Texas Leaguers

Texas Leaguers

Pete "Pants" Pantoglio, pitching coach for the Abilene Tall Derricks, adjusted his considerable chaw and squinted into the shrinking sunlight. Five-thirty game time was approaching, and on the prairie the temperature was a toasty 97°.

Moments before, Pants had walked Abilene's starting pitcher, Johnny Gossem, down from the bullpen to the visitor's dugout. Gossem was one of the organization's prized prospects. He was an Oklahoman with a fastball of major league caliber, a deceiving curveball and a habit of missing the strike zone under pressure.

Johnny had the curse of talent: he knew his pitches were overwhelming and he tried to overwhelm. This was especially true when the adrenaline rushed. His control failed him then, and batters walked, one by one, to first base bearing silent gratitude.

Pants was familiar with the talented thrower syndrome. He had seen the whole range of pitchers, from the big-chested seed-throwers to crafty sinker-ballers who worked the corners the way diamond-cutters rounded the stone's edge. He had caught side-armers who came at their target like windmills and change-up artists who threw that for the kill.

The ones with the great stuff often matured late. Sometimes they never matured at all.

It was Augie Armadillo Day, which featured a giveaway of plastic armadillos. These were plastic toys painted in black. They were a hit.

Abilene was the visitor, and batted first. The Tall Derrick's offense was a powerful one, near the top of the league in overall productivity. The keys to the offense were center fielder DeShone Feather, a speed merchant with a line drive bat, and towering first baseman Mark Cumberland. Called "Swat" by his teammates, Cumberland's left-handed bat was feared around the league.

Yet, the Abilene bats did not trouble Amarillo starting pitcher Claude Runais in the first inning. Runais, a native of northern Quebec who threw his hard-dipping sinker to the corners with great effect, produced three harmless ground balls for three consecutive outs.

In the bottom of the inning, Johnny Gossem led the Tall Derricks onto the field. He trotted easily to the raised circle of dirt that was the pitcher's home, being careful to step over the foul line.

Gossem walked the first two Armadillo batters that he faced on eight consecutive pitches. He grooved his first pitch to the Armadillo's third-place hitter, Lou Cherone, a heater that Cherone jolted it out of the park and onto the grassy picnic knoll beyond the centerfield fence. Before the youngster could catch a breath, the score was 3-0, Amarillo.

The Tall Derricks' bats were quiet for three more innings. Amarillo's Claude Runais pitched efficiently and precisely. He looked in for his signal, nodded, adjusted the ball in his glove to get the proper grip - and went straight into his motion. His fielders stayed sharp and alert behind him, and fielded well for him.

Johnny Gossem met the challenge, setting goose eggs on the scoreboard frame after frame. He found his rhythm and let his talent do the work. He tossed the ball easily and surely, imagined himself throwing through the target just as he was taught. His deliveries were smooth and his live arm followed through like a whip.

In the fifth inning, the Tall Derricks' bats came alive. Things started with a drag bunt by second baseman Sal Paquilli. DeShone Feather walked. Oliver Sanders ripped a double down the left field foul line, scoring Paquilli, while Feather fled to third on his dancer's feet. Swat Cumberland fanned badly at two straight curveballs, then dug a sinker out of the dirt and golfed it to right for a hit. Both runners scored, tying the game.

When Pants' catching career was over, he got the job in Abilene. It was supposed to be temporary - a stop on the way to AAA and then back to the Majors as a coach. Pants and Merrill leased a rambling ranch house a few miles out of town, up by McNaughton's Corner.

The Pantoglio home was a country classic. It had character, which was expressed in the distinct style of each room. All were casual and friendly. Of all the rooms, Merrill loved the kitchen most of all. It had a center island, tiled with great craft, and had built-in cutting surfaces on both sides of a stainless steel range. The kitchen was full of light, and provided a splendid view of the big backyard.

Five years later, the house was still home. Pants was a fixture on the Abilene staff. Working with young pitchers gave him enormous satisfaction. The Pantoglios had invested well over the years, creating a diversified portfolio whose pieces cohabited and prospered. When offers of coaching promotion appeared, Pants discussed them with his wife. They rejected each one.

Merrill, a Tucson girl, met Pants during his rookie season with the Indians. He was the third catcher on the big club's roster and she worked as a ticket-taker and vendor at Indians' Park. The hopeful young receiver was riding the bullpen bench as usual one blue-skied March day when he noticed the tall, easy-moving cotton-candy vendor a few rows up from field level. Between innings, he stood up and called to her

Merrill gave him a look. The stocky rookie handed her a dollar. When she grasped it, he held on to the other end.

"I'm Pete Pantoglio. I'd like to request the pleasure of your company for dinner tonight."

"Have you always been this shy?"

"Shy and sensitive."

He released the money, and Merrill handed him a staff of fluffy confection.

"So? Will you go out with me?"

"Depends. You'll have to take me somewhere nice and treat me like a lady."
"Meet you at Delamonica's at seven?"

And the rest was history.

The stands grew quiet in the latter innings. Most of the plastic armadillo handlers were small fry who collapsed from weariness and excitement into their parents' arms. Mothers and fathers tucked the little plastic toys into tote bags or beneath seats.

Sunset came in the top of the sixth inning. The stadium lights were on. Clots of moths were gathered at different spots around the diamond, milling in white, cylindrical moth-clouds. After the Tall Derricks made out, a pair of crows flew into the stadium and circled briefly above home plate. They turned tail and exited the stadium via left field.

When Johnny Gossem took the mound for the last of the sixth, fatigue had loosened his arm. It acted as a natural relaxant. His pitches snapped. They were full of late, darting movement, and were practically unhittable.

Johnny fanned the heart of the Amarillo order, and after each strikeout peered over at his pitching coach.

"See what happens when you just relax and let it happen?" Pants asked when his pitcher reached the bench.

"You know, I pitch better when I'm just plain tired, Coach."

"No question. Next start, you're running a mile before the game just so we can wear you out."

Johnny Gossem's mother, Ayola Clearview, was a "411" operator in Stillwater, Oklahoma. Ayola was a tall, sure woman, half-Cherokee and half-Scotch-Irish. As a young girl, she ran track (800 meters) and played soccer for her high school team, the Chehoola Coyotes.

She had married her sweetheart, Brent Lucas Gossem, the day after graduation. He was killed when a tornado struck Stillwater when Johnny was still an infant. A city worker, Brent Gossem was doing maintenance work without a radio on the city water tower. His coworkers made several valiant and futile attempts to warn him of the impending danger. Johnny's father was seen scrambling down the winding steel ladder from the tower's belly when the vortex hit directly, causing both his death and the landmark's collapse.

Ayola Gossem remarried Donny Clearview a year later, when Johnny was three. Donny owned the Exxon franchise in town, and coached Little League every spring. He was a big, happy man covered in freckles who loved his stepson dearly. A former semi-pro player himself, Donny Clearview registered visible shock the first time the five-year old Johnny threw him a baseball. The impact of the ball snapped his glove back and nearly sprained his strong left wrist.

He told his wife Ayola that her boy had an arm sent from heaven, and that it would be a felony crime not to nurture his young talent. She rolled her eyes the women do when a man's new dream first comes to light. Then Ayola Clearview saw for herself.

"Boy's an athlete," she said. "Definitely got my genes."

Ayola Clearview kept Johnny's pitching stats faithfully. He called his mother after every game, and read his 'line' to her: innings pitched, hits against, runs against, earned runs, walks and strikeouts. She often used her breaks at work to tabulate the elements of his record.

Ayola's boy Johnny was proud to be part-Cherokee. He had an old beige Ford pickup with a bumper sticker in the back window that read, "Cherokee Proud." He knew about The Trail of Tears. He knew about the suffering on the way, and the privation and death. The living had carried on.

Of course he knew, but he was an American kid with his eye on the major leagues. The remnants of the Cherokee Nation were holding its own, and that was the best to be hoped for. Being part-Indian wasn't much of an issue these days, not even on the plains of West Texas. Once or twice Johnny seen a raised digit from a passing motorist, and had figured the bumper sticker had provoked the act. A high school kid shouted 'damned redskin' when he sped across Abilene traffic one spring night. Young Gossem had just saluted him, and driven on.