After my sophomore year at UT, I was up in Michigan with my family. We lived in Livonia, a duller-than-dull suburb west of Detroit. There were good people in Livonia, but the city itself left much to be desired.
I had an office job at Ford Motor Company in Dearborn, the hours of which were 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. Two of my brothers were in school, and the other had a temporary job, too. It was he who learned that the Pittsburgh Pirates planned to hold an open tryout in Pontiac, 20 miles north of Livonia. I realized the entire venture was quite absurd, but I was willing to go along. Randy and I climbed into his Volkswagen one Saturday morning and drove to the site of the tryout, for which I had borrowed a glove.
Let me take a moment to summarize my baseball background. I had played the game quite a bit during childhood in Dallas, and for that reason I may have been a step above most of my peers. But as far as organized baseball? Not much. I had been on church-league teams for five or six of those years. I did well, both as a hitter and in the field. I can recall playing infield and outfield, pitching and catching, so I suppose I played every position at least once. Nevertheless, it was not exactly the most competitive environment; a few of my teammates and opponents were nice kids who—let’s be candid here—were not very good. To be among the best in such a cohort was no great accomplishment, and I knew it. There were plenty of Little League and American Legion teams on which to play, and the level of competition would have been higher. I had a friend, Lynn Atherton, who was on one of those teams. He rightfully scoffed at our weak church-league ball. Randy, at least, had played in high school and in junior college.
At any rate, I had not played any kind of baseball for quite a few years prior to 1973 and the Bucs’ tryout. So what were the chances of either of us catching the attention of the scouts, signing a contract, starting our move up the farm system and finally reaching “the show” at Three Rivers Stadium? Slim and none.
Still, I was going to do my best and let the chips fall where they might. Given that nearly four decades have passed since this little charade, the details have faded in my memory. Perhaps 50 hopeful young men had gathered, and the Pittsburgh scouts let us all get warmed up with 10 minutes of throwing baseballs to each other. Then came a time trial of sorts as we were instructed to dash from first base to second. I did so along with the others, and then most of us were informed that we could go home. In effect, we learned that as slow runners we had no future in professional baseball.
Just like that, it was over. Evidently, they did not want to see whether I could really rake with a 33-ounce bat in my hands. Maybe I could turn a double play with remarkable ease, roam center field like an All-Star, or throw high heat or a wicked curve. To paraphrase young, modern jocks, I just wanted to go out there and showcase my talent to the world. The Pittsburgh brass would never know just what or who they so brusquely dismissed.
Randy got cut, too. As we headed south out of Pontiac, I wept uncontrollably. OK, that's not true, but I had to come to grips with the fact that I would not be one of the Pittsburgh Pirates’ all-time greats. My name would never be listed alongside those of Honus Wagner, Pie Traynor, Paul Waner, Ralph Kiner, Arky Vaughan, Roberto Clemente, Dick Groat and Willie Stargell. What would Danny Murtaugh think? The Bucs have won the World Series just once (1979) in the ensuing years. Had I been wearing the black, gold and white, they might have won a few more. Oh, heck!
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