put on some underwear. "You got sometheen on your head, man" Willie Cordero said. He was walking by, a pretty large welt growing under his eye.

I wiped some more sweat and looked for a mirror. Then I saw The Cut. "Oh boy," I said, but not in those words. It wasn't a Cut. It was a Wound. The kind you need to go to the hospital for. Actually it was a Gash (not a Wound) on my forehead. I wasn't sweating, I was bleeding. I looked at the towel in my hand, I guess for the first time. It was stained red with blood. My blood.

I returned to the trainer's room, now being repaired by two clubhouse boys (each in their early-twenties), and found some gauze. I slapped it on my forehead, went to my locker, threw on some clothes, and drove home. I had had enough. I was tired. And I wanted some extra special attention. Vanessa would give it to me. She'd ask what happened and drive me to the doctor and hold my hand and tell me how brave I was. And I'd hold her hand back and be glad that she felt that way about me. Then I'd go home with her and sleep. I wanted to get Corey Belle out of my head once and for all. The Belle tolled today. It tolled for him.