The Baseball Whisperer Page 2

  As Pat scanned the pews each person triggered a separate memory. The central themes of the life she’d had with Merl were all there in one place—the man, the town, and the team that they built.

  As they waited in the basement they were joined by three former professional players who credited their time in Clarinda with launching their careers. There was Smith, the former shortstop for the St. Louis Cardinals, who had come to Clarinda in the summer of 1975 as a player with promise, waiting for his opportunity to play for the team that Merl managed, the Clarinda A’s. Smith arrived as a 140-pound, five-foot-nine-inch shortstop who had been ignored by Division 1 college teams and professional scouts. It took one session of hitting ground balls to Smith for Merl to see a talent that others did not.

  Von Hayes was there too. He had played twelve years in the major leagues and was once traded for five players. He came to Clarinda in 1978, only to be intimidated by the skill of the other players. He asked Merl to release him and to consider giving him a chance the following year. Merl agreed to let him come back—he always had a soft spot for kids with genuine desire. Hayes returned the following summer, and within two years he was playing in the big leagues.

  Alvarez also stood among them. After playing for Eberly, Alvarez went on to pitch for the Atlanta Braves, and more than twenty years later he saw his son, Seve, play center field in Clarinda. For Alvarez, Eberly filled the hole left by an absent father who never came to see his son play in the big leagues. “Merl told me, ‘One summer in Clarinda will change your life,’” Alvarez said in his eulogy. “And in so many ways, it really did—because of Merl.”

  Merl’s impact on these professional players at a formative time in their lives stands in such contrast to the caricature of the entitled athlete. Their time with him engendered a sense of mutual friendship and obligation that would outlast playing careers, some marriages, and fame.

  Other players, spanning six decades of baseball in Clarinda, were waiting to join the Eberly family in the church. Merl had been so proud of these men who came to Clarinda as boys, especially the ones who had come the furthest and made something of themselves, perhaps because they reminded him of himself, a man who a lot of people thought would never amount to anything.

  Townspeople who had helped Merl sustain his team were there as well. Families who had opened their homes to players to live for the summer, to watch over them, feed them, and cheer them, people like Mike and Jill Devoe, were there. Jill’s parents had hosted A’s players when she was a child, giving her summer “big brothers,” and she and Mike went on to do the same, giving their own children the experience of taking someone into their home, providing support and comfort, expecting nothing in return. Owners of many of the small businesses in town whose contributions over the years kept the program alive, like Larry and Shira Bridie, came as well. The Bridies ran Weil’s, a clothing store on the town square that often provided the uniforms for Merl’s Clarinda A’s. They gave Merl money, they hosted players, they attended the games, and they wholeheartedly bought into Merl’s dream of what the team could do for the town. Former classmates from Clarinda High School, including those who never thought Merl’s marriage to Pat would last, sat among the crowd. Colleagues from the Clarinda Herald-Journal were there too, including the people who hired Merl back in the 1950s. Merl would spend thirty years writing and selling ads for the Herald-Journal.

  Then there were the baseball people, the scouts, the coaches, along with the men affiliated with major league teams and executives from the National Baseball Congress (NBC). They couldn’t miss this moment to honor a man who embodied for them baseball’s most virtuous dimensions, like trust and honor and the spirit of what it means to be part of a team.

  When the family walked up the stairs, they saw a crowd of six hundred people who had come to honor Merl. Ryan, the sensitive, broad-shouldered middle son who had taken over coaching the team a few years after Merl stepped down, looked around the church and took a measure of the lives his father had touched, the people who felt compelled to travel from across the country to pay their respects. He had been a part of his father’s dream from his days as an A’s batboy to his signing of a professional contract with the New York Yankees, to his return as the man who would replace his father on the field as the manager. When his other family members spoke and sang at the service, he thought about how strong his father had made all of them.

  The two oldest great-grandsons wore their Cubs jerseys to honor Merl’s favorite team—her dad had always loved an underdog, Joy remembered. He had listened to the Cubs on the radio as a child, then on the superstation WGN with Harry Caray delivering the play-by-play, the team’s futility never quite pathetic enough to override Merl’s loyalty.

  The family lined up for seating in order of age, according to Pat’s chart. The six children and their families sat with Pat in the front pews on both sides. A large photo of Merl was placed on an easel. The entire Clarinda A’s team from 2011, each wearing the team jersey, stood along the south wall so others could sit. This was not a part of Pat’s script. The players came up with the idea—and the emotional impact was powerful. Just the sight of them made Joy weep. Her husband, Dave Cox, would cry later, sitting in his truck, tears streaming down his face. “It makes you feel really selfish after hearing about all he did for others,” he said of his father-in-law. “He really made a difference.”

  To Julie, the oldest child, the service took on a sense of the surreal, as though she were hearing the story of a man she did not know, someone whose quiet yet profound effect on others was in evidence all around her. Her mind returned to family times, Merl singing in the car on Sunday drives, playing ball with the kids in the yard, cranking ice cream by hand on the back porch, turning the handle until the sweat rolled off his nose. When there was a small glitch in the service music, she remembered him telling her before her first piano recital that if she made a mistake, just to keep on going. She did. She listened to her father. He gave her words she lived by.

  Sitting nearby, Rod, Merl’s youngest boy, and the one who most closely resembled him in strength and size, felt unable to release the overwhelming love and grief inside. He had the carefree manner of the “baby” in the family and was probably subject to the least discipline from Merl. Like his brothers, he too signed a professional baseball contract and probably had more potential than the others to make it to the majors. It didn’t work out, though, and he found himself again using Clarinda as an anchor for his life. When he saw the players in their uniforms lining the wall of the sanctuary, he couldn’t hold back. “I was ready for everything but that sight,” he said. For the first time since his father’s death, he cried.

  Speaking for the family was grandson B. J. Windhorst, a handsome, six-foot-four man with a square jaw and a large chest, a gifted athlete who played college basketball at Drake University before a successful coaching career. He gathered himself. He had done plenty of public speaking, but nothing like this.

  B.J. drew himself to full height, pulled back his shoulders, and took a deep breath. He said that whenever he was faced with a difficult decision, he would ask himself what Merl would think. Merl taught his players and his family a certain way of doing things that was not just about wins and losses, though Merl loved to win. B.J. counted ten things he thought Merl stood for. Among them: Love is not just a hug. Sometimes you have to tell people you love a hard truth. Sports provide a venue for learning. And “family always comes first, but a close second is the A’s.”

  Cooper Eberly, Merl’s five-year-old grandson, had inspired his mother, Rick’s wife Angie, to write a poem, “Through My Eyes,” which she read. Angie and Rick had waited seventeen years for a child, and Cooper held special status even in this large clan. The poem recounted Merl talking to Cooper about his illness and death. “That was the last time Grandpa talked to me, but I had more to say even though his eyes were closed. I’d give him play-by-plays.”

  Other former players who had become coaches, like Jeff Li
vin, had come this day as well. To honor the man who had shaped his life, Livin had driven 750 miles to Clarinda—twelve and a half hours—from Lufkin, Texas, where he was baseball coach at Angelina College. Livin had played for two seasons at Clarinda, starting out as a frightened kid with some talent, leaving as a player who would soon sign a professional contract. When his playing days ended, he became a coach. Livin counted Merl as one of the two most important men in his life, along with his father. He couldn’t help regretting that Merl would no longer be there to pick up the phone as he had done so many times when Livin reached out to him when he was struggling. Livin thought he needed to be strong for others, but “then the finality of it hits you . . . and it’s hard as hell.”

  It seemed like half the town was in the church too. Merl’s boyhood friends were there, his teachers, his classmates, and the business owners he had persuaded so many times to write checks and keep the Clarinda A’s alive. The troubled rural economy put strains on the team to the point where it almost folded many times. But through Pat’s fastidious bookkeeping and Merl’s relentless selling, they stayed afloat.

  Dr. Bill Richardson, a family physician in Clarinda, rose to the lectern to speak about the impact of Merl’s discipline and what a powerful motivator he could be. As a young track star, Richardson competed in the state finals and finished a disappointing fifth in the 440-yard dash, behind two runners he had defeated just the week before. Merl criticized Richardson’s effort. “There was no question about the disdain he held for my performance,” Richardson told the mourners. “I was crushed. How was it that this man I looked up to could be so harsh . . . I finally realized Merl couldn’t stomach any athlete who didn’t leave it all on the ball field or the track.” Richardson said he made certain that would never happen again and often thought about Merl’s criticism when he was studying late into the night, poring over chemistry and biology books, making sure that he did everything he could to be in a position to be accepted to medical school.

  Richardson and his wife later served as house parents for the Clarinda A’s for twenty years. In 1981 they hosted a pitcher from California named Cas Soma, one of the team’s stars. Near the end of the season, Merl told Soma it was time to go home because he didn’t think Soma was giving his full effort. Two weeks later, the A’s won the national championship of the National Baseball Congress in Wichita, Kansas, while Soma was back in California, unable to listen to or watch the game. He learned the same lesson as Richardson. Soma continued his premed studies and went on to become a successful orthopedic surgeon in Hawaii. “Thanks to Merl and tough love,” Richardson said.

  Richardson also told the story of Jamey Carroll, an infielder who was told by Merl upon his arrival: “God didn’t give you a lot of talent. If you are going to make it to the next level, you’ve got to hustle.” Carroll would go on to do just that. “I was watching the Dodgers on television and said, ‘Isn’t it just amazing how Jamey can hit a routine grounder and run as if the devil is on his heels,’” Richardson said.

  As a doctor, Richardson saw Merl in his office at least every three weeks near the end of his life, more as friend than physician. Richardson had a family practice, and Merl had an advanced form of cancer. “We’d sit and talk about former players, baseball and the A’s, and his concerns about how you keep the program going with such budget problems. Merl didn’t need to come and see me every two or three weeks. But I had to see Merl.”

  When news of Merl’s decline and death became known, Pat was flooded with letters from former players, coaches, scouts, and even the umpires with whom Merl often feuded. Fifty once arrived on a single day. One letter written by a player from the East Coast was read at the funeral.

  I wanted to write this letter to truly let you know how much last summer meant to me. When I arrived in Clarinda I was a broken person. Being cut from my college team left me searching for answers. It got me into bad habits . . . You welcomed me with open arms and became one of the few people that showed faith and still believed in me. Your influence extended beyond the ball field as your familial and Christian values resonated with me. Slowly, I came to return to the person that I wanted to be. Without the opportunity that you presented me, I don’t know where I would be. I am certain, without Clarinda, I wouldn’t have made my college team, which would have left me stuck on the wrong path. Now I am securely on my college team with improved grades and a far more positive outlook on myself and my life. None of this would have been possible without you and your family. You are truly one of the more impressive men I have ever met because you have achieved genuine happiness not through exorbitant wealth but rather through a close-knit family, a steadfast belief in the Lord and by helping others achieve their goals. I will never forget or take for granted the opportunity you gave me.

  Jose Alvarez spoke on behalf of former players. He had come to Clarinda for one reason in the summer of 1977: to pitch in front of professional scouts and get his shot after his college career at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. “I run a tight ship here,” Merl told him. “I can promise you will get better if you work hard. If you want to party and play around, this is not the place for you.” Alvarez instantly took to the program, and Merl was right. After only a month in Clarinda, Alvarez was signed by the Atlanta Braves. “I was raised without a dad and quickly found out how Mr. E became a surrogate father to so many people . . . Mr. E taught me about values, such as cutting your hair, shining your shoes, showing up on time. He presented us with the challenges of living with those disciplines, things that many people deep down longed for . . . I remember him watching me pitch and wanting to impress him and make him proud . . . I remember walking out of a big league stadium and seeing Mr. E and Mrs. E there, something my dad never did. I remember how proud he was of guys whether they made it to the big leagues, medical school, or became umpires. He had an impact on our lives.”

  One of Merl’s granddaughters, Jara Johnson, and his son-in-law John Brummett sang during the service. Jara later would finish writing a song honoring Merl entitled “Beyond the Field.” She had played part of the song for him before his death, including the refrain, “Don’t treat this life like a game you can make up someday. Don’t play that way because beyond the field your riches lay.”

  There were equal parts tears and laughter during the service—probably about the right mix, as Merl wasn’t one to cry. Pat, every bit as important to the A’s program as her husband, wasn’t either. She led the mourners out of the church, imperturbable as usual, showing little emotion. Then she saw the A’s players and those from Clarinda High School, also in their uniforms, lining the front steps. Finally, she too broke down.

  It hit Ozzie Smith the same way. It had been thirty-six years since he had first set foot in Clarinda and found out how far he could go in baseball, thanks to a man who believed in him. Merl had been passing on some form of that lesson ever since. Smith did not forget either Clarinda or the Eberlys over the years, and in many ways their relationship only grew deeper. In the young men lining the side of the church Smith could see himself more than three decades earlier. “It wasn’t until that moment when you saw those kids with their jerseys on that it really hit you, it really touched your heart,” Smith recalled later. “That’s what he was about.”

  The family headed back to the home on Lincoln Street. Pat had to check on plans for the day’s next event, a barbecue at the baseball field to continue the celebration of Merl’s life. The pelting rain had stopped, giving way to broad sunshine that filled the horizon. The sun was out. The A’s were setting out for a road trip the next morning.

  2

  A Place to Grow

  OSBORNE EARL SMITH looked out the window of the plane in the summer of 1975 and saw below the neatly laid-out squares of American farmland. His flight from Los Angeles was on approach to Omaha, taking him on a journey from the West Coast to the Midwest, from urban to rural, from black to white. There was a vastness to the sea of green he saw below, separated by roads as straigh
t as the blade of a knife. He had grown up in the Watts section of South Central Los Angeles and still stiffened with the memory of the riots there outside his apartment in the 1960s, when his mother, Marvella, lay on top of him to protect him from the bullets whizzing past. Now he was entering a world where land prevailed over buildings, where guns were used for hunting, and the only reason one lit a fire was to provide comfort or warmth. It was his first time on an airplane and one of the few times he had traveled beyond California. Smith had no concept of the nation’s heartland, so his vision of the region encompassed a single word: corn.

  He was making the journey because of the connection between his coach, Tom Hinkle, and a man from Iowa whom Hinkle had met the year before at a coaches’ convention in St. Louis. Hinkle had told Smith that Clarinda, Iowa, was a place where he could develop as a player and that Merl Eberly was a coach who could help him. Hinkle had seen Smith’s growth in his first season at Cal Poly–San Luis Obispo and had been impressed by Smith’s remarkable will and willingness to work to overcome his physical limitations. Hinkle thought that if Smith was given the opportunity to play every day in a league made up of top college players, then he might have a chance to realize his dream of playing professional baseball.

  Still, it was by all accounts a long shot. Smith had been overlooked at Locke High School in Los Angeles as college coaches and professional scouts focused on his more formidable teammate, Eddie Murray, a switch hitter who stood six-foot-two, with chiseled muscles and a swagger beyond his years. Murray, who was drafted in the third round after his senior year and would have an exceptional career with the Baltimore Orioles and be inducted into baseball’s Hall of Fame, tried to get scouts and coaches interested in his friend, but they all took a pass when they saw Smith’s slight build and weak bat. Augie Garrido, who was about to leave his small school in San Luis Obispo to coach at Cal State–Fullerton, saw Ozzie Smith play in high school. “There was a reason he didn’t get a lot of notice,” said Garrido, who would go on to be the winningest college baseball coach of all time. “He wasn’t big enough. He was quick, he had a great arm, but threw the ball all over the place. He couldn’t hit. He was weak.” Yet Garrido also could see that Smith had other traits you couldn’t teach, like a great attitude, a work ethic, and a commitment to the team. Barely five-foot-nine and 140 pounds, Smith had an inner confidence and a fierce desire that could only have come from escaping hardship and wanting more from life. Smith believed in himself, and he knew he could prove himself on the field. He simply needed others to believe in him as well.