Gotham's own Gerard Haran sums up his storybook rookie season in pro ball - from toiling in the deserts of Utah to flying first class into the St. Louis Cardinals organization!
It was already 11pm when I finally got into my hotel room. I forgave the three-and-a-half hour layover in Houston (that led to a 13-hour travel day) the second I saw my suite in the Marriott.
A first-class plane ride and a suite in the West Palm Beach Marriott? I hadn’t even signed a contract yet! The Cardinals were making quite the impression.
Under the advice of Mike Girsch, the Cardinals Coordinator of Scouting, I took all day Sunday to just relax, get acclimated to my new surroundings and internalize my trek from the desert to the swamp. I walked around City Plaza and marveled at the beautifully ornate shops, fountains and restaurants that lined the strip as Lamborghinis and Ferraris sped by.
I wondered all day how similar the Cardinals organization would be from St. George and from the first step I took on the complex at Roger Dean Stadium, it was apparent how different things were going to be.
We left the hotel at 6:30 AM Monday and the team was on the field ready to work by seven. I was still on West Coast time and used to 7 pm starts, so I needed four cups of black coffee before I walked into the clubhouse and introduced myself to the staff.
The clubbies already had my stuff waiting: a brand new set of red and black Rawlings catcher’s gear, three Pro Ash Louisville Sluggers, two UnderArmor practice shirts and shorts, red Nike spikes and wristbands—a cool $500 in apparel in an All-Star catcher’s bag with my name on it. Not too shabby for a starter kit.
From there it was on to the locker room. My beautiful Red number “56” Cardinal spring training jersey (55 was already taken) was hanging in the last locker on the left hand side, along with my white pants and the Cardinals signature stirrup socks. For a good five minutes, I sat down and stared at how the letters on the nameplate above the locker came to together to spell, “G. –Haran 56 *E13*”.
I wondered if Albert Pujols or Chris Duncan or Covelli Crisp (not yet known as Coco) had once occupied this locker. I could have sat there and daydreamed in a giddy stupor all day but there was paperwork to be filled out in the training room.
The training room at this complex is where all of the Big Leaguers come to rehab. A point proven after I walked past a huge guy in a sling, who skewered me for wearing Yankees apparel. I explained, I was wearing my college polo and it was an N “J” on my chest, not an N “Y”.
Satisfied with my response, he implored me to buy something Red in order to avoid further confusion and then returned his attention to his gossip magazine. The trainer set the papers down in front of me and said, “You’ve been here five minutes and you already pissed of Cris?”
“Who’s Chris,” I said with a Jersey smirk on my face.
“That’s Cris,” he said pointing to the large mammal with the magazine, “Cris Carpenter, he is here on rehab.”
The training complex is, very simply put, the real freaking deal. Three separate huge training rooms surrounding a gym that would make the New York Sports Club jealous, fully equipped with three head trainers and everything a ballplayer would ever need, under any circumstance (Hemorrhoid Cream anyone?).
I exited the clubhouse into what looked to be baseball heaven. There was not a cloud in the sky and the calamitous sounds of baseball filled the air. There were four covered cages, filled with players and coaches, hacking away and giving instructions, respectively. To my right, was a bullpen with four pitchers throwing and two rubbers to spare! Gene Tenace, Dennis Martinez, and Jim Riggleman walked back and forth from the cage to the mounds evaluating the players’ progress.
In the background, was a rookie-ball game against the Dodgers being played on one of the auxiliary fields. I had seen the uniforms thousands of times throughout my life, even played as the Mets, Phillies, and Dodgers myself in little league. Now, I was going to actually be playing for the Cardinals against the Dodgers, against prospects and rehabbing major leaguers, like Moises Alou and Alfredo Amezaga. A little bit of a trip, I must admit.
For six weeks I lived and played in West Palm Beach as a member of the Gulf Coast League Cardinals. Six-days a week it was:
* 6: 30 - Leave the Marriott * 7:00 - Early hitting * 8:00 - Team meeting * 9:00 - Stretching and calisthenics, * 9:30 - Infield/Outfield/bullpens * 10:15 Batting practice * 11:00 Lunch * 12 noon: Game * 3:30 – Weight room * 5:30 - Arrive, showered at the Marriott
It was truly an experience I will never forget. There are some guys who can really light-up a radar gun and some who can hit the ball as far as you can follow it, but the real difference is the speed of the defense. Gap shots are outs, balls deep in the hole are double plays, and anything hit in the air is gone or caught.
There truly are some amazing athletes in the organization, and the coaches charged with our development are the best I've ever had in my life. I had the opportunity to befriend some unique ballplayers from every background imaginable, as well as catch Mark Mulder—and his million-dollar splitter—while he was rehabbing.
I talked hitting with Gene Tenace and smacked a homerun (in BP of course) off of Dennis "El Presidente" Martinez.
As cool as that was, I guess I enjoyed it too long and that turned out to be a bad idea. Dennis got his competitive streak going and ran a two-seamer on my hands with the next toss, shattering my bat! He stood behind the “L” screen with that teethy, coy, smile of his and said, “Hmm. Looks like someone needs some new lumber! Be careful who you watch your homeruns on rook…” No worries, I’ll trade a bat for a jack anytime!
After two weeks playing ball in the western deserts and 10 more 60-plus hour weeks in mid-day south Florida humidity, I arrived back to Jersey with some vicious tan lines, a lifetime of boring stories and little less than $150 in my pocket ($800 a month is a lot of money…if you’re cool with not eating).
I thank God for the opportunity to embark on this adventure, and his mercy to see me home safely. This has been the most extreme summer I could have imagined, full with highs and lows. I need to find a job and immediately create some much-needed "flo"—as the boys out west call it. I am more drained physically and mentally (especially mentally) then ever before in my life, but am so happy to come home a Cardinal.
Some highlights you might enjoy from my time in Florida:
* Meeting comedian Charlie Murphy, who was a really cool guy, but not as big as he looks on TV. Had some serious “bling” though! Who needs two Rolex’s anyway?
* Meeting former wrestler Paul “Big Show” White. He is HUGE. There is no way I would do him justice describing it. Somehow 6’11”, 500 pounds just doesn’t do it.
* Getting one of Albert Pujols’ practice bats from Mark Mulder for catching his bullpen session.
* Hitting my first homerun as a pro, against the Mets no less! If given the chance, us DIII guys can swing it a little bit too…
* Dinner with Dennis Martinez—some of the best stories you will ever hear in your life, none of which are suitable for print.
* Breaking up a no-no in the bottom of the 8th as a pinch-hitter against the Dodgers.
* Seeing “Super Bad” in the greatest movie theater known to man, MUVICO. If you’re ever in West Palm you must go here. The movie was great on its own but this place looks like the inside of the Titanic—Rose’s section not Jack’s…
I'd be remiss if I did not thank so many people. First and foremost, I need to thank Paul Franklin of the Home News and Tribune for his continued interest and valuable advice. If it were not for the Sig Mejdal (Director of Quantitative Analysis for the Cardinals) and his unwavering encouragement, I would definitely be out of baseball all together.
I'd like to thank Montclair State Head Baseball Coach Norm Schoenig for his efforts on my behalf, as well as, Chris Totten with Akademia for always getting me the equipment I needed—no questions asked. A heartfelt thank you to my Cheesequake fathers, Bob Zeffiro, Jim McDermott, Bill Mantani and George Koutis, thanks for never losing hope.
A nod to all of my teammates, friends and supporters in Old Bridge, Trenton, Brooklyn, Long Island, Connecticut and Virginia, as well as, the Barnett’s, the Haran’s and the Young’s for so kindly opening their homes to me.
And of course, the best family a man could ask for. Pops, Momma, Allie, and Em Star. You guys are my guiding lights.
Among the many lessons this summer has taught me, the most important is to keep Family and God first and everything else will fall into place. Dante Allegory wrote that to ascend to heaven one must first go through the depths of hell, and I believe, to a certain extent, he is right. Despite how bleak a situation may seem, or how many times the chips don’t fall your way, you have to keep faith.
Of course it is never easy, and many times the highs do not seem to equal the lows. If you can rely on the love and support of the people you care about, and remember where you come from, then you can train yourself to stay positive and keep working hard because they deserve your best effort—you will eventually get your opportunity.
As Teddy Roosevelt said, “It is better to have tried and failed then to be with those poor, timid souls, who know neither victory nor defeat.” I try everyday to keep things in proper perspective and thank God for the gifts he has given me.
I will be reporting to my first spring training (in the best shape of my life) the last week of February 2008. Until then I’ll be doing hitting and fielding lessons. Who knows what the next chapter in my life will be as I continue to “Live the Dream?” Thanks for following, and I hope you enjoyed reading The Last Nomads as much as I enjoyed writing it.
