The Curious Case of Darrel Boyd

I’m lazing in the broiling sun, drinking a beer and watching players warm-up when the jerry rigged speakers crackle to life. “Will the person who owns the rust-colored 1982 Oldsmobile Cutlass who parked in the handicapped section please come to customer services?”

A man wearing a Led Zeppelin t- shirt and bell bottoms rises from his seat and shuffles slowly to the concourse, an abundance of denim swishing along behind him.

I am in Austin, Texas to watch the Senators of the non-affiliated, amateur, Sandlot Revolution. The main objective here is to see a few bands, have fun with friends and crack open a few beers. It’s well over 100 degrees and my girlfriend is slathering sunscreen on my neck. It seems Latina girls hate when their Caucasian boyfriends have sunburns on their neck because the term “redneck” becomes all too real when a metaphor turns into an unsophisticated visual reality. (her words, not mine)

I’m also here to see first base coach, Darrel Boyd. A batter takes a walk and Boyd pats him on the ass and whispers something in his ear. The now-runner takes a few obligatory steps towards second base before dancing back to his original home.

Boyd is an older man now, but he was once a hot shot “bonus baby,” drafted by the Oakland A’s in the first round in 1973. The aged baseballer has an openness of spirit and an immense hunger for the game. He is a large man of 6 ‘4,  was quick to flash his Colgate-smile, and had the swagger and cadence of 1970’s blaxploitation star Rudy Ray Moore…a combination of bullshit, razzle dazzle and raw nerve. 

“Once I got drafted the pressure was immense”, Boyd said. “I just couldn’t accept that I was a flawed human, and that sort of philosophy will make someone who plays a game of routine failure go mad.” 

Darrel had all the tools…could hit, run and had a cannon for an arm. His teammates had a vivid account that he was traumatized by the murder of his 13-year-old brother who had inadvertently stumbled upon some teenage hillbillies’ dirt weed crop, and this incident loomed large on his psyche. He was a man with a deeply rooted sense of loss, never able to fully recover.

“We were close, my brother and I, but he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He would get into scuffles with umpires, destroy equipment, and often find himself tossed out of the game and taking an early shower alone. He was gaining the reputation as a hot head.  All in all, it was clear that his outbursts were becoming an issue and that he needed to find a more productive way of expressing his emotions.

“The organization didn’t really give a shit about all that nonsense as long as I kept hitting. (He hit 32 dingers for the Modesto A’s in 1975) But a strange thing happened–I just stopped hitting. The game that came to me so easily my whole life just seemed perplexing and my attitude made me dispensable. I felt lost and confused, unable to understand why the game that had once been so simple was now out of my reach. The ball looked microscopic”

Darrel hit around .220 in 1978 for the San Jose Missions and was released. His dream had died without ever getting a major league at-bat. 

“I sometimes think about the coulda-shoulda-woulda, but as long as I’m above ground everything is alright by me. I’m not really the apathetic type, but the world sure is a cruel audience.” 

*********

Note: this was written in the tradition of George Plimpton’s, The Curious Case of Sidd Finch specifically for this very day.