Clutch 13-2016: Mr. Clutch Finally Gets Called up to the Bigs

The hope, for Clutch fans across America at least, is that this title is literal. That would of course mean that a 40-something player, though great in his prime, got called up to play in the major leagues. The kid from Queens who was a phenom at the bat and a master at first base was going to finally get his shot. The beer-league softball player who could hit the ball deeper into the woods than others would get to strut his stuff on the big stage. Lastly, the wiffle-ball pitcher of the year 1985-86, with a trophy to prove it, would be switching from greyhound buses to private jets.

Sorry – but that’s not the case, at least not in the current reality. All of the above is “All of the above” as an answer to the question of how to define Jr. Clutch’s baseball abilities. If done all over again and under slanted circumstance, the 90’s and above could have been filled with years of running the base paths in stadiums all around the country and not working in a cramp office for a slave-drive (cue ad for “Paranoid”, the critically acclaimed book by the same name).

Instead, the definition of the title is how Mr. Clutch spent a certain Wednesday. It started (this time literally as it was just after midnight) with an arrival at Philadelphia International via Louis Armstrong in the Big Easy.  It then continued a few hours later at Trenton airport, officially known as Trenton-Mercer or something like that. Things then picked up an hour or so later, factoring in the time change, in Chicago at O’Hare where the adventure would finally begin. The last leg of the journey was a lyft ride to the South side.

Yes, you guessed it. Mr. Clutch would, for today, be running with the Chicago White Sox.

The day started by pulling into the player parking lot. It was early, so not too many cars were in the lot yet.  It was noticeable that the manager had a reserved spot closest to the entrance. The spot was empty, which seemed odd since the manager is usually the first team member to arrive and the last to leave. The solve to the mystery was that Robin Ventura was already in the house, but usually his wife drops him off in the morning and then they drive home together after home games. I guess that’s in leau of taking two cars in an attempt to save gas. Rolling with a Tesla or two would do the same thing.

It was a few ticks past high noon and the workout room was quiet with the exception of one player who was already on the exercise bike prepping for a game set to start in seven short hours. The workout room is like any other gym, except private for players only with an area stocked with every type of nutrition bar and muscle drink you can think of. There was also plenty of powdery supplements and water on hand. The plasma up in the corner was airing what else? A Marlins day game.

The rest of the regulars started to trickle in before the one o’clock hour. They were all in casual garb, some wearing free White Sox related apparel and others wearing anything else. The highlight of the fashion show clearly was the previous night starting pitcher Jose Quintana. “Q” as he’s affectionately known was rocking a “You’re Killing me Smalls” t-shirt with a frame from the movie “The Sandlot” on it.  The only ones not in plain clothes were a couple of the coaches, most notably the hitting coach, who was already in his uniform pants and warmup jersey.

To get it out of the way some of the position players quickly punch out the days special – which is the workout regime set by “A.T.” the strength and conditioning coach. It’s nothing heavy duty, just a little loosening up of the muscles. The starting pitchers not pitching that night all have different arm workouts depending on what day of the cycle they are on. Tossing a big rubber ball up against a metal wall is one of the routines. Some of the starters and relievers also had to throw a “Bullpen” as part of the workout.  It’s notable that not all position players were on the scene. These workouts may be somewhat optional.

Other players were in one of the various waterways in the adjacent room. Multiple hot-tubs and small pools were setup and is a place guys hit before and after the game. The whirlpool is great therapy for any of the guys nursing injuries in preparation for the game and for the post-game cool down.

One interesting factoid is that the nights starting pitcher, James Shields in this case, has a special schedule. He is not required to report to the stadium until around 5:15pm for a 7:05pm start. He does a quick workout, dresses, hits the bullpen to warmup and then enters the game. He avoids mostly everyone and everything while doing that. During the time that the other players are working and preparing he’s likely home watching judge shows.

At 3:00pm sharp the room empties. Blink or look the other way and the place goes from a bustling gym to a morgue with the only thing left behind is the days sweat. All position players are to report for batting practice at this time, while the pitchers will play catch outside and run around.  A.T. is the only one left and in his office doing paperwork. He’s likely charting what workouts were completed today, and most likely setting up the what needs to be done the next day. The scheduling and timing is impeccable and like clock-work.

A few minutes later the dream ends with Mr. Clutch being sent down to the minors. It was a good run, or a “Cup of coffee” as a career that long is put. Back to reality, which features a trip on the above ground subway to O’Hare and a trip to JFK airport. The beauty of this ending at JFK is that it’s a stone’s toss or spittoon spit away from most of the Clutch magic occurred on the diamond, school-yard or driveway in the case of wiffle-ball.