Son Of 'ball Four'

During my second tour as a major-leaguer, I had my own room at the best hotels, ate at fancy restaurants and changed clothes in carpeted locker rooms. But I could not shake the feeling I had on the plane. This was all too familiar. And not nearly as much fun as the cheap motels, or the chili at 3 a.m., or the steamy cement box that was called a locker room by the Savannah Braves.

I waited a while before I called Ted to tell him I wasn't coming back for another season. My desire to play ball had been so strong that I didn't trust this new feeling. I declared myself a free agent so the Braves wouldn't waste a contract on me. I could always sign with them in the spring if the feeling went away. But it didn't. And I'm glad.

I knew for certain it was the right decision about two months after the season ended. I had signed a contract to report sports for WCBS-TV in New York . The station was doing a half-hour news special about me. As part of it, they wanted me to throw a baseball to reporter Jim Jensen. We went to the Fairleigh Dickinson gym. I was surprised when I walked in. It was cold and bare, not warm and cozy like it used to feel at two in the morning. And then I picked up a baseball. It felt strange to me. Uncomfortable in my hand. I gripped it again. And again. I tried my knuckleball grip and swung my arm around. I couldn't make it feel right. A baseball used to feel like part of my body, an extension of my arm. Now it felt like some strange object. In the past I would have panicked. Now I was different. This time I simply smiled. Now I could release my grip on the baseball. It didn't matter anymore. Baseball had released its grip on me. And it was O.K.