Friday, March 03, 2000
Past keeps Pokey from being satisfied
BY PAUL DAUGHERTY
The Cincinnati Enquirer
Pokey Reese
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SARASOTA, Fla. — Va-doomp. All day and all night, the tennis ball bounced off the brick wall of the four-room house, home to five children, two cousins, mom and grandmom. Home to Pokey Reese.
The best fielding second baseman of this generation, and a few others, didn't own a glove until he was in high school. Last year, he won a Gold Glove with one of Barry Larkin's models, a Wilson 1440. He liked the way it fit his hand.
That was nothing, though. That was strawberries in wintertime compared to growing up in Hopkins, S.C.
There was no sewer system, no running water but for the kitchen sink. “We'd go to my great-grandpa's house,” Reese said. “He had a pump.” They'd fill some buckets with water, take it home, pour it in a tub, bathe in it, then wash clothes. Pokey Reese always had clean clothes.
He borrowed his baseball gloves, though, from Little League coaches and neighbors with more money and fewer places at the table. Before their generosity, he bounced the tennis ball off the side of the house. Forever. The only thing it cost him was time.
“Bouncing it against the wall. Boom, boom,” Reese said. “Chasing it, backhanding it, chasing it again. Ground balls, ground balls, ground balls.”
Va-doomp.
Going for more gold
He was a wide receiver in high school, good enough to attract interest from Arizona State, Nebraska and several ACC schools. “Ran a 4.29 40,” Reese said of his speed in the 40-yard dash. “I could have been Peter Warrick.”
But college wouldn't have made his house bigger or paid for a sewer line. Reese stuck with baseball. Every time a scout showed up to watch a teammate or an opponent play, Reese's father told him to “make sure you run to your position.”
“I ran,” Reese said. “Hard as I could. Thank God somebody noticed.”
He's still running. Poor kids who get rich may forget where they came from. But they never forget they were poor. The day of the Reds' team rally in Sarasota, Reese didn't follow his teammates to the golf course or the air conditioning. He took ground balls.
Reds coach Harry Dunlop hit a bucket full to him. “I don't want to win one Gold Glove,” Reese said. He nodded toward the locker stall of Ken Griffey Jr. “I want to win 10, like him. If he can do it, why can't I?”
Anybody who has seen Reese play more than five minutes would concur. He plays second base the way Hoovers play carpets. On artificial turf, he's re-inventing the position. Former Red Greg Vaughn likened his defense to the way Deion Sanders plays football. Both take away their side of the field.
Reese's arm allows him to play deeper than anyone else, adding to his range. “A pitcher's arm,” Larkin calls it. “It's not a shortstop's arm. It supersedes that.”
Asking Reds players and coaches for a favorite Pokey play from the 1999 season is like asking a driving enthusiast to pick his favorite Corvette. Larkin liked a play in Cincinnati when Reese ranged toward left field, snagged a one-hop line drive and, with his momentum taking toward the outfield, threw a strike to first base. “Didn't that hurt?” Larkin asked him afterward.
Living a dream
Reese settled before arbitration this winter, for a contract paying him $1.95 million this year. It's more money than he ever dreamed of. He bought his mother, Clara, a home in Charlotte, N.C. “Two stories,” he says. “Three bedrooms. The den overlooks the living room.” Pokey is still a little amazed by all this. “A two-car garage.”
He's still using Larkin's glove. It's as soft as his hands now, the logical extension of his creativity and skill. In some small way, Pokey's still living that hand-to-mouth existence.
“It's not the arrow,” said Larkin, “it's the Indian.” Still, Larkin said, “I might have to give him another one.”
Reese straightened up, admired the Wilson 1440. “I came from nowhere,” he said, “and I'm not done yet.” Va-doomp.
Paul Daugherty welcomes your comments at 768-8454. Fair Game, a collection of his columns, is available at local bookstores.
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