Sports

BY: Leo W. Banks

S P R I N G T R A I N I N G A KID GETS HIS SHOT AT THE BIGS

It's nearing 6:00 P.M., the close of another spring-training day. The crowd at Yuma's Ray Kroc Baseball Complex has thinned to a few stragglers, mostly stone-faced security guards and tireless kids still circling the grounds for a final autograph. Tom Redington, a 22-year-old minor-league third baseman, emerges from the locker room in street clothes again after a full day in the uniform of the National League's San Diego Padres. He's had tougher workouts in his four weeks of spring baseball, but he can't remember when. "My legs are so sore," says Redington. "My calves, they're killing me." Such pain results from the part of professional baseball that Hollywood movies don't show: the players' daily marching orders taped to the window of the coach's motel room the night before... a 7:30 A.M. wake-up call... a quick drive to the ballpark where a chill

wind blows over dew-covered practice fields in uniform at 9:00, stretching until 10:00, then a 6inning game at noon a fast lunch of peanutbutter-and-jelly sandwiches and chicken soup while standing at a foldout table in the locker room the harsh realities of the pro game. The competition was intense. A sport that had always come easily to Redington suddenly became hard work. "In a place like this," he says, "the guy next to you might be the Texas player of the year, or a college All-America. Here in Yuma, I'm just one of the pack. "I went from getting a lot of attention in high school to nothing here, and it's tough. Sometimes I feel like nobody knows I'm even here, or who I am." Like many minor-league hopefuls, Redington's career has been laced with dizzying highs and sour lows. After SPRING TRAINING AT YUMA again to disappointment. While listening to a sports show on a San Diego radio station, he heard the Padres had acquired Jim Presley, a third baseman with enough big-league experience to practically guarantee him the job as backup at third base once the season began.

then infield and batting practice, and a second short game at 3:00 and finally, with the sun low in the sky behind him, an exhausted young ballplayer sitting outside the clubhouse in the shade of a ramada, bleary-eyed, hungry, shoulders slumped, legs wobbly.

The move had a ripple effect on Redington. His most realistic spring-training goal was making it to San Diego's Class AAA team, the Las Vegas Stars. But the Padres also had Scott Coolbaugh, a 25year-old third baseman with Class AAA and big-league experience.

For three years in the Braves' farm system, during which he won several accolades, including the Hank Aaron award as the outstanding offensive player in the Braves' farm system (1989) and Most Valuable Player in the Class A Midwest League (1989), Atlanta left him unprotected in the minor-league draft, making him available to other teams for a small waiver price. He still doesn't know why. "Ask them," he says testily. But the Padres jumped at the chance to grab Redington. San Diego's coaches say he was a "steal" at the waiver price of $25,000. Good news on the heels of bad. Within As tough as this day has been, Redington knows that making it to the big leagues what this marathon day is all about will be even tougher. The odds are long: only one in 14 minor leaguers ever play an inning in the majors. The remainder flame out in forgotten towns of baseball's backwater: Toledo, Ohio; Kissimmee, Florida; Bluefield, West Virginia; or some windswept outpost in the Texas League. This day hasn't been Redington's best. He had one hit and a walk in five at-bats, the hit, a meek grounder past the pitcher that was mishandled and could've been ruled an error. But he played well at third, vacuuming whatever came his way and firing strikes to first.

That meant Coolbaugh most likely would take the Vegas job, and Redington would be shipped to the Class AA Wichita Wranglers in the Texas League. "It was a blow," says Redington. "Here I am all psyched up for Yuma, thinking I have a good chance to play in Vegas, and I hear that. But it was out of my control."

He was on baseball's roller coaster. All he could do was hang on and try to enjoy the ride.

As a kid ballplayer in California, the press and big-league scouts began flocking to his games during his junior year at Anaheim's Esperanza High School. That season, 1986, his team was ranked number one in the nation by USA Today.

Redington pulled into the parking lot of the Kroc baseball complex in Yuma early in March, all of his possessions piled into the back of his truck. In spite of the prospect of another year in Class AA, he was determined to compete.

In 48 hours, he went from a player without a team to a club struggling to find a regular third baseman. And because he was a member of San Diego's 40-man roster, he was going to spring training with the major leaguers. Although he knew the chance of making the big team was slim at best, at least now he was back in the hunt.

The next year, as a senior, Redington was named California's high-school player of the year, a big honor in a state that routinely turns out a huge crop of talent. His star continued to ascend when the Atlanta Braves selected him in the third round of the draft and told him he was their third baseman of the future.

His first taste of the big leagues came moments after he stepped from his truck and walked into the Padres' office But before Redington had even packed his bags for Yuma, hope turned

Players

practice.

Players

Players It was a heady time for the smart and talented 18year-old. "I was riding a wave coming out of high school," says Redington. "I'm thinking, 'Hey, I'm soand-so from California. I've got this wrapped!'"

But he was quick to learn to ask directions to the clubhouse. No problem, he was told. The man behind you will show the way.

ABSOLUTELY NO MINOR LEAGUE PLAYERS ALLOWED IN THE MAJOR LEAGUE CLUBHOUS AT ANYTIM

to ask directions to the clubhouse. No problem, he was told. The man behind you will show the way.

It was Tony Gwynn, four-time National League batting champion and a player Redington had admired for years. The great hitter led Redington to the clubhouse and pointed out the youngster's locker next to Gwynn's.

In Redington's locker was a fresh box of bats, each with his name on it. A far cry from the minors where he often used whatever bat he could get his hands on, no matter whose name it carried. He had a new warm-up jacket, a practice uniform, and two sets of pants.

"Everything actually fit, too," says Redington, laughing. "I can remember sitting at my locker, and there are Gwynn, Bruce Hurst, Benito Santiago, Fred McGriff. I mean, this is every kid's dream, and I was living it."

His reaction might've seemed odd to the big leaguers around him, but to any kid who shared the dream, it was perfectly understandable: "I sat there looking around and just started to laugh out loud. I couldn't help myself."

That night he called a few of his old high-school buddies and his father, Tom senior, a former college basketball player, now president of a machine shop in Burbank, and with breathless exhilaration, said, "Take a guess who my locker mate is. Just guess."

If Redington had stars in his eyes, he also knew he couldn't let them blind him to the job at hand: selling himself as a player. But standing out among 50 other players isn't easy.

To maintain his edge in the first weeks of spring, Redington often recalled the summer of 1988, his first full season as a pro. He played in the South Atlantic League for the Class A League Sumter Braves. For the first time in his life, he was playing baseball every day, and in a small, unfamiliar South Carolina town far from family and friends. He was 19 "I was just a child out there" - and the pressure got him. He went games at a time without a hit, something that had never happened to him before. "I didn't know how to handle it," he recalls. "I was lost."

Redington bypassed opportunities to take extra batting practice, figuring the slump would pass. It did, but not until August, when he was twice named the league's player of the week. "I tore the league up in August and still only hit .196," he says.

Late in the season, manager Ned Yost called Redington into his office. "You're a prospect, and I hear you're gonna be in the big leagues some day," the manager said, "but you haven't done a thing to make me think you're gonna be a big-league player."

He told the struggling youngster that talent is one thing, but to realize his potential he had to work. Redington refers to 1988 as "the year I failed," and he carried its lessons with him to Yuma.

"Looking back, it was one of the best things that could've happened to me," he says. "It really opened my eyes. I might've come here thinking I was a top minor-league player. But I didn't. I knew I was just a little fish in a big pond."

Whenever he could, Redington took extra batting and fielding practice. He ran full-speed on easy-out grounders. He played third base as if a big game hung on every play. And he took each opportunity that arose to just listen to the big leaguers talk about the game "to pick up everything I could."

Redington's spring-training life is nearly all work, and then killing time after work usually by watching movies from the neighborhood video store, or following his favorite hockey team, the L.A. Kings, on television.

But Redington finds the nights long. He's a hyperactive, fast-talking kid. He can't sit still. When he's playing third base, he has a habit of banging his thigh with his glove as the pitcher goes into his windup. He says it burns off the tension, keeps his mind focused.

"In baseball you're always moving, hotel to hotel, road trips, different towns every year, and that works into your personality," he says. "Having the family out is a good way to break things up. It helps me relax."

The locker room is quiet now. Redington is the first player to arrive. It's 8:00 A.M. He's sitting on the bench in front of his locker, his thick arms resting on his thighs. He's staring at the floor, fighting sleep.

"This is the hard part," he says. "Getting to the end of spring, getting up for another game. It's hard to get loose. Cold out there. I just want the season to start."

The wide-eyed youngster who arrived in Yuma three weeks before is gone. So are Tony Gwynn and Fred McGriff. They are in the big-league locker room, getting ready for today's exhibition game against the Chicago Cubs.

Redington isn't with them any longer. He's been cut, sent down to spring train-ing in the minor leagues. In the movie version of this story, the event would have great dramatic significance. Redington's heart would be broken. He might even take a bat to the watercooler.

That isn't happening. When the Padres announced the first cut of spring would come after a mid-March road trip to Phoenix, Redington knew his number was up.

"When you're a guy like me, and you know the cuts are coming, it's no big deal," he says, pulling on his uniform jer-sey. "Tell you the truth, the worst of itwas no more pampered living. I could get used to living like a big leaguer." He glances around the cramped minor-league locker room and gives a tight laugh. "Back to real life." Real life meant packing up and leaving the fancy hotel for the big leaguers, where he lived in a two-room suite by himself, and moving into a shoebox-size motel room with a roommate. Gone was the generous meal money $912 per player for the Phoenix trip alone and the lavish spreads of food and soft drinks the team has waiting for major leaguers after practice. Gone was the army of attendants that swarm over big-league players, making sure they have everything they need from equipment to clothes to rubdowns. To say nothing of the money. The aver-age major-league salary is $880,000 a year. In his four years as a minor leaguer, Redington has earned yearly incomes of $8,400, $9,900, $10,800, and $17,400. This year his salary jumps to $26,500 for a sixmonth season.

was no more pampered living. I could get used to living like a big leaguer." He glances around the cramped minorleague locker room and gives a tight laugh. "Back to real life." Real life meant packing up and leaving the fancy hotel for the big leaguers, where he lived in a two-room suite by himself, and moving into a shoebox-size motel room with a roommate. Gone was the generous meal money $912 per player for the Phoenix trip alone and the lavish spreads of food and soft drinks the team has waiting for major leaguers after practice. Gone was the army of attendants that swarm over big-league players, making sure they have everything they need from equipment to clothes to rubdowns. To say nothing of the money. The average major-league salary is $880,000 a year. In his four years as a minor leaguer, Redington has earned yearly incomes of $8,400, $9,900, $10,800, and $17,400. This year his salary jumps to $26,500 for a sixmonth season.

"I'll be able to save money for the first time in my career," says Redington. Other players straggle in, sleepy-eyed.

Two of them are huddled over the day's USA Today sports page, the ballplayer's bible. They are studying the transactions column, a list of players who've been dropped by one club or picked up by another.

Then, they're reminded of how unforgiving minor-league life can be. There's a letter from a career-counseling firm, a copy of which has been left in the locker of every player in the room. Catcher Mike Basso opens his, reads the first sentence aloud. It begins ominously: "We help people like you find a new career." Basso howls with laughter. "I think they're trying to tell us something," he says.

He keeps reading: "Perhaps you can relate to Andy Schott. Andy was a professional prizefighter an up-andcoming middleweight with an excellent record of 7-0 until he broke his jaw, ending his career. Andy was lost because he had no other career and only a high-school diploma. Andy didn't plan ahead."

By the time he finishes the letter, Basso is no longer laughing. Neither is Redington, who was planning to attend the University of Arizona on a baseball scholarship until he decided to skip college and turn pro. Redington is dressed now. The nervous energy that is his trademark has taken over. He paces, adjusts his wristband, rubs the kinks from his neck. He's ready to go to work.

Even though the end of spring training is at hand, the hardest part is still ahead. "This has been easy compared to what he faces in Wichita," says his father.

"He has to put up good numbers there. It's not unusual for a player these days to put up good numbers in AA and go straight to the big leagues." Redington slings a few bats over his shoulder and heads through the clubhouse. On the wall by the door is a sign in big letters: "Absolutely no minor league players allowed in the major league clubhouse at anytime."

As he passes, Redington glances at the sign and says: "No exceptions. No fine print."

Early one afternoon, Redington is in the batting cage just outside the exhibition stadium where the Padres and Cubs are meeting in one of the final spring games. He is alone, except for the man feeding balls into the pitching machine. His face gleams with sweat. The sound of his bat meeting the balls makes a solid crack across the practice field. "Stay back!" he shouts to himself. "Don't be afraid to stay back!"

Crack. Crack. "Keep back," he shouts again. Crack.

Emerging from the cage, Redington says, "Sometimes I feel like I'm in a tunnel. But I'm starting to see light at the end. Now that I've experienced what the big leagues are about, it makes me want to do whatever it takes to get back there."

Author's Note: Redington spent the 1991 season at Witchita, hitting .284, although Coolbaugh made it briefly to the Padres from the Las Vegas club. Redington is scheduled to return to the Padres spring training camp at Yuma this month. He has a chance to move up to the Class AAA Las Vegas club.

Leo W. Banks has written about baseball for Sports Illustrated and other national publications. Edward McCain played Little League baseball and usually was stuck in right field where he once got plunked between the eyes by a line drive.

SPRING TRAINING AT YUMA CACTUS LEAGUE GAMES

The Cactus League schedule extends from March 7 through April 3, 1992.

Teams playing in Arizona are: the Chicago Cubs (Hohokam Park, Mesa); Cleveland Indians (Hi Corbett Field, Tucson); Milwaukee Brewers (Compadre Stadium, Chandler); Oakland A's (Phoenix Municipal Stadium, Phoenix); San Diego Padres (Desert Sun Stadium, Yuma); San Francisco Giants (Scottsdale Stadium, Scottsdale); Seattle Mariners (Tempe Diablo Stadium, Tempe).

Some games sell out, so telephone for a schedule and purchase tickets as much in advance as possible. By March you can call all the stadiums directly.

For general information about teams playing in metropolitan Phoenix, contact the Mesa Convention and Visitors Bureau, 1 (800) 283-6372; in Yuma, Caballeros de Yuma, (602) 343-1715; in Tucson, Pima County Sports Authority, (602) 624-9048.