Salem Baseball Folkfore

I arrived in Roanoke in 1983 under unusual circumstances. Entwined in a clandestine relationship with my recently divorced employer (a harrowing story best left untold), I found myself searching for an opportunity to escape the New York metro area with some urgency. Presented with an offer to become the Assistant General Manager of the beleaguered Salem Redbirds baseball team at an annual salary rate of $6250.00 (plus commission), I packed up my duds and fled South forthwith.

Upon arriving in Salem the culture shock was considerable. Following my first day at work I excitedly called my Mom and informed her that I had seen a real cow on the way back to my apartment. Remember, cattle are scarce on the south shore of Long Island. My first sales meeting was in downtown Roanoke. Armed with my fence sign and program advertisement pricing and information, my best friend and boss, General Manager Bob Kitchen provided me with directions to Campbell Avenue, assuring me that I would know I had arrived in downtown when I saw the "big buildings." I was in Vinton before I realized that I had passed right through that section completely.

For four years I toiled at the old Municipal Field an accomplice to some of the worst ball clubs in Carolina League history. My favorite year was not the 1987 championship run of the Salem Buccaneers, but the final season of the Redbirds in 1986. The team finished a dismal 45-93, fourth in a four team division, however, it was behind the scenes where the 86' Birds were much more interesting.

Mike Bucci, a former Philadelphia Phillies farmhand managed the team, yet never established a residential address in the area. A genial yet frugal man, "Bootch" saved on living expenses by setting up house in a pup-tent inside of the ballpark. Our skipper would rise in the morning, mount the riding mower and trim the field as if he was tending to his own lawn. Occasionally, in the case of stormy weather, Bootch would abandon his stadium teepee and sack out in his tiny office or beg for lodging on someone's couch.

1986 was also the year Kelvin Bowles bought the team, brought in Sam Lazzaro, an experienced baseball man from upstate New York to be Vice President of the team and promoted me to General Manager. Bob and I ran the club kind of like a summer camp and Sam's steadying hand would soon carry the franchise into the realm of real professional baseball. However, in 1986 there lingered a good deal of "Redbird-ness," yet to be expunged.

Prior to a home game verses the Hagerstown Suns, Eric Clark, our groundskeeper and I noticed one of our relief pitchers playing with what looked like a cat on the outfield warning track. Upon further inspection we discovered that the animal was, in fact, a jumbo sized rat who was gnawing on the end of a stray baseball bat. Clearly, we had to find some way to capture the rodent, chase him from the premises or sell him a ticket previous to game time.

First, I have to tell you that I am deathly afraid of rats, yet Eric was a former Marine, so I figured that he canceled out my substantial yellow streak. Joined by Eric's brother Sam, the longtime clubhouse manager, our public address announcer, some bat boys and a few others, we ventured towards the outfield and began the hunt. Our first strategy was to chase the offending pest out of the gate with a show of stampeding man-power. We gave chase driving one three-wheeler, a riding mower (me), and on foot. Stunned, at first, our furry friend scampered towards the right-field exit only to quickly spin around and drive our convoy back towards center-field.

Next, we pursued our quarry with a garden hose forcing the vermin to seek refuge in a drainage grate. We continued to flood the grate in hopes of drowning our prey, yet he managed to float to field level unharmed, shook himself off and headed for left field. Out of ideas and somewhat tired, we considered finding the rat a uniform and adding him to the game line-up.

Finally, our extremely un-athletic PA announcer Jeff offered a wild solution. Producing a golf ball from his left pocket, Jeff explained that he could throw small objects with extreme accuracy and he could end this stalemate with one good toss. None of us thought that Jeff could even hit the scoreboard with a golf ball, much less a speeding rodent, but we agreed to let him try.

Jeff crept towards the rat (that had stopped to catch a breather), silently stalking his prey. Like a bear swatting at a salmon, Jeff wound-up and fired his Titleist at its target. As expected the ball missed the rat, however, as if by divine intervention, the ball then rebounded off of the outfield wall, struck the rodent on the head and knocked him unconscious. It was a one in a trillion shot that left us all dumbfounded. Eric scooped the dazed creature up with a shovel, and placed him outside of the park where it quickly regained its faculites and ran up Florida Street.

Few know this, but the greatest pitch thrown in Salem that year came, not from a big league prospect, but from the hand of a portly PA man with the heart of an exterminator. It was just that kind of year.