The Entitled by Frank Deford

From the Publisher

"In men like Traveler and Alcazar we find the beating heart and struggling soul of baseball..."
-Jeff MacGregor, Sports Illustrated; author of Sunday Money

Howie Traveler never made it as a player-his one major league hit and .091 batting average attest to that. He was
cursed with that worst of professional maladies, the ill fortune of almost.

Now after years of struggling up the coaching ladder, Howie's finally been given his shot: as manager of the Cleveland Indians. But America's pastime has changed. Whether Howie can spot a small flaw in a batter's swing won't matter if he can't manage his superstar outfielder Jay Alcazar, a slugger with enormous talent (and an ego to match).

No crisis on the field fazes Jay and no woman off the field ever rejects him. But one night at the hotel Howie sees something at Jay's door he wishes he hadn't...and it leaves Howie with an impossible choice.

From six-time National Sportswriter of the Year and NPR commentator Frank Deford comes a richly detailed, page-turning tale that takes you deep into America's game. From the dugouts to the tabloid scandals, from the lights of the field to the glare of the media, The Entitled is the great novel of baseball's modern era.

"The Entitled is a baseball masterpiece, like The Natural and Field of Dreams; the difference is the plot and the characters depict the true inside world of baseball. Frank Deford writes like he played in the majors for ten years. If you have a passion for baseball, this is a must read."
-Mike Schmidt, Baseball Hall of Fame

"Frank Deford is not just an immensely talented sportswriter, he's an immenselytalented American writer. The Entitledis his wise and pleasurable portrait of a Willy Loman-like baseball manager finally getting his chance in the Bigs late in his career."
-David Halberstam

"Engrossing...Readers are exposed to a richly textured understanding of baseball and, no less, of estrangement, ambition, mendacity and the search for one's destiny-notwithstanding the cost in human or financial terms."
-Library Journal

"I loved The Entitled and could not put it down. It was a great read from start to finish with characters that reminded me of the many people I've known and played with-pure baseball."
--Lou Piniella, Manager, Chicago Cubs

" The Entitled contains all of the keen insider knowledge one expects of America's premier sports journalist. It also displays Frank Deford's gifts for dialogue and intricate plotting and his poignant grasp of character. It proves once again that Deford can play at the highest level in any league."
-Michael Mewshaw, author of Year of the Gun

"Deford scores another hit with this novel of athletes behaving badly...tackles timely and provocative issues without flinching."
-Publishers Weekly

Sports Illustrated

. . . more than a terrific baseball book. It's a terrific book, period.

Booklist

Veteran sportswriter and best-selling author Deford creates two fascinating characters . . .

Publishers Weekly

Sportswriter, screenwriter and author Deford (Alex: The Life of a Child; Everybody's All-American) scores another hit with this novel of athletes behaving badly. After a career spent knocking around in the minor leagues as a player and manager, Howie Traveler has finally made it to the majors as manager of the Cleveland Indians. The team, however, is struggling, and Howie's job is in jeopardy when the team's star player, Jay Alcazar, is accused of rape. Though Howie's playing career stalled out in Triple A, his big league management career depends on how well he can handle Alcazar, heralded as "the best player in the game." Alcazar insists he's innocent—perhaps even believes it—but Howie suspects otherwise, having witnessed a troubling scene involving accused and accuser the night of the alleged rape. Now, Howie has to choose between his conscience and his dream job. The resolution won't please everyone, but Deford tackles timely and provocative issues without flinching. (May)

Gilles Renaud - Library Journal

John Henry Wigmore, the late dean of Northwestern University School of Law, once wrote: "The lawyer must know human nature. He must deal understandingly with its types and motives--For this learning he must go to fiction, which is the gallery of life's portraits." In this engrossing, well-written novel, celebrated sportswriter Deford (Alex: The Life of a Child) gives effect to Wigmore's erudite view, showing us that fiction is often the fulcrum for the fullest understanding of a person's deeply held beliefs, motivations, fears, and longings. Here, the lives of star baseball player Jay Alcazar and his seemingly unprepossessing manager, Howie Traveler, intersect not only on the playing field but just outside a hotel room, the site of an alleged sexual assault. In the process, readers are exposed to a richly textured understanding of baseball and, no less, of estrangement, ambition, mendacity, and the search for one's destiny--notwithstanding the cost in human or financial terms. The outcomes of the many subplots will generate surprise, delight, and disappointment and will sharply divide the members of any reading club--as one would expect with a story that is so true to life. Recommended for all libraries, not just for sports-minded readers.

Kirkus Reviews

Sportswriter and NPR commentator Deford (The Old Ball Game, 2005, etc.) tells a sweet tale about a baseball-team manager, his moody superstar and their moral dilemma. After decades of good, hard, largely unrecognized work in the trenches, Howie Traveler has finally gotten what he deserves: He's managing the Cleveland Indians. And he's doing the pretty good job he always knew he could do. But his golden opportunity is about to evaporate after two years of laying the foundation for a league championship. Jay Alcazar, the Indians' superstar, the muscle in the team's lineup, has gone off the tracks. The gorgeous, gifted Cuban is about to get hit with a rape charge, and straight-shooting Howie, who genuinely likes the slugger and has worked hard to earn his trust, holds Jay's fate in his hands. Howie saw Jay's accuser trying to leave the ballplayer's room and saw Jay pull her back and slam the door, but rape doesn't make much sense to Howie or to anyone. Jay is such a star and so handsome that he never wants for voluntary companionship or sexual satisfaction. He has only to lift an eyebrow, even in a year like this one, when he's off his stride. The manager, a very canny and very honest guy, is stumped. He knows he was hired to keep Alcazar happy and motivated, he knows that he's about to be replaced by someone who can motivate the outfielder to resume his winning ways, and he knows that he's never going to get a chance to manage a team if he gets fired. But rape? How can you wink at that? What he needs to know is why Jay spent a year distracted from his championship form. It all has to do with the circumstances surrounding the player's birth and subsequent removal from the Socialist Paradise,but Jay seems unwilling to save his own skin. Or Howie's. A decent book enhanced by Deford's great, conversational writing style.

What People Are Saying

Lou Piniella
"I loved The Entitled and could not put it down. It was a great read from start to finish with characters that reminded me of the many people I've known and played with -- pure baseball."--(Lou Piniella, manager, Chicago Cubs)

Gilles Renaud
John Henry Wigmore, the late dean of Northwestern University School of Law, once wrote: "The lawyer must know human nature. He must deal understandingly with its types and motives....For this learning he must go to fiction, which is the gallery of life's portraits." In this engrossing, well-written novel, celebrated sportswriter Deford (Alex: The Life of a Child) gives effect to Wigmore's erudite view, showing us that fiction is often the fulcrum for the fullest understanding of a person's deeply held beliefs, motivations, fears, and longings. Here, the lives of star baseball player Jay Alcazar and his seemingly unprepossessing manager, Howie Traveler, intersect not only on the playing field but just outside a hotel room, the site of an alleged sexual assault. In the process, readers are exposed to a richly textured understanding of baseball and, no less, of estrangement, ambition, mendacity, and the search for one's destiny-notwithstanding the cost in human or financial terms. The outcomes of the many subplots will generate surprise, delight, and disappointment and will sharply divide the members of any reading club-as one would expect with a story that is so true to life. Recommended for all libraries, not just for sports-minded readers.

Michael Mewshaw
"To praise Frank Deford's The Entitled as a baseball novel is both imprecise and unfair. It's an excellent novel! While it contains all of the keen insider knowledge one expects of America's premier sports journalist, it also displays his gifts for dialogue and intricate plotting and his poignant grasp of character. It proves once again that Deford can play at the highest level in any league."--(Michael Mewshaw, author of The Year of the Gun)

Mike Schmidt
"The Entitled is a baseball masterpiece, like The Natural and Field of Dreams; the difference is the plot and the characters depict the true inside world of baseball. Frank Deford writes like he played in the majors for 10 years. If you have a passion for baseball, this is a must read."--(Mike Schmidt, Baseball Hall of Fame)

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Read an Excerpt

So, for Howie, it was, at last: neither resignation on the one hand, nor anger on the other. No, it was simply awful, horrible disappointment that tore at him. That it all must end this way. No, not this way. Anyway it ended would be a calamity, because despair would follow, and Howie understood himself well enough to know that he didn't possess the creative resources to really ever overcome that despair.

This is the way he put it, over the phone, to Lindsay: "I'm a dead man, sweetie. I know I won't get outta Baltimore alive."

Howie was, after all, a practical man. Whenever one of his regulars would go onto the disabled list, all the writers would flutter around him, asking how the team could possibly manage until the wounded star returned.

"I don't deal with the dead," Howie would reply. That concluded the discussion. Ask me about the ones who could suit up. You play with what you had. And now it was he who was the dead man, because he was positive that he was going to be fired in Baltimore, and that would mean the end of his life in baseball, which was the only existence he had ever known.

Read a Sample Chapter

THE ENTITLED

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Chapter One

So, for Howie, it was, at last: neither resignation on the one hand, nor anger on the other. No, it was simply awful, horrible disappointment that tore at him. That it all must end this way. No, not this way. Anyway it ended would be a calamity, because despair would follow, and Howie understood himself well enough to know that he didn't possess the creative resources to really ever overcome that despair.

This is the way he put it, over the phone, to Lindsay: "I'm a dead man, sweetie. I know I won't get outta Baltimore alive."

Howie was, after all, a practical man. Whenever one of his regulars would go onto the disabled list, all the writers would flutter around him, asking how the team could possibly manage until the wounded star returned.

"I don't deal with the dead," Howie would reply. That concluded the discussion. Ask me about the ones who could suit up. You play with what you had. And now it was he who was the dead man, because he was positive that he was going to be fired in Baltimore, and that would mean the end of his life in baseball, which was the only existence he had ever known.

There was a singular blessing.Because his demise was so clear-cut, he had, for the short term, found a certain calm within, so by the time he got to Baltimore he was concerned mostly with how, when the inevitable happened, he must display dignity upon his leave-taking. There would be no grousing. He would, in fact, thank the Indians for giving him the opportunity to manage in the major leagues. He would wish the team and the organization well.

There would be no backbiting. Of course, yes, he would, in passing (only in passing, you understand), recall how well the team had done under his aegis his first year on the job. He would not embellish that fact, but he would mention it (in passing) so as to remind everyone that just because Howie Traveler was a busher, he had shown that he could damn well manage a team in the big leagues. He had proved that. It was important to leave the media bastards with that. Especially the talk radio bastards, those who spewed venom for a living, and those amateur venom-spewing bastards who just called in.

When he got to Baltimore and found the time, Howie was going to write down what he wanted to say, and then commit it to memory so that he would display extemporaneous eloquence in his last public appearance.

In the meantime, he tried to pretend that he was not dwelling on what everyone knew. The pallbearers were assembling. Not only the columnists from the Plain Dealer and the Akron Beacon Journal, but, as well, the lead columnist of the Columbus Dispatch had signed onto the press manifest this trip, ready to dress up his obituary on the spot for the enlightenment of central Ohio fans. After all, a road trip offered the kind of timetable general managers preferred for these proceedings. Fire the manager away from home. Let an interim manager-in this case, the team's trusty old reliable, Spencer "Frosty" Westerfield, the bench coach-handle the next series, in Chicago, and then have the new man on hand, prepared to assume command-"take the helm," as the papers would have it-when the team returned to Cleveland, ready to start fresh, turn a new leaf, salvage the season, restore the damage that he, Howie Traveler, had indisputably done.

Never was anything so pat. So Howie just waited for Moncrief to fly in from Cleveland and fire him. Of course, everybody knows that baseball managers are, as it is written in stone, hired to be fired, but this was cold comfort when you were the manager in question and this was your time to be eighty-sixed.

O'Reilly, one of the newspaper beat men who liked Howie and drank with him sometimes, told him that Diaz was already in Cleveland, working out his deal. Nobody could locate Diaz, but O'Reilly said they knew he was there. This figured. Even when the Indians had hired Howie, the season before last, there had been a lot of speculation that Diaz would get the job instead. Diaz was surely Jay Alcazar's man, and if Juan Francisco Alcazar, El Jefe-The Chief-could not put out his best for Howie (which this season he evidently chose not to) then it would be just a matter of time before Diaz was brought in. So this is where it stood, Diaz working out the details of his contract, whereupon, that buttoned up, Moncrief would pop over to Baltimore, via Southwest Air, and, with the saddest, most sympathetic expression he could manage to put on, basset-faced, he would tell Howie that he was toast.

Once there was a basketball coach named Cholly Eckman, and when he got a call from the owner, who told him he was "going to make a change in your department," Cholly said "fine." Then, as Cholly recalled, it ruefully occurred to him that he was the only one in his department.

Nowadays, though, what general managers tell managers when they fire them is that: "We have decided to go in another direction." Unsaid: that direction will be up, whereas you, you dumb sonuvabitch, have been taking us in a direction that is most assuredly down.

So now, Howie put on the best smile he could manage, of the sort he assayed when he had to take a staged photograph at a charity auction or some such thing. "I wish I could think to say something really clever wise-ass when Moncrief tells me that," he said.

He had arrived in Baltimore and was eating dinner (as best he could) with his daughter.

"Don't, Daddy," Lindsay said. "Just be classy, like always. Everybody with any sense knows it's not your fault. Go out with style, and that'll help you get another chance."

Howie took his hand off his Old Grandad, reached over and laid it on hers. Lindsay was his only daughter, only family now, really. How adorable it was of her, how thoughtful, that she had come up from Washington, where she worked as a lawyer for some arcane House subcommittee, to see him. She had just showed up, knowing what an incredibly difficult time he was going through. She had been standing there when Howie came out of the clubhouse after the game tonight. The Indians had beaten the Orioles, 6-4. Alcazar had gone three-for-five, with a monstrous home run and then a two-run double in the ninth that won the game. He'd been dogging it all season, it seemed, but now that he knew Howie was shit-canned, he was suddenly a hitting fool again.

And then there was Lindsay, standing outside the clubhouse. Howie almost cried. Funny, too. He didn't instantly recognize her, for she was there, amidst a covey of other women, who were there to consort with his ballplayers. Howie could forget sometimes that Lindsay was a grown woman now, and more than that: as pretty (well, almost so) as the sort of women ball-players would take out on the road. Lindsay Traveler had more style, though, than those sort of women. Howie didn't himself necessarily possess style-for one thing, to his eternal despair, his legs were too short, and he had a lumpy face-but he recognized style when he was within its penumbra.

Somehow, Lindsay-she, a lousy minor league ballplayer's daughter-had learned to dress in that way chic ladies of fashion do, with the ability to choose clothes that manage to work so perfectly that they count twice-once for how they look and then again because they proclaim to the world: this lady knows what's best, what's right, what's stylish, so don't even try to put one over on her.

Howie just wished she would let her hair grow longer, have it tumbling down, the way she did when she was younger. That was his only real complaint with her.

"No, honey," he said to her now. "Guys like me just get the one shot."

"Maybe not," Lindsay said.

"Nah, and now I'm pegged, too. Traveler can't get along with the big star. I'm old school. A hard ass. I thought Jay could work with me, and he did last year, but-" Howie shrugged. He didn't want to go over it anymore. These last few days, he had constantly had to talk with the writers about the possibility of his getting fired, and everybody else avoided him, so, effectively, for some time now, he hadn't talked about anything else. So he asked Lindsay about her job and her iffy boyfriend and anything else he could think of, so he didn't have to talk about himself getting fired. He also asked: "How's your mother?" and Lindsay told him, obliquely. Howie said to give her his best, and Lindsay said of course she would.

Thank God, Lindsay hadn't gotten his stumpy legs. She could stand with the best of them. She had her mother's wonderful green eyes, too. This occurred to Howie now. Also, better boobs. This was a terrible thing to pay attention to, your own daughter's boobs, but it did cross his mind-but only relatively, you understand, only as they compared to his ex-wife's boobs. He went back to focusing on her eyes.

Then there was no more to say, and so he called for the check. They had gone to a restaurant in Little Italy, which was just far enough away from the hotel, at the Inner Harbor, and far enough off the beaten track that nobody was liable to find him there. "Are you sure you wanna drive back to Washington?" he asked. "I think the couch pulls out." Managers got suites. So, alone among the Cleveland players, did Alcazar. It was in his latest contract. Not enough he got seventeen and a half million a year, he got perks, too. He had incentive clauses. Excuse me, Howie thought: seventeen-five with five zeroes wasn't incentive enough?

"No, Daddy. I'll go back. I'm taking next week off and goin' down to the beach in Delaware, so I've gotta finish a lot of stuff."

"Last chance to use your old man's manager's suite."

But she said no again, and dropped him back off at the hotel, where she gave him a big hug. "I'm very proud of you," Lindsay said, and Howie knew she was starting to cry. She hadn't cried the whole time, up to now.

"I'm prouder of you," he replied, reaching across the seat, holding her as best he could, behind the steering wheel. Had he been feeling particularly guilty, he would have added: All you managed without a father. Her whole life, he had been away so much of the time, being a player, being a manager. But he was feeling so down in the dumps right now, there wasn't space in his battered old mind to review the familiar old guilt, too. He just held his daughter a little tighter, and then pulled away, got out of the car and went through the lobby walking quickly, dead on toward the elevators, looking straight ahead, praying there was nobody there to ask him about whether he'd heard anything new about his own impending demise.

As it turned out soon enough, too bad there hadn't been somebody there to delay him.

On his floor, he hurried down the hall. And then the door just ahead of him to his right flew open. If only Lindsay had come up with him. If only he'd arrived here a minute earlier or a minute later. Just that, either way. Seconds. The one thing Howie knew, whenever he looked back on it, was that he did not want that door to open before him. But it did, and even before Alcazar came up behind the woman, and grabbed her roughly and slammed the door shut with his foot-almost as quickly as it had opened-for just those split seconds, Howie saw it all clearly. And he remembered exactly what he saw and what he heard. It was not much, but then, after all, it happened so quickly that there was not enough for his vision of it to be blurred.

No, however much Howie was taken by surprise, however much that made him freeze in his steps, it emblazoned the scene in his memory: the woman, pretty (if in no special way) but built rather nicely, her blouse pulled out just a bit from her skirt, her hair out of place some, her face creased with shock as Alcazar's strong arms came up behind her, wrapped round her waist, yanking her back as she tried to get away, even as his foot reared up and violently slammed the door shut. And that last moment before she disappeared as she caught sight of Howie in the hall and her mouth seemed to open just enough to cry out to him. But there was no sound, just the pretty enough face, aghast, and then the door slamming shut before him.

Howie had paused there, listening, pondering whether he should knock. But he heard nothing-certainly no scream, no struggle-and, at last, he only turned and went down the hall to his suite. There he poured himself another bourbon, a nightcap, but it didn't help, for all he could think about was that he hadn't had the nerve to intrude. It was too late now. Whatever Alcazar was going to do with that woman, he had done it. No, it wasn't any business of his who his players were screwing, but this seemed to be a different kettle of fish, completely.

Had standing there in the hall like some dummy waiting for a bus given Alcazar the chance to rape her? Had Jay actually done that? Rape? Jay Alcazar-tall, dark and handsome, rich and clever, the veritable idol of millions, who could get most any piece of ass he wanted anywhere on God's green earth anytime he wanted it-what the hell would he be doing forcing it on some woman? Sure, a stiff dick has no conscience and all that, but ... But the goddamn door had flown open and she was obviously trying to get away, and Jay had grabbed her roughly and wouldn't let her escape from him.

There were not many times in his life when Howie felt that he had failed for lack of trying. Failed, yes-of course he had failed. After all, he had failed as a ballplayer; he had failed at the thing he wanted most in the world. But he had tried his damndest. But now, when he was tested by a moment, by that exquisitely raw instant when a man either grabs the grenade and throws it back or dives for his own safety, he had found out who he was. He knew he had failed himself, and, in a very real way, he realized that, above all, he had failed his daughter; he had failed Lindsay, too.

He reached for the other bourbon in the mini-bar, but put it back. No. One was a nightcap; two was escape, a scaredy-cat, a drunk. So then he just got into bed and hoped that he could sleep, and he did, at last, at least for awhile. But not much. He was wide awake at eight o'clock when the phone rang. It was Moncrief. Well, at least the waiting was over. He even hoped Moncrief would tell him right now, over the phone, that the Indians had decided to go in another direction. For Christ's sweet sake, he didn't need a face-to-face to tell him what he already knew. But no, Moncrief didn't even want to talk about Howie's job, let alone about making a change in his department.

Instead, it was another urgent matter. It was about what had happened behind the door that had opened and closed in Howie's face, while he had stood there stunned and lacking.

HOWIE

What you have to remember, Howie would remind people in whatever organization he was part of at that time, what you have to never forget, is that everybody who made the major leagues used to be a star. Probably from the first day they played the game as kids they could hit a ball or pitch it-or probably even do both-better than everyone else around them. At each level some of the best ones would drop off. They didn't care enough. They didn't want to work hard enough. Or there was, perhaps, just one thing they couldn't manage at this next step up. Usually, for batters, they couldn't hit a breaking pitch. Or, for pitchers, they couldn't learn to throw a breaking pitch. At a certain point, it didn't make any difference whether you could hit a fast ball four hundred-some feet or throw it ninety-some miles-an-hour, because if you couldn't hit a ball that curved or make a ball curve over the plate, then you were finished.

So a lot of the players who were stars as kids fell by the wayside. But the point was that the boys who made it had all been hot-shots. "You gotta understand," Howie would say, "because in a way, all these guys were so good that it frustrates them when they get to a point where somebody is better than they are." Most old managers, holding forth like that, would have said "fucking better than they are." But Howie never said fuck, nor variations thereof, and he never said shit. It was not that he was a prude or he had promised his mother this when he went off to play ball. It was just something he had decided himself, after a couple of years in the minors, that if he was going to stay in this all-male jock subculture, he would never be totally beholden to all its habits and mores.

Probably no one ever even noticed that Howie Traveler didn't ever say fuck or shit. He never substituted anything asinine like "Oh, sugar" when he meant "Oh shit." And he said hell and goddammit and asshole and prick and sonuvabitch. It even amused some of his players when he screwed up, because then he would often say, "I got my tit caught in a wringer," which was an expression that had mostly gone the way of white buck shoes.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from THE ENTITLED by FRANK DEFORD Copyright © 2007 by Frank Deford. Excerpted by permission.
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