Charlie had played nearly twenty years in the majors. There’d been ups and downs over the years, but for two decades he’d been penciled in nearly every day behind the plate for the Dodgers, and now, though he hadn’t made an official announcement, nearly everyone was sure this was it for him.
His knees were breaking down. And once a catcher’s knees go, that’s the ballgame.
Still, he’d put together an All-Star season and went on a hot streak in October, only for it to end with another team celebrating on his field.
He and I have had our differences over the years.
Guys with the kind of instincts, ability and work ethic that Charlie has have a hard time believing that their efforts can be boiled down to some numbers spat out by a computer. His wordsnot mine, obviously, but, despite our battles, and they were many, I always respected the hell out of him.
And now it was over.
Twenty years gone, a Hall of Fame career for sure.
But no championship to show for it.
I didn’t blame him for not wanting to leave the field.
He did eventually, though.
And so did I.
I caught his post-game interview as I was gathering my things from my office, half an eye on theTV. He stood at his locker, stone-faced and exhausted, taking question after question, patiently answering each one, his voice solemn, but his responses thorough, almost meandering, as if he didn’t want the moment to end.
Interviews were always obviously his least favorite thing, but he was latching on to this one, the last bit of normalcy for a man who’d spent his whole adult life playing a little boy’s game.
I couldn’t stand it, so I switched off the set. Then the stadium lights went out – the cleaning crews were finished and gone. And I finished packing up my things.
Just for the night, though.
I’d be back the next day and so would dozens of other front-office types, but, for everyone else, the season was over. No baseball for six months, and then a new season would start and hope would spring eternal, just like it did when the team was back in Brooklyn, back when the unofficial organizational motto was: “wait till next year”.
For Charlie Avery, “next year” never came.
His career was ending while mine was only just beginning, even though he’s only a few years older than me, not even forty.
Baseball is cruel like that.
Young men in the prime of their life, ancient before their time.
The dream has a ticking clock. For some time expires early.
Mine expired when I started softball instead of baseball the year I turned twelve.
Charlie’s dream at least had the decency to wait until he neared middle age to die.
All that said, I couldn’t say I was sorry to see him go. We’d had more than one knock-down drag-out fight over his sheer inability to follow a game plan. The younger guys coming up through the minor leagues were always way more amenable to our analysis.
The click of my heels echoed in the cavernous concrete hall as I made my way out of the stadium that night. It was odd the way such a small sound made so much noise, especially in a place that had been raucous with tens of thousands of voices just a few hours ago.
“You’re still here, Ms Sullivan?” Raúl, one of the security guards that’s usually stationed by the employee exit, asked.
“So are you,” I answered, with a grin, despite my bittersweet feelings from the loss.
“We’re not the only ones,” he said, and nodded his head back toward the field. “He’sstill here.”
Raúl didn’t need to clarify who “he” was.
I should have just left, should have gone home and let him sit there alone until he was ready to go.
