"Never let the fear of striking out keep you from coming up to bat." BABE RUTH
As the beloved, hard-working general manager of a Major League Baseball team in California, "Baseball Wizard" Joe Ciotola has given his life to the sport but lost too much in the bargain.
Single, childless, disillusioned about baseball, and swamped with regrets after missing the deaths of both of his parents, the 50-year-old Bronx native quits his job and goes looking for something -- anything -- more satisfying than a life spent juggling rosters, recruiting players, and balancing budgets.
On his way to Anywhere, U.S.A., he stops in a strange place called Salvation, a forgotten desert town where time seems to stand still and where Old Testament values divide the locals between the Saved and the Damned.
There, Joe meets Mia, a pitiful creature whose future has been written by the town's leaders, and who can't stay without making the ultimate sacrifice. The choices Joe and Mia make together, and the bonds they create with another woman who emerges from Joe's past, shape their lives forever, revealing the power of connections formed from the ashes of great loss.
"Never let the fear of striking out keep you from coming up to bat." BABE RUTH
As the beloved, hard-working general manager of a Major League Baseball team in California, "Baseball Wizard" Joe Ciotola has given his life to the sport but lost too much in the bargain.
Single, childless, disillusioned about baseball, and swamped with regrets after missing the deaths of both of his parents, the 50-year-old Bronx native quits his job and goes looking for something -- anything -- more satisfying than a life spent juggling rosters, recruiting players, and balancing budgets.
On his way to Anywhere, U.S.A., he stops in a strange place called Salvation, a forgotten desert town where time seems to stand still and where Old Testament values divide the locals between the Saved and the Damned.
There, Joe meets Mia, a pitiful creature whose future has been written by the town's leaders, and who can't stay without making the ultimate sacrifice. The choices Joe and Mia make together, and the bonds they create with another woman who emerges from Joe's past, shape their lives forever, revealing the power of connections formed from the ashes of great loss.
CHAPTER ONE
One of the first memories I have is of sitting in my grandmotherâs
living room in the Bronx watching the great Sandy Koufax striking
out one Yankee after another to win Game 4 of the 1963 World Series
for the Dodgers, thus completing a sweep of the mighty New York
Yankees after the Yankees had won two consecutive World Series
titles in â61 and â62.
My parents, aunts and uncles and my grandmother bowed their
heads in sorrow and disbelief. It was as though a sacrilegious,
blasphemous ritual, one that could be punished only by eternal
damnation, had just been witnessed and verified by the Vatican.
The strangest thing about that memory is that I was not yet born.
***
I felt like a character in a Frank Sinatra song: down and out. Life was
full of laughter and tears, sadness and hope, but through it all I kept
my head held high.
Of course, life could have been a lot worse, but at that moment it
felt like Old Blue Eyes was speaking directly to me through my car
radio. You see, I had just quit the job I had for the last twenty-five
years ... the job that I had dreamed of having since I was a little boy
growing up in the Bronx. Actually, thatâs a lie. The job I really wanted
was playing center field for the New York Yankees, but after a brief,
less-than-illustrious career in the majors, playing for a team other
than the Yankees, I hung up my glove and switched over to the suit-
and-tie end of the business.
2 MIA
It was a natural fit, and since I was one of the few major leaguers
with a college degree, it wasnât such a difficult transition. I didnât even
have to move; the team that let me go hired me back as a junior
executive, and that was that. We were in a rotten market, sandwiched
between two established teams with a loyal fan base that went back
ten generations. We were lucky to draw a million fans a year at our
ballpark, which was a paltry number compared to the three million
fans in attendance these two teams pulled in per year at their
stadiums. Our TV and cable contracts were a third the size of most
major league team contracts, and our salaries were the pits. What the
New York Yankees paid for two superstars a year was our entire
teamâs annual budget.
Even so, I had a pretty good career. In two years, I went from
junior executive to General Manager of Baseball Operations. In the
first year alone, our overall win total jumped an amazing twenty-five
games. After three years, we were consistently making the playoffs,
and over my entire twenty-three years as GM, we made it to the
World Series five times and won the title three times. All of this
without ever once having more than a seventy-million-dollar budget
to work with. To put that in perspective, the Yankees, Red Sox,
Dodgers and Cubs have yearly budgets of more than two hundred
million.
I donât know if it was me, divine intervention or our great
scouting and farm systems, but in those twenty-three years we put
together some terrific teams. Weâd start with a bunch of so-called
rejects â players let go by other teams â and put them on a field with
a bunch of talented newbies, then wait for the magic to happen. More
often than not, it did. Everyone just seemed to blend together and give
us a winning combination. We had some wonderful managers who
really knew how to get the most out of our players. They were able to
relate to the players and make them play as a unit.
I was on the cover of Sports Illustrated more times than most
superstars in all the major sports. It was embarrassing. No matter how
many times I told the press that I was a small piece of the puzzle, they
JOSEPH SCIUTO 3
insisted I was a genius. A âbaseball wizard,â they called me. They
wrote books about me and even made a movie, which was a total flop.
I guess my appeal didnât cross over to the big screen.
For a long time, it was like living a dream. Then one day I woke
up and realized that my success, and even my luck, had come at a
huge cost. Take my parents, for instance. They were thrilled at my
success, but it meant we hardly ever saw each other, and in the end, I
wasnât even there to say good-bye to them when they died. Both
times, when the players were on winter vacations, I was down in
Central America scouting Latino prospects. By the time I got the
news, both my parents were on the way to the funeral home where a
few friends paid their respects. Then they were on their way to the
cemetery. I made it to their gravesides just before their bodies were
lowered into the ground. My final farewell to the two people who
sacrificed everything for me came as their caskets disappeared into
the cold, unforgiving earth.
Friends tried to console me by reminding me how much I did for
my parents when they were alive. True, I made sure they never had to
worry about money, and I begged them to come live with me in
California, but even that was just selfishness on my part. All their
friends and the few relatives we had left were all in the Bronx. Having
me home for Christmas or their birthdays or their fortieth wedding
anniversary would have meant the world to them. They would never
admit it, but I could sense it when talking to them over the phone.
What I did for my parents was what was expected of any decent son,
but when it came to the really important things, I was missing in
action. The excuse was always work, and it was a shameful excuse,
considering the position I held.
There were other costs too â like never having time to start a
family of my own. The few serious relationships I had with women
always ended poorly. Work always interfered. When the baseball
season ended, my workload only increased ... Iâd get hung up in
negotiations with greedy agents, winter meetings, and the never-
ending demands of scouting young talent around the world that we
4 MIA
could purchase for cheap. It was one of the only ways we could
compete with teams like the Yankees and Cubs.
***
I pulled into the parking lot of the Starlight bar and parked. Despite
its bright and shiny name, the Starlight was a bit of a dump, inside
and out. But it felt like home, in that it reminded me of a bar right in
the Bronx. During the day, it had its regular customers whose average
age was âancient.â At night the place transformed into a hip gathering
spot for the twenty-something set, with hot girls prancing around and
guys playing pool at a lone, beer-stained table. At night, the jukebox
blasted loud unnerving music by bands who Iâd been reliably told
belonged to the Seattle grunge scene, whereas the daytime crowd
preferred Nat King Cole.
At fifty years old, I preferred the daytime atmosphere ... just like
I did at forty and thirty-five. The barmaid was a Californian beauty
named Lauren. She had been the daytime bartender for nearly
fourteen years. Now, at thirty-five, she was still gorgeous, if you could
look past the bruises that occasionally bloomed around her face,
courtesy of an abusive husband who she refused to leave. Of course,
Iâd never learned to ignore them.
There was a time I had a serious crush on her, but after an
extended trip out of town, I came back to a jubilant barmaid with
a ring on her finger and three months pregnant. She was an
aspiring actress and met her future husband in an acting class.
Naturally, he never landed a role and had an aversion to any type
of work that didnât involve the film industry. He did specialize in
one thing, and that was beating the shit out of his lovely wife and
occasionally landing a punch or two on the faces of their two
children.
Johnny was a real gem and Lauren simply could not leave him.
Behind the bar, she was a tough, no-nonsense chick who could
exchange barbs with the best of them, but in the grips of her supposed
JOSEPH SCIUTO 5
soul mate she was pure mush, despite repeated promises that she had
had enough and was going to take the children and leave.
Almost as soon as I sat down at the bar, Lauren plunked an ice-
cold Budweiser in front of me. This was before I could comment on
the latest bruises on her face, which were so bad that blue-and-red
patches shone through what looked like three extra layers of makeup.
Catching me staring at her, she raised one finger to her mouth and
looked at me as if to say, âPlease, donât go there.â
When she turned and walked away, I was left admiring the view.
What a wonderful view it was. I was pretty sure it was also covered
with bruises, but unlike her face, she was able to hide any damage
behind a tight-fitting pair of blue jeans.
I had offered to help her many times, but sheâd always use the
same comeback. Unless I was willing to pay for a divorce, put a ring
on her finger and adopt a six- and seven-year-old, she didnât have any
real good options. Strange, I saw it from a totally different perspective,
but then I wasnât the one married to him.
In the world I grew up in there was nothing more cowardly than
a man hitting a woman. My father wouldnât raise a hand to my
mother if she were sticking a knife in him.
Even so, domestic violence was nothing new to me, and I did
what I could to stop it from creeping onto our teams. Every contract
I signed included a clause that plainly stated that if any player of ours
was guilty of rape or of hitting a wife, girlfriend or any of their
children, their contract would be immediately terminated. I didnât
give a shit if they were hitting .350 with 120 RBIs and thirty home
runs. They were gone.
I watched Lauren move around the bar. After touching base with
some of the regulars and refilling and replacing empty glasses and
bottles, she plunked herself onto a stool behind the bar, next to me.
She bumped her shoulder into mine like an old pal, then grabbed a
peanut from a bowl and started to crush it with her lacquered
thumbnail.
âSo what brings you in so early?â
6 MIA
âYou, of course. What other reason would I have to come into
this dump?â
âSurely, youâre not that desperate. You know, they just opened a
new place not far from where you live, where all the bartenders are
hot, barely clad young women. With your resumé, you should have
no problem scoring.â
âIf nothing else, Iâm loyal. You should know that about me.â
âWhat, the little guy not working anymore? You know, they have
pills for that type of dysfunction.â
âCute! Very cute! Besides, I quit my job today.â
âSo the Yankees finally called. Please, please, take me to New
York with you.â
âIf I knew that is all it would take to get you away from that piece-
of-shit-husband of yours, I would put you and the kids up at the Plaza.
And no, the Yankees did not call.â
âSo you finally went to a team that will pay you the ten million a
year you deserve?â
âNo, but I am quite sure there are a few offers on my phone. What
team would you like to see me go to?â
âOne of the two other teams in this town. Surely, you donât think
I want to lose the best tipper to come into this bar, even if it is only a
few times a month.â
âAh,â I said, poking her in the arm. âSo itâs all about the money?
I knew it all along.â
I was expecting her to swat at me and laugh, but she went quiet,
and when our eyes met, I was sure she was about to cry. She swiveled
away and popped off the stool, then stood there, looking down at the
half-crushed peanut between her fingers.
âHey,â I said, swiveling to face her. âWhatâd I say?â
âNothing,â she said, still looking down. Then she tossed the peanut
back on the bar, used one finger to poke at my knee and walked away.
âHuh,â I said to myself.
As she pushed through the swinging door to get back behind the
bar, I could swear I saw tears rolling down her face. But by then she
JOSEPH SCIUTO 7
had already picked up a cloth and was wiping off the necks of a row
of bottles of Scotch, with her back turned to me. I was trying to enjoy
the view again, but she wasnât making it easy. Something was wrong,
and her silence was giving off sparks.
I moved down three stools to where she was now scrubbing away
at a spot on the mirror behind the bar. I stared at her reflection until
she finally saw me. Her hand hung there in mid-mirror. She was
caught. Those were tears, all right.
âLauren,â I said. âGet over here.â
She dropped her head and her hand, put the cloth next to a bottle
of whiskey and wiped her fingers under both eyes before turning to
look at me.
I looked up at her and gestured to her battered face.
âThatâs a pretty good makeup job, but itâs not perfect,â I said.
She started to turn away again, but I gently caught hold of her
elbow.
The pain and hurt in her eyes were terrifying, yet I did not let go
and she did not offer any resistance. âItâs not too late, Lauren.â
Tears rolled down her cheeks and I reached up to wipe them
away. She grasped my hands and clasped them inside hers. âYou
should have let me know.â
âI didnât think it was fair to you.â
She thought about this quietly for a minute, then walked over to
the fridge and came back with another ice-cold Budweiser.
âIâm going away for a long time, and no, it is not to meet with
owners from other teams.â
âYouâre always going away, Joe.â She looked at the TV and at an
ESPN reporter. The reporter was talking about my resignation.
âThey already have you going to ten different teams. It must be
nice to be so highly regarded and respected.â
I reached into my pocket and took out a faded business card with
a private phone number written across it. âYou can always reach me
at this number. The only other people to have that number were my
parents.â She took the card and placed it inside her pants pocket.
8 MIA
Over the next few hours I had about ten more beers. I had a few
minor conversations with some of the other regulars, but mostly I
kept my eye on Lauren as she moved around the place, taking care of
everyone. At the end of the night, we met at the bar again, and I took
out my money clip, which had about two thousand dollars in it, and
handed it to her.
âThereâs enough there for a couple of weeks at a hotel. If you ever
need help, and I mean ever, I want you to call that number.â She
looked down at the money and back up at me, her mouth hanging
open and her eyes misting up again.
âI donât know what to say.â
âThen donât say anything,â I said. Then I kissed her on the cheek
and whispered, âI love you, Lauren.â She looked at me like sheâd just
been hit, but her expression softened, and she let me go.
I walked out of the bar just as the younger crowd started arriving.
It was already dark outside. I decided to walk home and pick up the
car in the morning. Suddenly, I heard Laurenâs voice calling after me.
I turned and looked back at her figure standing in the shadows of the
bar. From a distance, she looked no different than the gorgeous young
woman Iâd met years earlier. She ran toward me and threw her arms
around my neck, almost throwing me off balance.
âPlease, please, donât go away for very long,â she whispered into
my ear. She was still holding on to me.
I held her and whispered back, âJust donât lose that phone
number and I will never be far away.â
When she finally let go, I reached across and ran my hands
through her soft blonde hair, then tucked one of her long front locks
behind one ear. Then I turned and started to walk home.
Fifty-year-old Joe Ciotola's a well-respected general manager of a California-based Major League Baseball team. He once played professional baseball, but he never really succeeded until he worked in the front office in the difficult job of general manager. He decides he wants to retire at the top of his game. After all, he's got more money than he knows what to do with, he's helped his team win several World Series championships, he has a lovely home and a great car.
He's still feeling guilty, however, that the depth and scope of his job, which seems to be all-encompassing and never-ending, interfered with his relationship with his mother and father in the Bronx. He hasn't forgiven himself for not having been there when his father died, nor missing his mother's death and not having been able to return home until her body was being lowered into the grave.
He takes off in his car, thinking he'll just keep driving until he can think his way out of everything swirling in his head. He stops in a tiny town called Salvation, not realizing that his entire life will be changed by a small child named Mia. He realizes that the town is something almost out of an episode of "The Twilight Zone," and that Mia needs to get out. He doesn't even know her age, and even whether this child is a girl or a boy. All he knows is that she's dirty, malnourished, wears ill-fitting grubby clothing, and needs to leave this crazy place. He and Mia check into a fancy hotel suite, where he figures he can get her cleaned up and feed her and then decide what to do.
Coincidentally--or perhaps not so coincidentally--he gets a call in the hotel from Catherine Baker, who's the new general manager of another baseball team, and who "runs into" Joe. He tells her all about Mia, and Catherine goes into maternal mode, even though she has no children of her own. She takes Mia shopping for clothes and the plot goes on from there.
As a major baseball fan, I enjoyed the scenes relating to baseball. It's obvious that the author knows his baseball. He drops baseball quotes here and there that make perfect sense. He also demonstrates to the average baseball fan how some difficult decisions concerning trades and player developments are made.
I also liked the way in which his main character, Joe, reaches out to help people who are less fortunate than he is (e.g., a waitress at a bar he frequents--she's the victim of domestic violence, and he uses his financial resources to help her escape). He discusses social justice issues throughout the book, using Mia's story to help punctuate the necessity for people to care for each other.
What I didn't always like, however, was a sense of redundancy in some spots. For example, Joe and Mia go running every morning, and he always stresses that each morning, the run gets longer. I think after reading that a few times, it becomes redundant. Also some of the dialogue becomes repetitive as everyone keeps telling each other that they love each other.
Overall, this is a pleasant read, one that's appropriate for young adults up to general fiction. It's not what I would characterize as "high literature," but it's solid and interesting.