This is the second story in a three-part series about Doug Clark, who was inducted into the Western Massachusetts Baseball Hall of Fame. Read the first part here.

All the players that make it to the lower leagues have been great somewhere.

Best in your city. Best in her school. Best in their condition. It’s not just an American competition either. Baseball is followed with religious fervor in many Latin American countries. (Last year, 28.5 percent of major league players were Hispanic or Latino. The percentage is higher among minors.) The game is also popular in Japan and South Korea, as well as parts of Canada and Australia.

Ninety percent of these ultra-elite minor leagues will never spend a day in the big leagues.

It’s ruthless competition and sometimes an unhealthy culture. The success of a player who is playing your position is bad for you. His injury improves your chances.

It’s a tough life. You’re always on the move, long bus rides to a number of Days Inns and late-night drives to Taco Bell. Again and again you see friends being “released” – baseball’s cruel term for “fired.” For years you earn meagerly.

Off-season jobs are a must, which means years as a substitute teacher at Central High School for Doug Clark.

Yes, there are the transcendent moments: the setting sun on a perfect summer’s day, the fans singing along to John Fogarty’s “Put Me In, Coach”, the serious Little Leaguer asking for an autograph, that incredible feeling when the bat hits the ball perfect, at the sweet spot, starts a drive deep into the night.

As the competition intensified in the higher tiers of the Minors, Clark did his best to keep going and compete against the best of the best. It was a steep climb. The guy who played his left field position in the big leagues was called Bonds. Barry Bonds. The man who went on to win seven MVP awards, hit more home runs than anyone and shrouded his career in controversy over performance-enhancing drug use.

Sometimes at spring practice in Arizona, Clark would watch Bonds in the batting cage: the short, wild swing, the ball soaring into the desert sky. “He has so much power up there,” Clark once said, “that you can’t even fathom it.”

**

Doug Clark’s six siblings stayed close to home, working as teachers, coaches and counselors. His journey was different. Bill and Peggy Clark followed as best they could, logging into late-night games to listen to the webcasts, reveling in the good nights and gulping down the bad.

Clark wasn’t a superstar, but he was good enough to keep going, keep moving up, and hope that one day he would break through.

In 2005, he was eight years old and approaching 30 on his next birthday – becoming baseball old. He had the year of his life at Triple-A with the Fresno Grizzlies. Hit well over .300. Thirteen homers, 30 doubles, 29 stolen bases. He was confident he would finally get the call on Labor Day, when the minor league season ended and the big league rosters were expanded.

It did not happen. He trotted home. Moved back to the basement on Piedmont Street.

On a muggy Tuesday morning, September 13, he and his sister Molly (a special education teacher) drove to Central in a gray Ford Escort. He turned off his cell phone and got to work. That afternoon, while teaching an American history class, he heard a knock on the door, looked through the rectangular window, and saw his father. He thought this couldn’t be good news.

He awkwardly introduced his father to the class. Then his father whispered urgently, “You have to call the Giants!”

There had been a few injuries the night before. The Giants needed a left-handed hitter off the bench. His plane left in two hours.

Bill drove Doug to the airport. They shook hands. He flew first class for the first time in his life.

The next day, the Clarks exploded in the Piedmont Street family room when a certain No. 40 stepped on the plate as a pinch hitter at the end of the ninth inning in a 4-4 game. He ended up walking four pitches.

There were precious few chances this September. As a pinch runner, he slid home with the winning run one night — a brief moment of glory on ESPN SportsCenter — but he only went 0-5 on the plate. Still, he had finally made it.

He had had the faintest taste of the nectar. He longed for more. He wanted to return to the big leagues to secure his first major league hit.

In 2006, he signed as a free agent with the Oakland A’s. It’s been another productive season, but mostly more of the minor leagues, not quite well enough. At the end of June, however, the opportunity knocked again very briefly. Veteran Frank Thomas was injured. The A’s called Clark back to the big leagues.

He knew it would only be for a short time. Thomas’ injury was minor. Clark came off the bench and went 0 for his first 4, dropping him to 0 for 9 in his big league career. The clock was ticking.

On the night of June 28 in San Diego, the A’s fell behind the Padres early, and Clark was told he would hit Clay Hensley for pitcher in the fourth inning. He stepped into the box, looked at Padre’s catcher and future Hall of Famer Mike Piazza, and offered a “What’s up, Mike?” which received no reply.

He swung the first two pitches and only managed a weak foul tip. The next delivery came, a plumb line that just sagged a bit. Clark hit him on a line to left center, saw center fielder Mike Cameron close up quickly, but then backed away as the ball landed beautifully on the green. The ball was thrown into the A’s shelter and from his seat on first base he watched as a teammate pretended to heave it into the crowd.

After the season, Doug took this ball out of a sock, put it in a case, and presented it to his parents. It has been on Piedmont Street ever since.

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