Carbide Tipped Pens Part 9

Caruso shifted uncomfortably in his wooden chair, making it squeak and groan as if it might collapse beneath his weight.

"Then they started using protein enhancers, natural supplements that were undetectable by normal drug screenings. All of a sudden little shortstops from Nicaragua were hitting tape-measure home runs!"

The commissioner, a grave-faced, white-haired man of great dignity, interrupted Bragg's tirade. "We are all aware of the supplements. I believe attendance figures approximately doubled when batting averages climbed so steeply."

Undeterred, Bragg went on, "So the pitchers started taking stuff to prevent joint problems. No more rotator cuff injuries; no more Tommy John surgeries. When McGilmore went twenty-six and oh we-"

"Wait a minute," the National League president said. He was a round b.u.t.terball, but his moon-shaped face somehow looked menacing because of the dark stubble across his jaw. Made him look like a Mafia enforcer. "Isn't Tommy John surgery a form of artificial enhancement? The kind of thing you're accusing Vic Caruso of?"

Bragg shot back, "Surgery to correct an injury is one thing. Surgery and other treatments to turn a normal human body into a kind of superman-that's unacceptable!"

"But the fans seem to love it," said the American League president, obviously thinking about the previous year's record-breaking attendance figures.

"I'm talking about protecting the purity of the game," Bragg insisted. "If we don't act now, we'll wind up with a bunch of half-robot freaks on the field instead of human beings!"

The commissioner nodded. "We wouldn't want that," he said, looking directly at Caruso.

"We've got to make an example of this ... this ... freak," Bragg demanded. "Otherwise the game's going to be warped beyond recognition!"

The audience murmured. The cameras turned to Caruso, who looked uncomfortable, embarra.s.sed, but not ashamed.

The commissioner silenced the audience's mutterings with a stern look.

"I think we should hear Mr. Caruso's story from his own lips," he said. "After all, his career-his very livelihood-is at stake here."

"What's at stake here," Bragg countered, "is the future of Major League Baseball."

The commissioner nodded, but said, "Mr. Bragg, you are excused. Mr. Caruso, please take the witness chair."

Obviously uncertain of himself, Vic Caruso got slowly to his feet and stepped toward the witness chair. Despite his size he was light on his feet, almost like a dancer. He pa.s.sed Bragg, who was on his way back to the front row of benches. I had to laugh: it looked like the Washington Monument going past a bowling ball.

Vic settled himself gingerly into the wooden witness chair, off to one side of the judges, and stared at them, as if he was waiting for their verdict.

"Well, Mr. Caruso," said the commissioner, "what do you have to say for yourself?"

"About what, sir?"

The audience t.i.ttered. They thought they were watching a big, brainless ox who was going to make a fool of himself.

The commissioner's brows knit. "Why, about the accusations Mr. Bragg has leveled against you. About the fact that you-and other ballplayers, as well-have artificially enhanced your bodies and thereby gained an unfair advantage over the other players who have not partaken of such enhancements."

"Oh, that," said Vic.

Guffaws burst out from the crowd.

"Yes, that," the commissioner said, glaring the audience into silence. "Tell us what you've done and why you did it."

Vic squirmed on the chair. He looked as if he'd rather be a thousand miles away or maybe roasting over hot coals. But then he sucked in a deep breath and started talking.

It all started with my left knee-he said. On my thirtieth birthday, at that. The big three-oh.

I'd been catching for the A's for four years, hitting good enough to always be fifth or sixth in the batting order, but the knee was slowing me up so bad the Skipper was shaking his head every time he looked my way.

We were playing an interleague game against the Phillies. You know what roughnecks they are. In the sixth inning they got men on first and third, and their batter pops a fly to short right field. Runner on third tags up, I block the plate. When he slammed into me I felt the knee pop. Hurt like h.e.l.l-I mean heck-but I didn't say anything. The runner was out, the inning was over, so I walked back to the dugout, trying not to limp.

Well, anyway, we lost the game 43. I was in the whirlpool soaking the knee when the Skipper sticks his ugly little face out of his office door and calls, "Hoss, get yourself in here, will you?"

The other guys in the locker room were already looking pretty glum. Now they all stared at me for a second, then they all turned the other way. None of them wanted to catch my eye. They all knew what was coming. Me, too.

So I wrap a towel around my gut and walk to the Skipper's office, leaving wet footprints on the carpeting.

"I'm gonna hafta rest you for a while," the Skipper says, even before I can sit down in the chair in front of his desk. The hot seat, we always called it.

"I don't need a rest."

"Your d.a.m.ned knee does. Look at it: it's swollen like a watermelon." The Skipper is a little guy, kind of shriveled up like a prune. Never played a day of big-league ball in his life but he's managed us into the playoffs three straight seasons.

"My knee's OK. The swelling's going down already."

"It's affecting your throwing."

I started to say something, but nothing came out of my mouth. In the fifth inning I couldn't quite reach a foul pop-up, and on the next pitch the guy homers. Then, in the eighth I was slow getting up and throwing to second. The stolen base put a guy in scoring position and a bloop single scored him and that's how the Phillies beat us.

"It's a tough position, Hoss," says the Boss, not looking me in the eye. "Catching beats h.e.l.l outta the knees."

"I can play, for chrissakes," I said. "It don't hurt that much."

"You're gonna sit out a few games. And see an orthopedics doc."

So I go to the team's doctor, who sends me to an orthopedics guy, who makes me get MRI scans and X-rays and whatnot, then tells me I need surgery.

"You mean I'll be out for the rest of the year?"

"The season's almost over," he says, like the last twenty games of the year don't mean anything.

I try to tough it out, but the knee keeps swelling so bad I can hardly walk, let alone play ball. I mean, I never was a speed demon, but now the shortstop and third baseman are playing me on the outfield gra.s.s, for crying out loud.

By the time the season finally ends I'm on crutches and I can imagine what my next salary negotiation is going to be like. It's my option year, too. My agent wouldn't even look me in the eye.

"Mr. Caruso," interrupted the commissioner. "Could you concentrate on the medical enhancements you obtained and skip the small talk, please?"

Oh, sure-Vic said. I went to the surgeon that they picked out for me and he told me I needed a total knee replacement.

"An artificial knee?" I asked the guy.

He seemed happy about it. With a big smile he tells me by the time spring training starts, I'll be walking as good as new.

Walking and playing ball are two different things, I say to myself. But I go through with the surgery, and the rehab, and sure enough, by the time spring training starts I'm doing OK.

But OK isn't good enough. Like I said, catching beats the h.e.l.l out of your knees, and I'm slower than I should be. I complain to the surgeon and he tells me I ought to see this specialist, a stem cell doctor.

I don't know stem cells from artichokes, but Dr. Trurow turns out to be a really good-looking blonde from Sweden and she explains that stem cells can help my knee to recover from the surgery.

"They're your own cells," she explains. "We simply encourage them to get your knee to work better."

I start the regular season as the designated hitter. Danny Daniels is behind the plate, and boy is he happy about it. But during our first home stand I go to Doc Trurow, let her stick a needle in me and draw out some cells, then a week later she sticks them back in me.

And my knee starts to feel a lot better. Not all at once; it took a couple of weeks. But one night game against the Orioles, with their infielders playing so deep it's like they got seven outfielders on the gra.s.s, I drop a bunt down the third baseline and beat it out easy.

The crowd loves it. The score's tied at 22, I'm on first with n.o.body out, so I take off for second. The Orioles' catcher, he's a rookie and he's so surprised he double clutches before throwing the ball to second. I make it easy.

By Memorial Day I'm behind the plate again, the team's number-one catcher. Daniels is moping in the dugout, but hey, you know, that's baseball. The Skipper's even moved me up to the three slot in the batting order, I'm so fast on my feet.

One day in the clubhouse, though, Daniels comes up to me and says, "You don't remember me, do you?"

"You're Danny Daniels, you're hitting two-eighty-two, seven homers, thirty-one ribbies," I tell him.

"That's not what I mean." Danny's a decent kid, good prospect. He thought he had the catching slot nailed until my stem cells started working.

"So whattaya mean?" I ask him.

"You talked at my high school when I was a fat little kid," Danny said. "All the other kids bullied me, but you told me to stand up to 'em and make the best of myself."

Suddenly it clicks in my mind. "You were that fat little kid with the bad acne?"

He laughs. He's so good-looking now the girls mob him after the game.

"Yeah. That was me. I started playing baseball after you talked to me. I wanted to be just like you."

I never thought of myself as a role model. I get kind of embarra.s.sed. All I can think of to say is, "Well, you did great. You made the Bigs."

"Yeah," he says, kind of funny. "I'm a second-string catcher."

Bragg interrupts, "I don't see what all this twaddle has to do with the issue at hand."

The commissioner, who looked interested in Vic's story, makes a grumbly face, but he sighs and says, "Mr. Caruso, while we appreciate your description of the human aspects of the case, please stick to the facts and eschew the human story."

Vic makes a puzzled frown over that word "eschew," but he nods and picks up his thread again.

OK-Vic says. I'm doing great until my other knee starts aching. I'm going on thirty-two and the aches and pains are what you get. But I figure, if the stem cell treatments helped my one knee so much, how about trying them on my other knee?

Besides, that Swedish doctor was really good-looking and it was an excuse to see her again.

So I got the other knee treated and before the season's over I've got twelve stolen bases and third bas.e.m.e.n are playing me inside the bag to protect against bunts. Makes it easier for me to slam the ball past them. I was leading the league in batting average and women were hanging around the clubhouse entrance after games just to see me!

But then I got beaned.

It wasn't really a beaning, not like I got hit on the head. McGilmore was pitching and I had a single and a triple in two at-bats and he was pretty sore about it. He always was a mean bas-a mean sonof.a.gun. So he whips a sidearm fast ball at me, hard as he can throw. It's inside and I try to spin away from it but it catches me in my ribs. I never felt such pain. Broke two of my ribs and one of 'em punctured my left lung. I was coughing up blood when they carried me off the field.

So I spent my thirty-second birthday in the hospital, feeling miserable. But the second or third day there, Doc Trurow comes to visit me, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. She's really pretty, and her smile lit up the whole d.a.m.ned hospital.

Stem cells again. This time they helped my ribs heal and even repaired the rip in my lung. I got back to the team before the end of the season and ran off a four-fifty average on our last home stand. Better yet, Doc Trurow was at every game, sitting right behind our dugout.

So on the last day of the season, I worked up the nerve to ask her out for dinner. And she says yes! Her first name is Olga and we had a great evening together, even though the team finished only in third place.

"Mr. Caruso," the commissioner intoned. "Kindly stick to the facts of your physical enhancements."

Vic looked kind of sheepish and he nodded his head and mumbled, "Yessir."

Instead of going back to Michigan for the off season, I stayed in Oakland and dated Olga a lot. I even started thinking about marriage, but I didn't have the nerve to pop the question- * * *

"Mr. Caruso!"

Well, it's important-Vic said to the commissioner. Olga told me how stem cell treatments could improve my eyesight and make my reflexes sharper. There wasn't anything in the rules against it, and it was my own cells, not some drug or steroids or anything like that. So I let her jab me here and there and d.a.m.ned if I didn't feel better. Besides, I worried that if I said no to her she'd stop dating me and I didn't want to stop seeing her.

So this goes on for a couple seasons and all of a sudden I'm coming up on my thirty-fifth birthday and I can see the big four-oh heading down the road for me. I started to worry about my career ending, even though I was. .h.i.tting three-twenty-something and doing OK behind the plate. News guys started calling me Iron Man, no kidding.

Danny Daniels looks p.i.s.s ... uh, unhappy, but he doesn't say anything and I figure, what the h.e.l.l, so he has to sit on the bench for another season or two. But the front office trades him to the Yankees, so it's OK. I don't have to see his sour puss in the clubhouse anymore.

Meanwhile we're in the playoffs again and we've got a good chance to take the pennant.

Then I got hurt again. Dancing. No kidding, Olga and I were dancing and I guess I was feeling pretty d.a.m.ned frisky and I tried a fancy move I'd seen in an old Fred Astaire movie and I slipped and went down on my face. Never been so embarra.s.sed in my whole life.

I turned from Vic to take a peek at the commissioner's face. Instead of interrupting the big lug, the commissioner was listening hard, his eyes focused on Vic, totally intent on the story that was unfolding.

Something in my hip went blooey-Vic went on. I got to my feet OK, but the hip felt stiff. And the stiffness didn't go away. It got worse. When I told Olga about it she toted me over to the medical center for a whole lot of tests.

It was nothing serious, the docs decided. The hip would be all right in a couple of months. Just needed rest. And time.

But spring training was due to start in a few weeks and I needed to be able to get around OK, not stiff like Frankenstein's monster.