BOIS-GUILLAUME SPLITS WITH ROUEN’S SECOND TEAM; WOODCHUCK NATION REJOICES I’m probably getting ahead of myself, but I thought I’d lead with the juiciest stuff. I got in on Saturday morning around 11, after a delay in Chicago due to tornado warning. While waiting for my bag at the carousel, I noticed someone’s suitcase had opened […]
- BOIS-GUILLAUME SPLITS WITH ROUEN’S SECOND TEAM; WOODCHUCK NATION REJOICES
I’m probably getting ahead of myself, but I thought I’d lead with the juiciest stuff.
I got in on Saturday morning around 11, after a delay in Chicago due to tornado warning. While waiting for my bag at the carousel, I noticed someone’s suitcase had opened up in transit and its contents were spilling out for anyone to see, revealing a set of blue padded handles. Could it be? Yes. A Thigh Master.
That’s gotta be embarrassing.
Quentin and Matthieu stayed with Matt and me on Saturday night, having taken the long train ride up from Toulouse, where the Tres Lettres has relocated after the French government told them they were no longer welcome at INSEP on account of baseball losing its Olympic Sport status. As they watched a movie in the other room, I tried to piece together a paper on willful misconduct for my legal composition class, poring over cases in a dingy French apartment that no longer has working lights. Incidentally, I think that’s how Pete Rose used to prepare for games as well.
As I’ve explained before, these ridiculous back-and-forth weekend jaunts are for the playoffs, in which the Woodchucks will attempt to avoid demotion to the N1A division. There are two pools of six teams, made up of teams from the bottom half finishers of the Elite division and the top half finishers of the N1A division, who will be trying to ascend to the Elite level. This weekend’s opponent was Rouen’s second team.
We started Vince in the first game, and unfortunately, he looked rusty from the long layoff. He was leaving balls up in the zone, and Rouen has enough good players that even the second team is going to punish that. All summer, I’ve had an exceptionally slow hook with our starters, only because I had no choice; when you’ve only got 3-4 pitchers to get through 18 innings, you can’t afford to pull a guy after one just because he doesn’t look sharp that day. The outs have to come from somewhere.
The playoffs are a different story, however. You have to play more aggressively, so with six runs in and only two outs in the first, I had to walk to the mound and take the ball out of his hands, and for the umpteenth time we had to call on Eric to stop the bleeding. He pitched his heart out, but when we’re forced to yank Vince in the first, and have Eric throw a few more innings than we have any right to do, well, we haven’t got a frog’s chance in a blender. It got a little heated later in the game, when Rouen’s excitable shortstop stole second up by nine runs. In the U.S., that would raise a few eyebrows, to say the least, but it’s likely that none of the fielders would say anything, and a few innings later, no one would say anything when the guy who had stolen with a big lead took a fastball in the ribs. It’s sort of an unspoken rule. Apparently, it’s a little different in Australia.
“Why the FUCK are you running up by nine runs?” Matt had moved to shortstop to allow Seb to take the mound, and he had no problem telling this 20-year old French kid exactly what he thought about such a strategy. The kid looked at me, somewhat bewildered, stammering out an answer in broken English, before I translated.
“He says they just want to get the game over with as quick as possible, and the slaughter rule is ten runs,” I told Matt. I could have softened the translation a little bit, but I didn’t. Matt was pitching game two, and in my experience, he pitches a little bit better when he’s pissed off.
We had a rally aborted later in the game, when a peculiar umpire’s call cost us at least a run. With Seb on second and Matthieu on first, Matt hit a ground ball a step to the shortstop’s right. Seb took off for third, and on the way did what any good baserunner would do: hesitate to screen the fielder, dancing to avoid the ball if necessary, and then taking off again for third. The shortstop- the same kid who had stolen second- fielded it cleanly, and flipped to second to start the double play, but the pivot man threw the ball into the dugout, scoring Seb and putting Matt on second with two outs. Suddenly, the shortstop started loudly appealing to the umpires that the runner didn’t have the right to stop in front of a fielder to distract him. After a brief conference, the Scottish home plate ump ruled that Seb was out on interference on account of his attempted distraction, and that therefore the inning was over and the run did not score.
“Sir- he didn’t touch the ball,” I said, jogging in from my third base coach position. “There can be no interference if he doesn’t touch the ball. The runner can do whatever he wants so long as he doesn’t touch the ball or a fielder.”
“No, I- I- I- I have made this call once before, in an international-“ he began.
“THAT CALL IS FUCKING BULLSHIT AND YOU KNOW IT!!!” Matt screamed, on a dead sprint from second base. He was pointing his finger at the umpire, and for a second, I thought he might jab it through his chest. “HE CAN DO WHATEVER HE WANTS! HE NEVER TOUCHED THE BALL!!!”
“No, I- I have made this-“
“HORSESHIT!” Matt exclaimed again.
For my part, I was sort of torn. It was a terrible, terrible call, but I didn’t want to have Matt get tossed and lose him for the second game as well, so I did my best to calm him down and get him to the dugout before he got the heave-ho.
“COME ON BRAVEHEART! MAKE A CALL ON YOUR OWN SOME TIME!!!” Matt shouted when he finally got to the dugout.
We later determined that it might have actually been the right call, because for all the noise the French make about the fact that they play “MLB rules,” they don’t. They use so-called “international rules,” which place limitations on the number of foreigners allowed on the field at one time, the number of innings they can pitch, and the number of players that can change teams during the year, not to mention the legality of composite bats, the bigger-seamed ball, and peculiar interference calls like this one. The proud fallacy of using MLB rules is an oft-repeated mantra in France, but calls like this prove that it’s mostly bunk.
However, that call paled in comparison to a call on me in the seventh. The pitcher left a 1-2 curveball low and inside, and I pulled my stride (left) foot up in the air to avoid it, but it bounced and hit me in the right foot. I flicked the bat to the dugout, and took two steps toward first before hearing “BALL! BALL!” I stopped, and looked back quizzically at the umpire.
“You did not make an effort to get out of the way of the ball, it’s a ball, you will not go to first.”
By way of illustration, stand up some time and pretend you’re about to take a swing. Lift your stride step, put it down, and then pick it back up again as if trying to avoid a ball. Now jump off your rear leg. Notice anything? It’s impossible. Your rear leg is planted. It has almost 100% of your weight on it. In twenty years of playing baseball, I have never seen a more bizarre call.
We lost 17-6, and the mood was decidedly foul. In game two, we were going to start Matt, but Quentin claimed he felt good, that he wanted to throw. He’s a shy kid, and hadn’t done anything like that before, so I decided to let him start with a very short leash. He gave up two in the first and I nearly yanked him there, but he worked out of it and got to the third before turning it over to Matt, who let the two inherited runners score. We were down 4-0, but we started chipping away with a run in the third and two in the fifth.
In the midst of all this, I went 0-3 on the day. Usually you get more than three at-bats in 16 innings of play, but I walked three times and got hit three times, and if it weren’t for that bizarre call, it would have been four times: once in the back, once on the knee, and once on the shoulder. As a leadoff hitter, that’s getting the job done, but I guess I’m in the “Rickey Henderson with the Red Sox” phase of my career: good for a walk or stolen base and solid defense, and not much else.
I lead off the sixth, down 4-3. Matt was making Swiss cheese of the Rouen hitters, running sliders off the plate at the knees and throwing heaters past them at the letters. Recognizing that they would have to protect the lead, Rouen brought in their Canadian (yes, they have two foreigners playing on their second team) pitcher to close it out. As I stepped in the box, I had a feeling of urgency that I remember from some tight games I played in with the Reds. As I tapped the plate with the bat, I just knew that I was going to get on base and score, by any means necessary. Didn’t matter if I had to drop a bunt down, take a fastball in the ribs, swing at a wild pitch for strike three and take first, or smash a ground ball off someone’s glove. I just had to get on.
I ran the count to 3-2 and fouled off a few pitches before he missed inside, the pitch actually grazing my knuckles as I checked my swing. I stole second on the first pitch, and had to hold up at third on Aldo’s hard line drive base hit to left. Aldo stole second without a throw, and we had men on second and third with nobody out when Seb hit a slow chopper to third base. I had a decent jump and was off on contact, but as I barreled down the third base line, I anticipated a play at the plate. I figured the third baseman- another Canadian from the first team that had showed up late – would make the scoop and come home with it, and I would be a step late, and I would have to try to splatter the catcher all over the backstop. Two steps from home plate, though, already in “Rodney Harrison 45-degree-angle-to-the-ground bone crushing mode,” I noticed that the catcher- a big boy, maybe 6 foot, 200 pounds- was still holding his mask in one hand. There was no play. Apparently the Canadian at third had rushed up from Rouen’s field when someone called him to tell him the game was close and they needed him, but he hadn’t had time to put on his spikes. Because Bois-Guillaume has that crazy grass cutout infield, he slipped taking a step to the right, and the ball rolled into left, allowing me to score easily and Aldo behind me. About time we got a little home cooking from that infield.
Suddenly up 5-4, we suddenly put together what I had been waiting all year to see: a Woodchucks Bat Explosion. After Matthieu struck out, Matt was intentionally walked for the second time in the game (he had gone yard in the first, so he was the only hitter they were really afraid of) and Quentin made them pay with a base hit into right to score another run. Eric grounded out, but with two down and the bases loaded, I found myself muttering “come on, Vince, just stick the bat out and stick one in the gap.”
From my lips to God’s ears. Vince blasted a high fly ball into the left field gap, scoring two more. We batted around in the five-run sixth, and added another one in the seventh to make it 9-4. It was great for two reasons. First, it allowed us to relax a little and have some fun, something we haven’t been able to do all year. Second, and perhaps more importantly, it really, really pissed off the Rouennais. They started badgering the umpires and throwing equipment, and one guy who had pitched earlier in the game even got tossed for arguing balls and strikes. The idea of Rouen losing to Bois-Guillaume- even Rouen’s second team- was such an anathema to them, that they just totally lost their composure.
Now, I don’t like to hold grudges (oh wait; I do), and I am not the type to rejoice when the mighty have fallen (oh wait; I am), but there was something about watching Rouen start to bicker among themselves and with the umpires that just made me feel good to be alive. I must preface all this with the fact that I like almost all of the guys I’ve met from Rouen, from the two Americans on the first team to the two Quebecois, and even the guy who was stealing up by nine runs. Hell, they even dropped me off at my apartment on the way back down the hill in the huge “Rouen Huskies 76” van that I can only hope/expect is known as “Le Huskymobile.” They’re not bad guys. But the bottom line is that for years, Rouen has been the big bad bullies in Normandy, the vastly superior team just ten minutes down the road with a “piss off, you wanker” attitude towards Bois-Guillaume and an irritating tendency to hoard 30 of the best 100 players in France in a sport where the last time I checked, you’re only allowed to use nine at a time. While individually, they’re a great bunch of guys, as an institution they represent much of what is wrong with French baseball: the increasing tendency to concentrate all of the 40 or 50 best players on the best three teams, and to hell with the rest of you. As those later innings progressed, and it became clear that the Australian import was going to keep throwing up goose eggs, and there was nothing they could do about it despite the fact that he was wearing a hat that had the letters (gasp!) “BG” embroidered on it… well, it was a thing of beauty.
Now you might point out that splitting with a team from the second division shouldn’t necessarily be something to brag about. However, this was a good ball club, with a few players from the elite team sent down to play with them, and besides, Rouen hoards so many good players that they have the depth to field a very strong second team. Besides, who cares? When you’ve had as tough a season as we have, you take what you can get.
After the game, we took some team photographs that I’ll try to get up on this site some time. I couldn’t stick around to enjoy the joviality, however, because I had a train to catch, and after the Rouen guys dropped me off, I showered hastily and jogged to the station to head back to Paris. Incidentally, I think every man reaches a point in his life where he finds himself on an express train from Rouen to Paris, having flown 4,218 miles in order to play in two baseball games, and he realizes, as he tries to get his reading done for Contracts class, that he’s still so wired up from the victory that as he reads Neri v. Retail Marine Corporation, that he’s unconsciously translating the case into French as he reads it. It’s at this point, I think, that every man says to himself,
“Well, it’s a strange life you’ve chosen for yourself, Ev.”
Maybe it’s just me.