The Bullpen Gospels

by Dirk Hayhurst

  To most folks, that didn’t matter. His testimony steamrolled right over such trivial things like production, even though it was make or break for everyone else. Coop was the most remarkable story in camp, and it was generally accepted that he’d have a job come the end of it—a fact that sat well with most players, though the reasoning behind it was undeniably questionable, considering the business’s normal operating procedure.

  Coop had that kind of an image—too good to waste. So good, in fact, that it made the normal business of the game look ugly in comparison. He was such a quality individual, a credit to the service, that there was something cheap about how much attention he garnered. I was actually a little pissed off about it. Not at Coop, he was a class act, but at the industry for lavishing so much product and attention on him hoping to look good by association. People stood to profit from him, as they did from all great athletes, but something about the way they chased after Coop made me feel that no one really cared about Coop as much as they cared about the marketing potential of his story.

  Possessing undeniable nobility, Coop would say he felt as if he were playing on behalf of the other wounded and injured, but the companies weren’t concerned about them. They were only concerned about one wounded veteran ballplayer who made for fantastic advertising. It made me wonder if all wounded veterans received free shoes and sports equipment or just those who had camera time. I know if it was up to Coop, they would.

  On the off chance Coop climbed all the way to the top, it would be a Hollywood event. I’ll bet Ken Burns wet his pants at the mere thought of it. I know Coop wanted to earn it, but even if he didn’t, the industry would profit from him. A minor league roster spot was a pittance to pay for the kind of attention Coop could generate. It would be stupid not to keep him around even if that meant someone else who loved the game, who grew up wanting to be a baseball player his whole life, who broke the mold to get the chance, would lose his job. The numbers demanded sacrifice, and for every dream come true, there was a price.

  For years, I believed that baseball was survival of the fittest, and I didn’t care about anyone else’s survival except my own. My story was the one that mattered, and as long as it ended with me in the big leagues, I could care less about anyone else’s chances. I never stopped thinking this until I started watching Lars and Coop go about their day.

  Say what you want about Lars, he’s one of the freest guys I’ve ever seen on a baseball field, completely marching to the beat of his own drum; something I’ve always admired about him. He saw baseball as an instrument, a means to an end, an expression, and he was never afraid to approach it from a different angle. It almost seemed sacrilegious the way he could speak so nonchalantly about baseball, or maybe his stark, bare beliefs simply showed the myth in my own—maybe.

  Then there was Coop. When Coop was enjoying his day at the park, it was impossible not to enjoy it with him. It was easy to pick up a ball, throw it around, chase grounders, and laugh at jokes about octopi, while I doubt many of us could easily pick up a rifle and face what he did. Cooper was getting a second chance at something he almost forfeited his life protecting, an ideal that afforded the very chances we had at our own dreams, on and off the field. Coop was a great man who didn’t need baseball to tell him so. Though it was contrary to the rules I knew pro baseball by, I couldn’t deny my hope that Coop would get his chance. I felt he earned it for what he’d already done. If my career was scratched from the lineup so he could have a shot at his dream, so be it. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be necessary.

  Chapter Ten

  On field six, it was business as usual. Another day of Pitcher’s Fielding Practice, or PFPs. We do roughly four-billion hours of PFPs in spring training to prepare us for the five or six real plays we’ll get during the year. Many pitchers are of the opinion this is just busy work. That’s because most pitchers are athletic. I’m not. I pitch, and that’s about the extent of my athletic prowess. Essentially, PFPs are just four-billion great opportunities for me to embarrass myself.

  We all lined behind the field four mound, while a coach, one of the few I did not know, hit grounders back up the middle to us after we went through a fake delivery. Some guys wound up in overexaggerated Japanese-style deliveries, whereas others didn’t bother to bend over before heaving their ball of make-believe. When my turn came up, I wound in my own mechanics and delivered a nasty sinking, invisiball, which induced a chopper back my way. The ball took a late hop off the dirt. I missed it, the ugly kind of miss where the fielder pulls his glove up in expectation of a hop that doesn’t come, the ball darting between the legs.

  “Get back up there Hay. Get you another one,” the new coach said.

  I made a packing motion with my glove, climbed the summit of the mound, and reloaded—the delivery, the pitch, a chopper back up the middle. Hayhurst sets, he reaches, he fumbles, and he catches the grounder with his forearm. The ball ricochets off him into no-man’s-land. The ghost runner is safe at first on a pitcher’s fielding error.

  “Maybe they should rename this PFEs, huh, Dirk?” Ox chimed, standing behind me with his arms crossed.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Come on, Hay, you got this!” the coach called.

  It’s worse when you miss two. The embarrassment starts to add up, and you can feel the expectation of a third miss percolate. You have to catch the next one just to prove you aren’t a lost cause—that you can do something Little Leaguers do.

  I climbed the mound again, wound, delivered, and induced a slow roller back to the mound. I charged it—too much charge. My glove came down and smothered the ball, but did not suck it up. The ball had stopped rolling, and I reached down with my free hand to make a quick throw before the imaginary runner got to the bag. As I pulled the ball up to fire it, it slipped out of my hand, making a backward lob to third base though I was facing first. I was a train wreck.

  “Cocksucking balls!”

  “Interesting choice of swear there, Dirkus.”

  “Save it, Ox.”

  Out walked the coach. I stood awkwardly as he approached. I had warranted a complete stop of the drill, and I would pay for it in total peer embarrassment. The coach put his hand on me and walked me to the summit of the mound. He stopped, released me, crossed his legs, and leaned on his fungo bat like it was a cane.

  “Hay,” he began, pulling out his dip can and pinching a wad as he spoke—“have you ever held a titty before?”

  The boys behind snickered. Someone repeated, “Huh, huh, titty.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Have ya ever held a titty before, yes or no?”

  “Yeah, I’ve held one before.” I adjusted my hat, and kicked some dirt.

  “Well, catching a baseball is a lot like holding a titty,” he said, pressing his dip into his cheek line.

  “Uh.”

  “You can’t grab at it.” He stuck his hand out to imaginary boobie height. “You have to caress it. Be gentle with it, or she won’t call you back.” He finished his demonstration by moving his hands in a way I’m sure I’ll have nightmares about.

  “I want all of you to stick your hands out and caress that titty.” As instructed, we all put our hands out and, well, started caressing imaginary titties. The whole pack of us, standing on the mound of field four, hands out, sexually harassing the air in front of us.

  “Good. That’s real good. Now, let’s try it again.” He retreated back to home plate. I put down my imaginary titty and climbed the mound as if I were about to be executed—deep breath, shoulder wiggle, delivery, chopper up the middle.

  “CARESS THAT TITTY, HAY!”

  I stuck my hands out, and in slow motion came the bouncing, leather mammary. The ball nestled itself lovingly into my mitt; I turned and sent it off to first.

  “Attaboy, Hay, she’ll call ya back now.”

  “Great. Can’t wait to hear from her,” I said on my way to the back of the drill line.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” Ox whined.


  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “I’m not used to holding titties this small!”

  As the days of spring passed, it became apparent that if something embarrassing was going to happen, it was going to happen on the field with this new coach. He never missed an opportunity to bust my balls, thus inspiring me to dub him with the private nickname of “Coach Castrate.” Every time I saw him leaning on a fungo at the field I was headed to, I cursed.

  Finally, the perfect storm converged and my two worst on-field elements came together, Coach Castrate and bunting. The Padres are in the National League, so pitchers need to learn how to handle the lumber. Now that I had already been taught to handle baseballs as though they were titties, if I didn’t get the bunt down, what would he say I should imagine holding the bat was like?

  I wasn’t such a bad fielder, really. I just had a bad day that became a worse one when Coach Castrate turned it into an event. I was, however, a terrible hitter no matter what day it was, no matter who was watching.

  I was a marked man. Coach Castrate had labeled me as the nonathletic guy, so everything I did was subject to ridicule. When it was my turn to bunt, I marched up to the plate like a man ready to take my medicine. Screw this can’t bunt talk, I thought. I’ll show this motherfucker who he’s messing with.

  My first attempt went over the backstop—the second straight into the plate. I missed the third one altogether. “Jesus Hay, you look like you’re trying to take a shit in the woods.” Here we go again.

  Guys started snickering. I wanted to tell Coash Castrate he could take this bat and shove it. “Here, give me that bat,” he said, grabbing it from me and squaring around as if he were some bunting ninja. He had one of the other pitchers feed the pitching machine, and he laid the bunts down like he invented the art. “See, relax, not so stiff. You need to go to the bathroom before we continue?”

  “No, I’m fine. I got it.” He handed the bat back to me and returned to the pitching machine. I missed four out of the next five, and he called for the next man in line because I was wasting too many balls.

  We were supposed to take two turns bunting, but I skipped my spot in line, hiding in the background until we finished. “Okay boys,” Coach Castrate said, “we’re going to play a little game. We’re going to bunt to each side of the field and then a squeeze. If you don’t get ’em all down, you have to stand on the plate, tuck your nuts between your legs, bend over, and take a pitch in the ass.”

  I dropped my head immediately.

  “This guy’s fucking crazy,” Ox said. “I love it!”

  “Here, I’ll show you what you have to do.”

  “Is he really gonna—” Then Castrate walked to the plate.

  “Here’s what you do. Take the helmet and turn it around so the bill protects your neck.” He spun the helmet around so he looked like a football player. “Then, make sure you protect your nuts, pull ’em up so they don’t get smashed, and bend over.” He turned away from the pitcher’s mound where the machine was sitting, bent over, scrunched his balls, and tucked his arms in. “Keep your fingers safe, you don’t want to hurt one of them either.” I hate to say this, but he had very good technique.

  “Alright, let one go.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, let it go,” he called, with his head still tucked down.

  One of the pitchers reluctantly took a ball and stuck it the machine. The ball whizzed through the air and thudded into his left ass cheek. He flinched slightly, then stood up, and turned to look at us. “See? Nothing to it.”

  “Fuck that!” one of the other pitchers declared. “I’m not standing in there and getting cranked with a ball! What the fuck is that going to prove?” Several of the other guys grumbled in agreement, but we were at his mercy.

  “Hay! Why don’t you start us off?” Of course, why not, I was a safe bet for a baseball enema, so I might as well get it over with. I took my bat and helmet and walked to the plate as if I were on the green mile. The first pitch I took for a ball. The next I punched down the first base line.

  “Okay, now one to third.”

  I stuck the bat out and tried to keep it balanced, imagining what would happen if I missed. What if when I had to take it in the rear, the ball hit me square in the center and got stuck?

  The ball bounced off my bat and headed toward third. It teetered on the foul line but remained fair. Two down.

  “Squeeze!”

  I took the bat and put it on my shoulder like I was going to swing away. I waited for the coach’s hand to rise with the ball. When he brought it down to the machine, I squared to bunt. The ball whizzed, I deflected it into the ground fair—three for three.

  “Attaboy, Hay. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut now and again.”

  It didn’t matter what he said. I got ’em down. Whether I looked like I was trying to take a shit in the woods or a twenty-year vet, I was off the hook. I was going to enjoy laughing at everyone else for a change!

  The coach looked at his stopwatch. “Alright boys, time to rotate. This group’s heading for field three.”

  “What? No, no!” He planned it! That son of a…

  Chapter Eleven

  I may have had my share of embarrassing moments with Coach Castrate, but overall, camp was going well. I was pitching well, collecting outs, and throwing a mile or two harder, thanks to a deal I made with the guys running the radar gun, at the cost of a log of dip and a six-pack. During those days of spring success. I found it easy to believe all was at peace. Good days at the park have a way of ironing out life’s wrinkles.

  I knew, however, from way more experience than I’d like, things don’t go well forever. Whether here in spring or on a team this season, I would struggle again. A moment I sincerely dreaded. If good moments make you carefree, the bad ones suffocate you.

  Of course, I couldn’t control my results; all I could control was my approach, but sometimes the results control the approach. I had a lot of failures in my career. Even my successes felt like failures, seeing how I had nothing to show for them. When I failed, it felt so colossally taxing, I became afraid of the slightest potential of it happening each time I took the mound. Soon, it was the only thing I expected myself to do.

  It’s easy to talk about success when failure doesn’t mean anything. To me, failure meant a lot. It was something along the lines of self-destruction or imprisonment. It felt like an angry scream from my dad, or an intoxicated fist from my brother. It’s what motivated me, punished, me, and branded me. It was my very wicked master. Thus, each success I had this spring was tempered by the looming shadow of my possible meltdown. Sure I was happy about the results so far. I was doing well, but more importantly, I wasn’t blowing it.

  It doesn’t take an all-star to realize this way of thinking was wrong, though, I’ll admit, I never really thought about much of what was going on in my mind until this year. I never thought about quitting before this year either. I needed some answers to big questions. Like, why did the Baseball Reaper show up to only my games, and how could I perform at my best if I was always afraid of the worst? What do you do when all the stars in the canopy of your baseball life turn out to be holes?

  I think I would like baseball better if it had superheroes in it. Coping with the game and its uncertainties would be so much easier if there were guys captaining teams who could bench-press trucks and freeze things with their breath. I could always look to their fearless example for inspiration and morale. They’d have all the answers, and if they didn’t, they could just look majestic until you forgot what you were asking. Unfortunately, baseball has no spandex-clad heroes. It does, however, have the next best thing: players with multiyear contracts. That would have to be enough.

  Just after the halfway point of spring training, Trevor Hoffman was scheduled to address the minor league pitching staff. Every year during spring training, a big-league pitcher who’s had a good amount of success comes over to talk shop with the minor league pitching horde about
what helped them. They talk about what they overcame to get to the golden shores of multifigure contract bigleaguerdom. In previous years, we’d talked with the likes of Rick Suttcliffe, Greg Maddux, and Jake Peavy. This year it was Hoffman’s turn, and I was thrilled.

  Despite the lack of merchandisable superpowers, Hoffman was one of my heroes in uniform. He was one of the few remaining players who had not fallen victim to the pitfalls of the sport via performance enhancers or media persecution. He was an icon in the game and someone I thought of as above and beyond the rest of us. If anyone had answers to deep questions and fears, surely it was him.

  Why I thought so highly of Hoffman is tough to explain. He had staggering success, but lots of players had that, and I didn’t care much about them. Money was another by-product of a sports star in his stratosphere, and, again, I wasn’t wowed by every player to bling his way onto a magazine cover. Recognition from an early age was a big part, but I never really followed baseball when I was young. I didn’t collect cards or memorize stats or dress up in the jersey of my favorite team and learn to cuss at bad plays with my dad. All the Little League teams I played on made fun of my sports neglect, as if my lack of baseball knowledge were an unforgivable sin, but I didn’t have time to hassle myself with icon worship. I didn’t like watching sports, and when I did, I turned the volume off so as not to be annoyed by announcers incessantly prattling on about how great they once were. I preferred to read comic books.

  I encountered Hoffman in the pages of ESPN The Magazine. Someone had stuffed a Spider-Man comic book into it on the bookshelf in the dentist’s office waiting room. The article was skillfully crafted, making Hoffman sound amazing, larger than life, as if he threw laser-guided fastballs and Jedi mind-trick-caliber changeups touted as the best in the game. I read how the stadium went super-freak when he entered in the ninth to the rockin’ sounds of AC/DC and how it was one of the most electrifying moments in sports. It was kickass stuff I had no idea baseball players could do. I thought they just argued about which wife had the cooler upgrades. In that article, Hoffman was like a superhero.