Baseball's Most Scandalous Trade

Hours later, Fritz stepped in front of the same lectern as flash bulbs popped.

"I know the New York press is going to make a big deal out of this," he said, "but let's be clear about what happened. Don't call this a wife swap. If anything, it's a husband swap. This is a love story, okay? Susanne is the perfect person for me, and we're very happy together. This was the biggest decision of my life, and I'm not turning back. I can't go back. None of us can."

Despite their effort to get ahead of the story, the media had a field day with it. Every tabloid in the New York metro region included a front-page story about the "wife swap," with photos of the happy couples and quotes from friends, teammates, fans, and pundits. It was called the "Most Scandalous Trade in Baseball History."

"It is not possible for an administrator of sports to reach into the private lives of people like these," thundered baseball's commissioner, Bowie Kuhn. "But this isn't to say that it is not a regrettable situation."

"Every kid in America looks up to these ballplayers," one fan was quoted. "It's not right for them to do this. They're supposed to be role models, for crying out loud."

"These people should take their children into consideration," mused another fan. "Celebrities shouldn't live this way."

Doctor Joyce Brothers lent her expertise during a television interview, stating, "It's very rare that a four-way swap like this works out for everyone. I fear that it could lead to disaster."

Marilyn sat in front of her mother's television set one night and watched with horror as former Yankee Jim Bouton was interviewed by Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show. "I can totally understand trading wives," Bouton quipped, "but the dogs? Come on, man!"

Marilyn shook her head and wept.

The next morning, Fritz received a phone call from Marilyn's mother, Sheila. "This has gone far enough," she scolded him. "You need to think about your boys. This is craziness."

"Sheila, I know it seems that way," he responded, "but Susanne and I are very happy together. Mike and Marilyn were happy, too. I'm sorry that it hasn't worked out for them. I really am. But I can't control what they do or how they feel. All I know is that for the first time in a long time, I'm really happy. Please be happy for me."

Sheila shook her head. "I just don't understand you, Fritz. I don't understand anything about you anymore. I thought my daughter had married a better man than this."

June 1, 1973

Mike eyed the runner at first before hurling a pitch toward the plate. It sailed so far outside the strike zone, Thurman was forced to leave his feet to snatch it.

"Hey, Kekich!" a fan bellowed, loudly enough for all to hear. "Maybe your wife should pitch instead!"

Mike pretended as if he didn't hear the comment, but he could see some of the players trying to hide their laughter. His wife was no longer his wife. She was still living happily with Fritz with his two daughters, in their newly-built house in Franklin Lakes. His attempts to reconnect with Marilyn had fallen short, and he no longer held any hope that they would ever get back together. She was shopping for homes in Illinois, and had landed a job as a school teacher. If not for the occasional visit with his daughters, Mike led a life of loneliness and depression.

He fired another pitch toward the plate, and the batter rapped a hard line drive over the head of their new third baseman, Graig Nettles, and into left field. Kekich cursed and slammed his fist into his mitt. He received the ball from his shortstop and turned to see Ralph heading toward him from the dugout. The manager looked toward the bullpen and tapped on his right arm to signal for a reliever.

"Good effort," Ralph said, smacking Mike on the backside. "Go hit the showers."

As Mike ambled off the mound and toward the dugout, he was serenaded with several more insults from the fans. He did his best to ignore them and headed straight down the tunnel and into the locker room. He had just finished showering when the clubhouse attendant told him the general manager wanted to see him.

"Hey, Lee," Mike said upon entering the GM's office. "What's up?"

Lee sat behind his desk wearing a grim expression. "You've been traded. You're heading to Cleveland."

The news nearly knocked Mike off his feet. He grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself. "Cleveland?"

Lee nodded. "It's a good opportunity for you."

Mike sat in the chair and placed his head in his hands. "My family...my girls."

"I'm sorry, Mike. It wasn't my decision."

Mike looked him in the eyes. "The Boss? Is it because of what happened off the field?"

Lee didn't move a muscle, nor did he say a word. That was enough of an answer. Mike walked out of the office, packed everything from his locker into a duffle bag, and exited from the clubhouse.

November 17, 1973

"Dame la pelota," the manager said with his hand extended. "Give me the ball," he repeated in English.

Mike reluctantly handed him the ball and walked from the mound to the dugout to the jeers and taunts of the Venezuelan crowd. "I guess it's better that I don't understand a fucking word they're saying," he muttered to himself.

That evening, he watched a newscast from the only English-speaking network he could find on his television. "I've made my mistakes," he heard the president say. "In all my years of public life, I have never profited - never profited - from public service. I've earned every cent. And in all my years of public life, I have never obstructed justice. And I think, too, that I can say that in my years of public life that I welcome this kind of examination. Because people have gotta know whether their president is a crook. Well, I'm not a crook."

Mike shook his head in disgust and shut off the television. He took a cold beer out of his refrigerator and looked out the window. It seemed as though the entire world was coming apart at the seams. The integrity of the American presidency was in serious peril. All the death and destruction in Vietnam had resolved nothing, and the country was just as torn and divided as it was when the war began. New York City had become a war zone. The economy was in a tailspin. All of that paled in comparison to the turmoil and chaos that his personal life had become.

He hadn't seen his daughters since September, during a two-day road trip to New York. They seemed more interested in the revolving door of his hotel than their father. What made the experience worse was the look of pity on Susanne's face when she greeted him. He saw that same expression whenever he met with old friends and teammates who knew of his situation.

Thankfully, the media had grown tired of the story and stopped hounding him with questions. One of the benefits of playing in Venezuela was that no one knew who he was. He could work on regaining his confidence without having to hear the persistence insults from the fans. With any luck, Cleveland would find a place for him in their rotation the following spring. No promises were made, however. He would have to try out all over again.

He checked the time before picking up the phone. He cringed when he heard who answered his call. "Hi, Fritz," he said through gritted teeth. He had no choice but to be cordial if he wanted to remain in contact with his daughters, but inside he held nothing but contempt for his old friend. "Can I speak with Kristen, please?"

He listened as his daughter regaled him with tales of first grade, including her art project for Thanksgiving. He laughed as she described the drawing of the turkey she had made by outlining her hand. He wished that he could be there to see it himself. It would be their first Thanksgiving apart from each other. The first of many.

He couldn't stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks as he listened to her speak. What was he thinking, giving up on his family the way he did? And for what? He had a good marriage, but he wanted a great one. He believed that love is experienced in various degrees, and his love for Marilyn was greater than it was for his wife. He was naïve and idealist and greedy. He never would have given up his daughters unless he felt that it would have given him a love that was greater than any other he could have known. At that time, he truly believed he had found that love with Marilyn. They all thought they had found their true loves.

September 15, 1975

Nearly three years had passed since "The Trade." Fritz and Susanne tied the knot in January of 1974, and were already expecting their first child together. Marilyn had become a grade school teacher, and lived with her two sons in Illinois. Mike hadn't spoken to her in over a year.

Mike was able to recapture some of his lost confidence during his time in Venezuela. He rejoined the Indians the following spring, and had what he thought was an impressive spring training. Unfortunately, the Cleveland management thought otherwise, and sent him down to the minor leagues to start the season. A teammate passed along the rumor that the front office made that decision because they were looking to trade for Fritz, and the ballclub didn't want the two of them sharing the same locker room.

"That son of a bitch stole my wife and family, and now he's stealing my career," Mike grumbled.

Mike pitched for a while at the Triple-A level, but the expenses associated with his divorce left him $20,000 in debt. He couldn't afford to pay his bills on a minor leaguer's salary, so when a team from Japan made him a generous offer, he had no choice but to accept.

Pitching in Japan was a profoundly unique cultural experience, and improved his professional development, but he had never been lonelier in his life. Not only didn't he speak the native language, but he couldn't even read their signs. He felt completely isolated and fell into a deep depression. By the time he returned to the States following that season, he felt as though he had fallen into a deep, dark, hole from which he would never emerge. Luckily, his sister managed to convince him to seek therapy.

His therapeutic sessions served as a much-needed catharsis. All that had happened over the past three years spilled out of him like a dam that had burst. He had grown to despise both Fritz and Susanne. He resented Marilyn as well, for bailing out on their deal and leaving him alone and miserable. As far as he was concerned, all three of them could burn in Hell.

At the age of thirty, his baseball career was nearing its end. He managed to get an invitation to attend spring training with the Texas Rangers, and won a spot on their roster. He spent the 1975 season shuttling back and forth between Arlington, Texas and Spokane, Washington. He had become a mop-up reliever - the lowest rung on the ladder for a Major League pitcher. Still, there were worse ways to make a living. Although he barely earned the league minimum salary at $20,000, it was still far more than he could have earned doing anything else for a living.

By the end of the season, he found himself in a healthy place, mentally. His therapy sessions allowed him to put the past behind him and concentrate on moving forward. He began to consider his career after baseball, and looked into the medical profession. He had made some good friends in the small apartment complex where he lived during the season. One of those friends, an older woman named Gladys, knocked on his door late one night and asked him to come over. She appeared panic-stricken.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's Peaches," she said, referring to her small terrier. "She's going into labor! It's happening tonight! I don't know what to do!"

"Okay, calm down," he assured her. "Let me see what I can do."

When they entered her apartment, he found Peaches lying on a pile of old towels, panting. He gave Gladys a few instructions and proceeded to help the dog through the process. In no time at all, Mike had successfully helped to deliver three adorable pups.

"Oh, my god, thank you so much!" Gladys squealed.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Gladys answered, and ushered in a young woman she introduced as her niece, Michelle.

"She's a nurse," Gladys informed him. "I phoned her first, thinking we would have enough time for her to show, but when it looked like it was going to happen any minute, I panicked. You were telling me you're thinking of becoming a doctor, so I thought you could help."

"No worries, Jess," Mike said. "I'm glad I could help."

"It looks like you did pretty well, there, doc," Michelle said. She had a beautiful white smile and bright emerald eyes. Mike's heart skipped a beat.

Gladys invited Mike and Michelle to her place for dinner the following evening to thank them. They both happily accepted. That night, Gladys prodded Mike to tell them about his game that day. He had pitched two innings that afternoon.

"I did okay," he said. "Not great."

"He's always so modest," Gladys said. "You know that when he was drafted, some scouts were saying he would be the next Sandy Koufax!"

"You don't say!" Michelle said.

"Well, let's just say I fell a little short of those expectations," Mike said.

"But you've done all right for yourself," Michelle responded. "I mean, you're still being paid to play a game, right? How many people can say the same?"

"Not many," Gladys added. She looked to her two friends and flashed them a knowing grin.

After dinner, Mike and Michelle exchanged phone numbers. He called her later that week and they went out on their first official date. They dated throughout the winter and into the following spring. During spring training, Mike had an accident while riding his motorcycle and suffered an injury to his shoulder. That injury effectively ended his baseball career.

February 17, 2018

The bell on the door chimed when the attractive young woman strolled through it. She stood at the entrance for a moment and looked around the small office. It included the usual array of office furniture: a desk, two stiff-looking chairs, and a filing cabinet. Hung on the walls were photos of the surrounding area of Albuquerque. A mountain range here, a grove of cacti there.

An elderly man appeared through a door in the rear of the office. He smiled and extended his hand. "Welcome to Barelas Realty. Name is Mike. How can I help you today?"

She shook his hand and took a seat in front of his desk. "Mike Kekich, right?"

He looked at her apprehensively and nodded. "Yeah, that's right. You here to serve me a summons or something?"

She laughed. "No, not at all. Sir, my name is Sarah Richards. I'm studying to be a writer at UNM. I'd just like to ask you a few questions."

Mike rose from his chair immediately and headed toward the front door. "I'm not interested."

"Please, Mr. Kekich. This would mean the world to me."

"You're wasting your time...uh, Sarah."

"It's the forty-fifth anniversary since The Trade, you know? Fritz has spoken many times about it, and we all know his story, but no one knows your side of it."

"Then I guess it'll remain a mystery forever," he said. He held the door open for her.

"Mr. Kekich. Please. Just one quote. That's all I ask. I want to know what has happened in all these years. I know you remarried."

"Forty years," he said, proudly.

"And you have a daughter together."

"Well, Sarah, it seems you somehow know everything about me already. I'm not sure what more I can add."

"I have some of the facts, but I'm missing the human element. I want to know what it was like to live in that era. Certainly, that had to have played a part in your decision. It was a sign of the times, right? The world was spinning out of control. Old conventions were thrown out the window and replaced by a new and exciting philosophy of life."

Mike looked at her for a moment. She was so young and naïve. Damn her pretty face. He was always a sucker for a pretty face. He hadn't thought about "The Trade" for a long time. He felt there was nothing more to say about it. Why were people still so fascinated with it, forty-five years later? He thought about what his life would have been like if they hadn't made that decision. Would he and Susanne still be married? Would their daughters' lives have turned out any differently? Who could say? Once a decision is made, the course of destiny has been determined. Dwelling on the past never did any good for anyone.

"Conventions were broken," he said at last. "That's certainly true. And yeah, the 70's were a time of bucking trends and shunning institutions to forge our own paths. There was a certain joy in the freedom of that era - a freedom from convention."

He paused for a moment.

"But you know," he continued, "maybe there is a reason those conventions existed in the first place."