Wherever I Wind Up (27 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

RULE FIVE SURPRISE

T
hree hundred thousand dollars is a great salary. It’s more than I’ve made in my previous five years combined, and almost a quarter of a million dollars more than I made as a Nashville Sound in 2007.

It might even be enough to stop me from getting on Anne’s case if she buys another set of urns.

I’ve never been one to chase the almighty dollar, but with three kids and no guarantees I’ll ever see the big leagues again, how can this salary not be seductive? So when I get a call from a man named Sebastian (John) Esposito in October 2007, I find myself in a muddle as wide as the Missouri.

John is a liaison to the Korean baseball league, a guy who assists Korean teams in finding American ballplayers who can help them win. He tells me that the Samsung Lions, based in Daegu, have made a $300K offer to me, and that another club, the Daejeon-based Hanwha Eagles, are also interested. I know nothing about Korean baseball, other than that it’s on the upswing. I know nothing about either team except that I had a Samsung DVD player once and it worked well.

What I
do
know is that I’ve just had my best minor-league season. When will my leverage ever be better?

A few years earlier I wouldn’t have even considered the idea of playing in the Far East. But I am a different man, a more open man, a man who has been humbled by his mistakes and strengthened by his willingness to stand up and tell the truth. I have a rekindled relationship with a merciful God, and more love and appreciation for my wife than ever.

Anne and I talk it over. Baseball, and her husband, have dragged her all over the place. I want her input. I value her input.

What do you think about spending five months of the year in Korea? I ask. It means packing up the kids again and making the biggest transition we’ve ever had to make as a family. Most of it will fall on you, the way it always does.

Anne grew up traveling and grew up with three brothers. She is adventurous and tough.

I’m open to it if you think it’s the best career move, she says. I’m sure the kids will adjust. It will probably be good for them, being exposed to a whole different culture.

I begin to grow excited about the opportunity to make some real money. I am leaning strongly to go to Daegu. I call Bo McKinnis, who isn’t just my friend and agent but somebody with a great gift for taking emotions out of decisions and carefully assessing the pros and cons. It’s not commonplace for players to have as close a relationship as Bo and I have. I tell him about the offer.

I think I want to take it, Bo.

There is a long silence on the other end of the line.

I don’t think that is a good idea. You are coming off a great year. I anticipate you having some good interest here.

I know, Bo, but there aren’t any guarantees over here. I was the PCL pitcher of the year and didn’t even get a call-up. If that wasn’t good enough, what is?

I realize that, but you have something very unique, and you are starting to figure it out. Korea, Taiwan, even Japan—those are places pitchers go to die. You need to realize if you take this money now and go play for the Samsung Lions or the Hanwha Eagles, the chances of you ever coming back here and playing in the big leagues are about zero.

I’ll support you in whatever you decide is best, but I want you to think through all the ramifications.

Bo makes a good point: there will probably be no making it back to the majors. But I am not thinking about the future anymore. I’ll be in my mid-thirties by next season. I am thinking about making as much money as I can make. And $300K this year—and probably another $300K next year if I do well and they re-up me—is probably not going to happen in the western hemisphere.

How can I turn my back on a possible $600K in Korea when I’m a $60,000 pitcher at home?

Bo and I decide to give it a day and talk again, but the meter is running; Esposito is asking that I give him an answer in forty-eight hours. Anne and I pray for God’s will as we sort out the pros and cons. I am 80 percent sure I am heading for Daegu. I wonder if Rosetta Stone has a program in Korean. A day passes with no news. My cell phone vibrates and I see that it’s Bo. I quickly pick up. I think about saying hello in Korean (
An-nyeong-ha-se-yo
) but I’m not sure Bo will appreciate my joke.

I’ve got some news for you. The Minnesota Twins, the Seattle Mariners, and the New York Mets are all interested in you. I don’t have the particulars of their offers yet, but I will soon.

That’s good news—very good, but I’m still praying on it, Bo. I have to give the Korean team my answer today, and I’ll be honest: the guaranteed $300,000 is a nice financial blessing to have in a time when I need a nice financial blessing.

This is not what Bo wants to hear.

R.A., please trust me on this. You have gotten better every year with the knuckleball. There is real interest in you. Korea will be there whenever you want, but if you take it now, you will regret it. You are this close to busting through and making it. I’d hate to see you do something that you’ll regret.

We hang up and I know decision time is at hand. I don’t want to string Esposito along. The word “regret” keeps playing in my mind on an endless loop:

You will
regret
it… . I’d hate to see you do something that you’ll
regret
.

Anne and I talk some more, and pray some more. Voice One and Voice Two are back once more:

VOICE ONE:
What’s to decide? You’ve got to be pragmatic. Think of the family. You have one guarantee and it’s in Korea. It’s the only assurance you have that you’ll make at least a year or two years’ worth of decent money.

VOICE TWO:
You have to believe in yourself. You have to aim high. You can take guaranteed money now, but how much money is that guarantee going to cost you down the line?

VOICE ONE:
You are thirty-three years old and you haven’t pitched in the big leagues in almost two full years. What Kool-Aid are you drinking, thinking teams are going to line up to hand you a big-league uniform?

VOICE TWO:
You are thirty-three years old but you are getting better and better at your craft. You are a knuckleballer, and knuckleballers pitch forever.

VOICE ONE:
Be prudent.

VOICE TWO:
Be brave.

The voices have at it, until finally some clarity arrives. I believe it is God speaking to me, the way He did through the Holy Spirit the day I wanted to hurt Doug Melvin. This is what I hear in my mind:
You have lived your whole life as a survivor, doing what you need to get by, to flee from pain, to seek safety. Now I want more. I want much more. I don’t want my life to be about settling. I don’t want it to be about avoiding pain. I want it to be about pursuing joy.
Sure, Korea is safe, locked-up money. But to me, choosing Korea is choosing to settle. I would never find out how good I could be as a knuckleballer—never find out if I could, indeed, make it back from the six-home-run game.

I call John Esposito and tell him no, thanks.

I call Bo and tell him I’m staying and to get me a deal. I can feel him smiling on the other end of the line.

Bo talks to the Mets, the Mariners, and the Twins and works it hard, trying to find the best spot. The Twins are the most stable organization of the three, and seemingly the best shot to make it back to the big leagues. We decide the Twins are the way to go. Right after Thanksgiving 2007, I sign a minor-league deal that includes an invitation to big-league camp and a chance to make the big club.

It’s the first time in a long time that I feel wanted.

Days later, the baseball winter meetings begin at the Opryland hotel in Nashville. It’s an irresistibly short commute, so I venture over to meet Bill Smith, the general manager, and Rob Antony, his assistant, along with manager Ron Gardenhire. Granddaddy always told me it’s a good idea to look your bosses in the eye to show them that you respect them but that you aren’t scared of them.

I get on the elevator, and as I am ascending to their floor, I catch myself scripting something in my head to try to make a good first impression.

Stop it,
I tell myself.
Be yourself.
One time. Be yourself.

I have spent the last fourteen months learning to live differently and to be authentic. This is a perfect opportunity to just be me.

I knock on the door and Rob answers. He takes me back to the conference area, where I find Gardenhire and Bill Smith and Terry Ryan, the former general manager, who is now a consultant.

Glad to have you aboard, Bill Smith says.

I shake hands all around and it becomes clear to me that I’ve stumbled into a delicate discussion. It turns out the Twins are deciding whether to trade their longtime ace, Johan Santana, to the Mets in exchange for a package of young players. It’s almost trigger-pulling time and there seems to be a legitimate debate about what’s best.

Go ahead and trade him, I say. I can pick up his slack.

Everybody laughs, taking my idle boast in the right spirit. I don’t know where that came from but I am glad I am myself. I get out of there before I am any more of myself.

The next day Anne and I are driving to our couples counseling session, where we are learning to reconnect and enrich our relationship. This is also evidence of not wanting to settle: I don’t want Anne and me to just get by as husband and wife. I want to have a passionate, joyful marriage. I notice that my phone is ringing and the caller is Maurice Patton, a reporter for the
Nashville Tennessean
.

Hey, R.A. So, how does it feel to be the newest member of the Seattle Mariners?

You mean the Twins? Yeah, it feels great. I feel like they will give me—

He stops me.

No, it’s the Mariners. You didn’t hear? They just took you in the Rule 5 draft. You are the oldest Rule 5 player since its inception, and I was curious to know your thoughts.

I don’t say anything for a few seconds, but I am thinking:
I am
what?
I am a
Mariner?
I thought the Twins wanted me.

That was fast. Did my Santana comment come back to bite me?

I tell Maurice I will call him back, and minutes later I hear from the Mariners, and it’s true. The Rule 5 draft is a Major League Baseball provision that aims to prevent teams from stockpiling players in the minors when other clubs would be willing to give them a chance to play in the majors. Since I am not yet on the Twins’ forty-man roster, I am eligible to be plucked—and that’s what the Mariners do, paying $50,000 for me.

It’s a positive sign that they like me enough to steal me from the Twins, but it’s still a completely bewildering development. I was all geared up to be a Twin. I was already imaging myself in a Twins uniform, moving Anne and the kids to a new part of the country.

Now this. Could there possibly be any more plot twists in my baseball life?

I report to Mariners spring training in Peoria, Arizona, and have one of the best springs of my life. I pitch as both a starter and a reliever. They put me out there in every situation they can. My knuckleball holds up well, and I know it’s dancing because Kenji Johjima, the Mariners catcher, catches about three of every ten knuckleballs I throw. The other seven hit him in the shin guards or the mask, or he chases them back to the screen. I encourage him to switch to the oversized glove that virtually all catchers use to catch the knuckleball. He’s attached to his regular Mizuno, though, so knuckleballs keep going everywhere but in his glove.

I am among the top pitchers in the Cactus League in innings pitched and ERA that spring. I have one more appearance before opening day, against the Giants. I have my strongest outing yet, giving up a single hit in six innings and getting the victory. I leave the game as elated as I’ve been in a long time. It’s been almost two years since the six-homer game, and now I can finally start my big-league career anew, in the great Northwest, pitching not to survive but to flourish, to be a craftsman with my knuckleball. I feel a wave of gratitude toward Bo McKinnis for talking me out of Korea, and toward Anne for always being there.

I tell her to book a flight for opening day.

I can’t wait to share the moment with her in a whole new way, for I am becoming a whole new man.

Our last exhibition game is in Las Vegas against the Cubs. I find myself thinking about what the Mariners’ clubhouse looks like and how nice it will be to have a locker there. There are still a few cuts to be made, and then we are off to Seattle. When the game ends, I pack my bag and give it to the clubhouse attendant. I put on a suit and am walking toward the team charter when I see Lee Pelekoudas, the assistant general manager, just ahead, waving as if he wants to flag me down.

He must be coming to congratulate me, I think.

R.A., I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you didn’t make the team.