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Batting cage owner scores win in PetalumaLove of the swing and perseverance keep him afloatDamin Esper, Special to The Chronicle Friday, August 26, 2005 Images
There, you come upon a shop full of racks of bats, gloves, helmets, uniforms and other baseball gear. From the back you hear the dull "thud, thud, thud" of balls hitting the backstops. A seemingly disembodied voice comes from the other side of the building. "Lift your bat off your shoulder." And the irony is that it is exactly the non-batting cage ambience that allows Darrell Couey to keep his cages open. Couey dropped out of truck driving after injuring his back and had been looking for a place to open a batting cage. In 1992, he struck a deal with the building's landlord. "The only reason I survived here is this building sat empty a long time," he said. Batting cages used to dot the suburban and rural landscape of this country. However, much like bowling alleys and drive-in theaters, the value of the land increased to the point that cage operators couldn't afford the rent. Add in the cost of insurance and it takes a whole lot of love and creativity to make the business model work. Some places combine cages with other sports, such as miniature golf. But Couey, a gruff-voiced 62-year-old with wispy gray hair, gray beard and glasses worn low, prefers to keep his a baseball-only operation. The equipment sales help a little, as does the glass case with candy in it. And he started a fall baseball league in Petaluma in 1993. That expanded the baseball season and, by extension, the batting cage season. "June 15 is when Little League is over," he said. "That's when these places die. You get four months that you do a decent business." Couey said the league, which has a full range of age divisions, has also helped local players improve their skills. "Here's what they get -- an extra 20 games, come in here once a week with their team for extra hitting, practice twice a week outside," he said. "That's five out of seven days they're doing something baseball-related. Jonny Gomes, now of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, played four years in the fall league as did several minor leaguers, Couey said. And that's what matters more than business models to the kids swinging away on a summer evening. Scott Mayer and Weston Bryan, both 11 and from Petaluma, have been taking their cuts at the Athletic Edge for about four years apiece. Both will play in Couey's fall league as well. "(I'm) a lot better," Bryan said. "Oh yeah," agreed Mayer, adding that, "usually once a week our team (comes to the cages) and I'll come by (on my own) sometimes." The only question is what happens to the cages when Couey decides to retire - a day that might be coming around in the next few years. "I wouldn't just sell it to anybody," he said. "If and when I retire, I'm going to find a guy who really loves baseball." By this time, the cages had gone quiet and little sluggers were filing out, heading to the car with their dads. No, the building doesn't look like your normal batting cage. But Couey is your classic batting cage operator. This article appeared on page F - 5 of the San Francisco Chronicle BARNYARD BASICS: GOMES BROTHERS, HIGH SCHOOL PLAYERS PURSUE BASEBALL DREAMS IN PETALUMAPublished on January 25, 2004
© 2004- The Press Democrat
BYLINE: Bob Padecky PAGE: C1
COLUMN: Bob Padecky
PETALUMA
The rusted gate is locked and the reason is not readily apparent. What it appears to protect does not need protecting. A city dump might never have a more unsightly and useless collection. Behind the bird-speckled gate, on the left side of a 400-foot dirt road, are two cars, a van, a small boat, their innards gutted by nature and vandals. A bathtub-shower stall rests on its side, nudging a 50-foot long, four-foot high pile of lumber, coffee cans, Styrofoam, rags, shoes, door hinges and plastic buckets that would make a sensational, if not toxic, opening fire for Burning Man. On the right side of the potholed road, as if dropped from a helicopter, sit four 65-foot long sections of concrete decking from the Golden Gate Bridge. They now span a bog. At the end of the dirt road is the gem, the reason for the padlock, the jewel among the discard. It's a 58-year old, 60-foot tall, dirty dull-gray tin barn. ``Isn't it beautiful?'' asked Jonny Gomes of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. Yes it is, because the barn is where American kids pursue their baseball dreams much as they did 100 years ago. The barn, which has never seen a coat of paint or been adorned with a sign, is windowless, yet part of the interior can be seen through an opening between doors. The view is not of grain or feed, the obvious choices considering the barn's structure and location. It lies in the shadow of an operating poultry feed mill. The barn is unremarkable; it could be standing in farmland anywhere in the United States and it should be containing seed or a hay or, at its most exotic, a farm animal giving birth. Instead the barn contains a batting cage. In practical function, the barn is a batting cage. ``It's not like walking into Yankee Stadium,'' said Joey Gomes, Jonny's brother who's on the Rays' Double-A roster. This is not like any batting cage anywhere, be it professional, college, high school, amusement park or Nintendo. It is a space barely large enough to fit the 60-feet, 6-inches from the rubber to the plate and it's enclosed in netting that doesn't stop batted balls as much as slow them down. When a ball is hit hard, the reverberation sounds a bit like a gunshot. At the opposite end of the batter's box is a wall of plywood, painted blue. It is where the second base bag would be if this were a ball yard. The plywood is splintering and it will disintegrate if the Gomes' brothers have anything to do with it. Line drives up the middle are base hits in real life, but here they are a form of target practice. Remembering their roots ``Our goal is to destroy the blue wall,'' said Joey Gomes, ``and then put a hole in the tin.'' For the past six weeks, as the brothers from Petaluma prepare for spring training, the barn has been their exercise yard. Nearly every night for about two hours they work out with players from Casa Grande and Petaluma high schools as two of the kids' fathers throw batting practice. Five pitching machines are on site but there's nothing like a live arm, even if it's from a 44-year old insurance claims supervisor like Ralph Gentile or a 40-year-old cable company project manager like Jon Banister. ``When you think of the big leagues,'' said Banister, who rents the barn for $400 a month, ``this is not what you think.'' Big leaguers and aspiring big leaguers don't hit in barns and give batting tips to high school kids. Either by the size of their ego or size of their skill, or sometimes both, they separate themselves. They need their work. They don't need distraction. They don't need fawning. They need a hermetically sealed environment that is heated, carpeted, with a whirlpool and a shower and music screaming aggression. The barn has none of that. Instead, the barn has Jonny and Joey Gomes. And there's nothing hermetically sealed about these guys. ``You see how your elbow is getting back there,'' said Joey Gomes, encircled by watchful eyes. ``You got to push it out there ... release ... You got to get slotted. You should be able to draw a straight line all the way down your body when you take your stance.'' Gomes notices his audience, sees them studying him hard, and knows it time for a break. ``And tomorrow we'll learn how to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!'' Gomes said. The kids howl. Gomes howls. He and his brother may be pros, but it wasn't so long ago they were kids at Casa. ``I was on the other side of the fence, at Crushers' games, at A's games,'' said Jonny Gomes. ``I remember what it was like asking for autographs and sometimes not getting them. I'll never forget that. And I'll never forget where I came from.'' Schoolboy legends Gomes had no attitude to display when he first came to the barn, though perception is quite another thing. The Gomes are pretty much schoolboy legends in this county. Joey, 24, was an All-American at Santa Clara, a New York-Penn League All-Star in 2003 at Hudson Valley rookie league and voted his team's Player of the Year. Jonny, 23, was a community college All-American at Santa Rosa Junior College, a California League All-Star at Class-A Bakersfield in 2003 who got 15 at-bats in September for the Rays and now he is on Tampa Bay's 40-man roster when spring training begins Feb. 19. ``So when they first showed up six weeks ago,'' said Banister, ``the kids did this.'' Banister retreated two steps, leaned back and threw out his hands in a blocking motion, palms forward. ``I was watching them put holes in the wall,'' with balls that were hit, said Josh Krist, a junior second baseman from Petaluma High School. ``It was a little intimidating.'' Initially Krist lurked in the shadows. He didn't want to be the first one to jump into the batter's box. When he finally batted, Krist was content with modest expectations. ``I just wanted to make contact,'' Krist said. ``You really want to look good in front of them.'' Intimidated as the high schoolers were when the brothers swung the bat, the opposite was achieved the minute they put down the wood. `It's just a barn' ``You hear all the time about big leaguers being so big-headed and how they look down on people,'' said Samantha Banister, a junior shortstop-first baseman for Petaluma High's softball team. ``But you spend about one minute with these guys and you know they aren't like that at all. They are the farthest thing from it. I thought I knew everything about hitting until I met those guys. I've learned so much. Jonny is like my big brother.'' Asked if she is tempted to ask her big brother for his autograph, Banister's answer should be faxed to every big leaguer. ``I would hope my friendship would be enough'' of a keepsake, Banister said. The barn is a comfort zone, despite the odds. A dozen fluorescent lights glare down hard on the players. The baseballs used are from Little League, Senior League, high school and minor league levels. There is no heat source. The wind whistles through gaps big enough that you can see outside. The only entry is through a tin door that creaks on balky hinges. The only way to get to the barn is by the dirt road and past the bonfire-waiting-to-happen. ``You tell people how to get here,'' said Jonny Gomes, ``and they think they need a donkey and a plane. It's nothing fancy. What you see is what you get. It's not a lot. It's just a barn.'' It's not The Silo, The Tin, The Echo. It's not even called The Barn. It doesn't have a nickname. It's just a barn. And like all barns, people who enter it expect to get dirty. It's a place to sweat and to accomplish. Instead of a pitchfork, shovel or a rake, the tool of choice in this barn is a baseball bat. In that, Jonny and Joey Gomes and their pals are no different than farm hands. They all are using a tool in the hope of making a living. Some just make louder noises than others. You can reach Staff Columnist Bob Padecky at 521-5490 or bpadecky@pressdemocrat.com.
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