Shit, Frenchy Could Hit Better Than This Guy

Dateline: March 1997
Location: Angels Spring Training, Tempe, Arizona

During a rare break from my training room duties, I'm standing behind the batting cage with our Hitting Coach Rod Carew and 3rd Base Coach Larry Bowa. We're watching a non-roster invitee taking batting practice. It was a futile exercise, the player was clearly struggling. The bad body language between Carew and Bo could sink a battleship. Finally, after several more ugly hacks, Carew yells out "Shit, even Frenchy could probably hit better than this guy". Bowa, a great friend but ball breaking kind of guy who loved to stir the pot whenever he could, was all over me. My ego a bit dented, without thinking, I blurted out the words that would follow me throughout my Major League Baseball career "Shit, I could go deep in any park I wanted to". Sensing an opportunity to stir the pot, Bowa says "Put your money where your mouth is big boy". Carew, incensensed at this point, looks at me and says "You're on bitch". Everyone behind the cage broke out in laughter knowing I was clearly doomed. I had all of 30 days in the Big Leagues and I had uncharactistically shot my mouth off. There was alot on the line here: pride, paychecks, and wondering if my middle aged body could respond. I made some lame excuse about one of the players needing me in the training room and got my ass out of there.

A couple of players had streamed in off the field looking for treatment. I immersed myself in my work and never gave "the incident" a second thought. Two hours later I hear lots of screaming and a big commotion out in the clubhouse. Our 2nd Baseman Randy Velarde broke the news to me. "Hey Billy Bob (as the amiable Texan called me) we're gonna have a fun season." Word had spread throughout the Clubhouse of my gaffe. And so it began, Carew proposed a challenge - he would throw 20 pitches to me during early batting practice in every stadium we went to to see if I could go deep. Of course there was a heavy wager involved, nothing I'm prepared to speak about in this blog (you'll have to wait for the book!). Let's just say it's something I really needed and wanted to do.

We broke Spring Training and headed back to Anaheim for a couple of Exhibition games vs. the Dodgers. The first time standing at the plate with a Hall of Famer with evil intentions pitching to me was daunting. Let's just say I went 0 for California. Our first road trip was Cleveland, New York, Minnesota, and Kansas City. Didn't do it in Cleveland - too cold I thought. Now please understand this had become heavy Clubhouse banter and I was clearly in over my head. While on the plane flying to NY to play the Yankees, lots of players stopped by my seat to offer support. "You're a New Yorker Frenchy, this is where you're gonna do it". Carew sat in front of me on the plane. As each player left he turned around, gave me the evil eye, and said "you've got no fucking chance fat boy". I tried to relax and imagine me hitting a home run in Yankee Stadium - a place where I spent my youth in the bleachers. I thought about all those years sitting in that Stadium with my dad, grandpa, and brother. Then I got the attention of the flight attendant and pounded another beer. It went so well with the pain meds I had before the game.

Waking up the next morning at our team hotel, the Hyatt at Grand Central, as I lay in bed I reflected about my life. How I had gone from a fireman in Arizona to hitting in Yankee Stadium. Very heady stuff for a kid from Brooklyn. As the players filed into Yankee Stadium that afternoon it was hootin' and hollerin' all around. "It's Frenchy vs. Carew" they yelled. My stomach was in knots. I was shagging in the outfield until it was my turn to hit. Carew was pitching and motioned to me in the outfield to come in. As I ran in from the outfield it was the most surreal moment of my life. I grabbed my bat from the rack and took a couple of practice swings in front of the dugout. This is already the fourth Major League stadium I was about to hit in but somehow this was SO much different. This was Yankee Stadium. The Stadium. As I walked up to the plate, it was sheer madness. The players were having fun and were super loud. As I setteled in at the batter's box I wondered where all the air had gone. Yes a bit of hyperventilation had set in, you can take the kid out of Brooklyn but you can't take Brooklyn out of the kid. Carew's first pitch to me was up near my head scaring the shit out of me. "Get your fucking CHINS off my plate". Although I hit well, gapping a couple ground rule doubles to left center, I did not hit one out that day and the boys wouldn't let me forget it.

In Seattle to play the Mariners, love shagging here. Not a lot of players shagging out here today so I get in my "power shag", trying to run down everything. I'm in centerfield and Garrett Anderson hits a hard line drive out near me but it is tailing away from me towards right field. I'm really thinking I have a chance to catch this and really try to put a move on it. As I'm nearing the liner, it continues to tail hard away from me. I make the catch but unfortunately hear a loud pop at the top of my right hamstring. So many things go through my mind in that split second but I made the catch so it's ok, I'm thinking. As I go to throw the ball back in I realize I have blown up my hamstring. "This is not possible" I think to myself, schvitzing profusely. I am the muscle therapist on this club, there is no possible way I could blow out a hamsting after preaching to all my players about taking care of themselves. "I would have to take a commercial flight home if this ever got out" I thought. I manage to limp off the field. As I'm heading down the dugout stairs I realize I can't bend my right leg. G.A. says to me "Frenchy, you OK?" "Fine" I grimmaced, "got some players on the table". He smiled at me knowing I was full of shit. When I woke up in my hotel room the next morning I realized there was no way I could hit that day. Could I possibly be lucky enough to have players on the table at the exact time of early hitting? Now normally this is a scenario that I would cringe at, but not today. I made sure that as the players filtered in before early hitting that I would be really busy. No way I could hit today. On his way out to the cage, I told Carew that I was getting pounded that day in the training room and couldn't hit. This was the first game of a 3 game series here before we flew home. I was feeling very confident that I had fooled everyone until showering on getaway night 2 days later. While getting out of the shower, our 1st Baseman said "Frenchy, what the hell happened to you?" I said "what do you mean?" "You're entire right butt cheek and down to your calf is completely purple. Did you blow out a hammy" He smiled knowingly at me and just muttered "fuckin' gamer". I got into my suit quickly and got on the bus.

Could I possibly have been the George Costanza of Major League Baseball?

This would be the first of 9 years of hitting in every Major League Stadium. There is so much more to tell, I have only just begun. It includes, of course, my Dodger years with Manny Mota taking up for Carew.