A short story by R. Craig Lord 

Lip signaled for the left hander in the top of the ninth. At least that’s what everyone thought, but when nothing happened Sanchez, the shortstop, ran out to the bull pen to tell them. Left field was a bad sun field at Walker Park that time of day and if the bull pen had been watching the game, they might have had trouble seeing. That wasn’t the case. Lip started to shake his head, making that muffled noise, exactly like a man with duct tape over his mouth. By the time Fenton got there he was beet red, and a small amount of foam had formed in the corner of his mouth. He grabbed Fenton by the collar and pulled his face right up and stared into his eyes. This continued until the ump broke it up. Lip released his hold and walked into the dugout. Fenton, God bless him, struck out the side and the Rose City Balers won 7-5. It was the only time I saw Lip get mad. The rest of time he never said a word. 

   Billy Maguire, Russ Simon, Ron Whitten and I were sitting in the corner of an Outback Steakhouse in Culver City, Tennessee. The table was covered with empty pitchers, dirty napkins, and plates stacked with chicken wing bones. We had just finished our season in the Mid America league and were having a few beers together before everyone went their own way. It was my third season for the Triple A Culver City Blackrocks. I hit .285 that year with 18 homeruns. Not bad numbers, but not good enough for the show. I knew the pain in my knee was never going to go away. As I looked at the end of my run it occurred to me that my career has boiled down to two questions. One, what was the Flame really like? The Flame was a 6’-7” lefthanded pitcher who I roomed with for a season and a half. Richie “The Flame” Flamenetti was a card-carrying lunatic whose antics were legendary. I was witness to many of them and I can spin stories as good as Richie’s slider. The Flame pitches for the Boston Red Sox now in the second year of a ten-million-dollar contract. Which is proof that good things happen to lefthanders that throw in the high 90’s. And two, what was it like to play for Lip Newsome? This time the boys wanted to know about Lip Newsome. 

    “Are you talking about Ricky Fenton? The guy with the Brewers?” asked Ronnie Whitten. Whitten was a big strong kid who was going to stay in the minor until he could hit a curve ball.  

     “No”, I replied.” It was Timmy Fenton I think he’s a high school coach in Alabama somewhere.” 

      “How could Lip manage without being able to talk? I mean he couldn’t yell or nothing.” Added Billy Maguire.  

       “Think about it. Just cause he couldn’t talk doesn’t mean he couldn’t manage. Every day he would make out the lineup card. If you were on it, you played, if not you didn’t. He always made the right move and if he didn’t who would you complain to?  The guy couldn’t talk. You would never have made it Maguire. Lip would have run you by Memorial Day.” Maguire would have made it though. He was Lip’s type of ballplayer cut from his high school team, he had made it this far on his hustle and hard work. 

      “I remember one day late in August I was on the bench. Wendell Cranston was pitching for Birmingham in the Reds organization. I believe that he got called up that September. Top of seventh, two outs and we get three guys on. Lip comes down the line and hands me a bat. Now you guys know Cranston, he’s a big lefthander who throws real hard and I was kind of enjoying my day off. I was also about ofor lifetime against the guy. So, Lip hands me the bat and holds up four fingers. Now as you might imagine Lip had a whole series of signs that he used with the pitchers, the tugged sleeve, the tweak of the nose, a tug on the ear and he had a whole nother set of signs for the hitters. For instance, if he was calling for a bunt, he would fold his arms against his chest and throw his head back and stare into the sky. We just called that sign the snore, looked like he was falling asleep. One warm Sunday four batters in a row bunted before the third base coach realized what had happened. Anyway, in all those signs nowhere to my knowledge did there exist the four fingers sign.” 

     “He wanted you to take a walk its simple.” Stated Russ Simon. Russ was fresh out of college. He was considered one of the smarter guys on the team. Took the cerebral approach. His father Bill Simon had a long professional career with the Dodgers and Russ had pitched four years at San Diego State. Russ had the pedigreed, but he pitched great until someone got on base. Then that he fell apart  

      “He was looking for the long ball.” Added Whitten. “He wanted four runs.” 

       “I thought about that too. Except that Cranston was such a good pitcher. I had no reason to believe that I could go yard against the guy. I was sure that Lip wasn’t expecting me to.” 

       “Whatdya do?” 

        “My career as you know is filled with watershed events just like this one. In the past I’d always taken the route that ended in disaster. I was determined to succeed this one time.” 

       “Whatdya do? 

        “I figured a walk would work just fine. What ever happened after that would be up to someone else. The first pitch was in the dirt I knew that because it kicked up a cloud dust otherwise, I never saw it. Ball one. The second pitch was another fast ball, this time down the middle I swung and missed. I stepped out and looked in the dugout my teammates were up on the rail clapping and shouting encouragement. I squinted, back on the bench there was Lip holding up four fingers.” I got up from the table and grabbed a rolled-up menu and took my stance. “I dug in real good, crowding the plate as best I could. Cranston missed with a curveball on the outside corner. The pitch looked pretty good from where I stood, and Cranston agreed. He stepped off the mound and glared in at the ump. I hoped he wasn’t getting angry, but he was, the next pitch was high and tight, the perfect pitch to turn and take in the back. I baled and flopped in the dirt. 3-1 a hitter’s count if there ever was one. I dug in and looked for a fastball down the middle. It was. The ball cracked hard in the catcher’s mitt. I was late, way too late with my swing.” 

     “Full count now. Here’s your moment of truth.” Maguire stood and topped off everyone’s beer. 

     “I know.” I thought about stepping out, but why prolong the kill. Besides my feet felt like they were glued to the ground.  

      “Had to be a fastball comin.” Simon stated the obvious. “You had to know that.” 

      “I did and it was. Cranston reared back and let loose with that heater that by the end of the summer would be buying him a new car.” Life in Triple A was cruel. You were either on your way up or on your way down and if you weren’t on your way up you were by default on your way down. I had stayed here in baseball purgatory for three years. Guys that got the call to the majors were celebrated; guys who got sent back were mourned. It was RIP for me. 

     “Called third strike?” asked Whitten. 

      “No, I got it. Not quite square on the barrel more out on the end, I put a swing on it though. The ball jumped of the bat. A line drive towards the right field stands. Just when it looked good it started to tail cutting towards the foul pole.” 

      “Foul or fair?’ they said in unison. 

     “Long enough, but foul by about ten seats.” I looked out to the mound. Cranston was rubbing the new ball down staring back at me. He was going to make this personal.  

      “Had to be another heater on the way.” Maguire caught the waitress’s eye and signaled for another pitcher. “I saw where Cranston pitched last night. Got a seven pitch save.” 

      “Yeah, I saw that too.” Chimed in Simon. “He’s in the pennant race.” 

I took a couple practice swings with the menu until they were paying attention again. 

      “The next pitch was a heater down the middle. I caught it off the handle, fouled it back, and the bat broke in half. The barrel going halfway to the mound.” As I walked back to the dugout Lip met me at the steps. A bat in one hand, four fingers showing on the other hand. 

   Lip was my first manager in professional baseball. He was wiry in appearance with very angular features. His hair was black and peppered with grey. Without speaking he demonstrated everything. I learned the proper way to run the bases, field a ground ball and throw to the right base. All of which was accomplished by lots of pointing and grunting. We worked at it until Lip gave us the safe sign. His way of telling us good job. I never saw him after that year. I was on my way out. He wasn’t rehired when the ownership changed.  

  Time was out as I dug in again. I signaled the ump that I was ready, and he pointed at Cranston. 

     “Here comes the end of the story” joked Maguire. “Swing and a miss.” 

     “I think he’s got old Cranston worn out” proclaimed Simon. “Ball four on the way”  

     “Time for old Uncle Charlie. The curve ball” added Whitten. 

     “Well boys the fourth swing was the best swing. And the ball cleared the 404 sign in straight away center field. And four runs were put on the board.” 

     “That was just what Lip wanted. You did it” Maguire stood up and began high fiving his buddies. 

     “It was what Lip wanted. I rounded the bases and ran to the dugout as I was mobbed by my teammates. Backslaps and high fives all around. Down at the end of the dugout there was Lip holding four fingers up on each hand and dancing like a Philly Mummer on New Years Day. As I reached the end of the line Lip put his arms around me and he whispered in my ear. 

     “Now that’s what I’m talkin about”