Part 9 (1/2)

Caruso s.h.i.+fted 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 Was.h.i.+ngton 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?”