That's why, in the spring of 1998, I took a job with the Chicago Trolley Company. I was a natural: I know the city like the back of my hand and I have a booming voice.
The company was run by three fellows who'd gone to college together and then made piles of dough in commodities trading and horse racing. Dreaming of running their own business, they bought a run-down trolley, leased it out, and watched their newborn firm grow until they owned dozens of shiny trolleys and were carting wedding parties and tourists by the thousands all over Chicagoland.
I'll concern myself with two of the bosses for the purposes of this story. There was Tim, whose father was a former Heisman Trophy winner, and Rob, who'd run an OTB or two. Tim was a soft-spoken, gentle man who, like the Kennedys, appeared always on the verge of starting a game of touch football. Rob was an enormous amalgam of audacity and testosterone, given to insults and accustomed to getting his way.
I rose quickly within the company, starting out as a part-time tour driver and then, within six months, being promoted to operations manager trying to get a fire truck tour off the ground.
One March Saturday afternoon in the old trolley barn on South Prairie Avenue, since replaced by towering condo developments, Tim, Rob, some off-duty drivers, and I were hanging out. Somebody found an old Wiffle ball and bat lying around. Naturally, a game commenced.
I was eager to show the bosses what an ace I was at baseball. They'd be wowed, I figured, by my precise knowledge of the top home run hitters ever, my tales of Cubs history, and my anecdotes about noted bleacherites.
My baseball acumen was known far and wide. Benny Jay readily admits that he knows never to question my knowledge of the game. My long lost friend, the author and poet Achy Obejas, once informed me that I was known among her sisters in Chicago's lesbian nation as Mr. Baseball. And from March through October, I was a Sunday fixture at the diamonds in Lincoln Park at Addison Street, manning first or third bases and stroking blistering line drives.
Tim and Rob were the captains. Rob, choosing first, picked me because I was tall, broad, and - back then - in game-shape. He even tabbed me to hit first. The pressure was on.
Tim pitched for the other team. I came to the plate, an oil spot in a corner of the barn, and squeezed the bat so hard I was afraid I'd crush it. Relax, I told myself, relax. I took a deep breath, stepped in, and took a couple of practice swings.
"You ready?" Tim asked. I nodded. He wound up and delivered. The Wiffle-ball, as all backyard players know, pretty much defies the laws of physics. Throw it with all the effort you've got and it floats through the air. Tim's first pitch took some two and a half hours to cross the plate. I swung with such might that I almost cork-screwed myself into the concrete floor. Strike one.
Rob's gravelly basso profundo boomed behind me: "Take it easy, Glab! Y'doan have ta hit it into the fuckin' lake!"
Now I was really nervous. Tim wound up and threw again. I waited, and waited, and waited. I swung, this time in a more controlled, intelligent, efficient manner sure to demonstrate to the boys that I was coachable. Strike two.
Tim took the return throw from the catcher and began advising me in comforting tones. "Don't swing so hard. Just put the barrel on the ball. Stroke it easy," he cooed.
"Oh great," Rob snarled, "now yer gettin' sympathy from the other team."
The third pitch floated toward me. I took all of Tim's advice into account and swung precisely as he'd counseled. Strike three.
"Nice fuckin' at bat, Glab," Rob barked, disgusted.
Now I was desperate. I needed to at least show them that I could play the field. Rob made me pitch. As I waited for Tim to step into the batter's box, I became terrified that I'd flub the first ball hit to me. Please god, please, I'll start believing in you if you just let Tim hit it to somebody else. Let the other guys make the first error. I squeezed my eyes shut and pleaded, Hit it to Rob, hit it to Rob, hit it to Rob.
I wound up and delivered. Tim took a perfectly measured, relaxed, intelligent swing, just as he'd advised me. He whacked a sharp one-hopper - to me! Aaargh! Yet, it was the ideal ball to field. It came to me at belt-level, without any odd spin or flutter. It was as though the god I don't believe in had deigned it. Of course, I fumbled, juggled, and eventually swatted the ball underneath the old trolley that served as third base.
"Glab," Rob announced, "you suck!"
Tim's team won the game. Rob just shook his head at me as we trudged into the offices afterward. I said to him, "You know, Babe Ruth struck out more than any player before him."
"You ain't fuckin' Babe Ruth," Rob responded.
Well, at least Chicago's lesbian nation knew me as Mr. Baseball.
