The Bullpen Gospels

by Dirk Hayhurst

  “Or what? What are they going to do? Trap me on a rancid tour bus and subject me to gay shower scenes? Send me back to A-ball? Hit me in the nuts with a line drive?”

  Another line drive came whizzing into the bullpen. I sidestepped it as it hit the dirt and one hopped into the fencing. “Hit fair, I’m trying to sleep, goddamn it!” I screamed at the hitter. Turning back to the pen, all the guys had moved back from me.

  “You’ve angered the baseball gods, Dirk,” Slappy said, pointing at me as if he were some type of witch doctor speaking on the behalf of his volcano god.

  “Maybe I should sacrifice you to appease them?”

  “You better do something,” he countered.

  “I’m not sitting by him. I’m going to end up dead,” Pickles said, genuinely concerned and picking up his seat to relocate.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Sleep with a fat chick, a slump buster.”

  “Like the chick that shut you down at the Diamond Club?”

  “Ha. Ha.” He gave me the finger.

  “Sorry, I can’t right now. I don’t think the coaches will let me leave the game for that.” I righted my chair and sat down again.

  “Besides, it won’t work,” Rosco said, matter of fact. “It only works for slumps, hence the name slump buster. Also, Hayhurst is pitching well right now, so—”

  “He won’t be anymore, not now that he’s pissed off the gods.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I said.

  “Well, you could play with a hangover,” Slappy said, still intent on the issue.

  “That won’t work either, since he’s not a starter,” Rosco said.

  “Why do these baseball gods require me to sleep with fat chicks or play wasted? Why not donate to charity or something?”

  “Obviously, because they’re baseball gods,” came the harmonious response.

  “Well, I don’t drink, and I’m waiting for marriage. The baseball gods are out of luck,” I said, flippantly. “I’m just going to have to wear it I guess, right?” I turned to face the field, but the silence behind me turned me back around. The bullpen was staring at me as if I walked into a party I wasn’t invited to and the record skipped.

  “Wait—you’re a virgin, Hayhurst?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “As in, you’ve never had sex?”

  “That would be the requirement of virginity.”

  “Holy shit!” Pickles blurted.

  “You’ve played five years of pro ball and never had sex…wow. Are you gay?” Slappy asked.

  “Come on!” I protested. “Just cuz I’m waiting for marriage, doesn’t mean I’m gay.”

  “Do you even look at porn?”

  “I’ve seen porn before.”

  “Like what kind? Like the hard-core stuff or just the soft, cuddly, no money shot kind.”

  I paused to sift through what I was just asked. “How did I get into this? How did we go from baseball gods to what brand of porn I look at?”

  “It’s important, uh…for the baseball gods.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Are you religious or something?” Slappy asked.

  “Baseball god religious or real religion religious?”

  “Real religion religious.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’ve looked at porn before?”

  I shrugged. “I’m only human. I’m definitely not the best example of—”

  “And you don’t drink.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Are you a Mormon?”

  “No, I’m not Mormon!”

  “Well then why don’t you drink?”

  “…”

  “Do you think there’s something wrong with people who drink?” All the guys currently on the team drank.

  “No, I don’t think it’s evil, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Well, what’s your reasoning?” Curious looks turned to suspicious ones.

  I shook my head and took a long look into the outfield. “The reason I’m waiting for marriage is because it’s something I believe in, and it’s spiritual for me.” I’d told this little tidbit with the foreknowledge the boys didn’t much care for my personal reasons as much as they wanted to know I didn’t think they were sinful bastards. Baseball players in our age group are a lot like the regular nonbaseball-playing-type guys; both like women and pursue sexual relations with them as often as possible. It wasn’t easy for me to hold out for as long as I had, and it made me the brunt of a lot of jokes, especially since the movie The 40-Year-Old Virgin came out.

  Your sex life is private if you want it to be, and I could always cite religion to make the skeptical questioning stop. The drinking thing, however, was a male-bonding ritual. Tossing back a brew with the crew was part of donning the uniform, and guys would frequently remind me that even Jesus put down a glass of wine now and then. The fact is, a lot of guys, baseball or otherwise, don’t feel comfortable around a guy who won’t throw one back occasionally. Baseball players and drinking go hand in hand.

  “The reason I don’t drink is because my brother is an alcoholic. He’s practically ruined my family’s life with his drinking.” The words hung for a second. “I hate him for it. As long as he drinks, I won’t. That’s my reason, and I don’t care what you think about it.”

  There was a moment of silence as the guys thought about the words.

  “So you’re saying you like whips-and-chain-style porn, then?”

  “You just never stop, do you?”

  “It’s a simple question!”

  We all laughed at Slappy’s persistence, which broke the tension. I smiled and turned back to the group. “Actually, I like the soft, cuddly, librarian kind.”

  “That’s what I thought! Totally suits you!” Slappy shouted. We all laughed again, especially Rosco, who kept on laughing long after the others. He laughed so hard and so long, it became obvious he was no longer laughing with us, but at something else.

  “What the hell crawled in your pants?” giggled up Stubbs.

  “Oh man, no offense, Hay, but you being a virgin reminded me of this retarded kid I know.”

  “Why is it people think if they say ‘no offense’ before a line, they feel they have the freedom to go ahead and be offensive?”

  “He was a virgin too, but, well, it’s just funny because if you could have met the guy.” He started laughing to himself again. “Oh boy, that guy,” he labored for breath as he cracked himself up. “This one time he crapped his pants and…the grape jelly…the tear gas,” then came more laughing. We stared in wonder. When he finally caught his breath, he looked at us soberly, wiped his tears of laughter away, and said, “Anyway, the point is, you’re a virgin and he’s not. Amazing really.”

  “Christ Rosco, are you going to explain this story or just laugh at yourself.” Slappy was obviously interested.

  “He probably met some other nice person with a handicap and they—” I began rationalizing but was interrupted.

  “No dude, she was hot.”

  “Well, hot for him, I’m sure,” I said dismissively.

  “No, hot for anybody.” At this, I stopped trying and buckled down.

  “Spit it out, Rosco,” Slap said.

  “Okay. His name was Carl, and he was a handicapped batboy we had on the team.”

  “What kind of handicap?”

  “I’m not a doctor. I don’t know if it was autism or what Rain Man had. Whatever. He was higher functioning, but not quite normal, you know?”

  “So like Slappy?” Maddog asked. Slappy offered the finger to Maddog.

  “Sorta. This kid’s problems were diagnosable.” Slappy offered the finger to Rosco.

  “So Carl was our batboy. Actually, he wasn’t really a boy, he was more like a batperson. He was older. Older than me at least, but he still acted like a kid.”

  “So he was a batman,” Stubbs said, giggling.

  “Sure,” Rosco said. “But he was a good guy, meant well, like everyone
’s little brother repeating what he saw us do or say. We’d hack on each other, so he’d hack on us, and it was fine, funny even. But he’d miss some of the finer points of how guys would bust each other’s balls. Sometimes, he’d go too far. Like telling a guy who just blew a save, ‘Nice job blowing the game, dumbass.’

  “He didn’t know any better. So when he messed up, instead of getting pissed, most of the guys would just tell him to fuck off or something.”

  “Wait, you told a retarded kid to fuck off?” I asked.

  “I never told him that,” Rosco said. “But that’s mostly because we never talked. He didn’t think I was cool and ignored me most of the time.”

  “So a retarded kid thought you weren’t cool.”

  “Man,” Rosco said, correcting him.

  “Sorry, a retarded man thought you weren’t cool.”

  “Correct.”

  “Okay, so he was like everyone else in that respect.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Got it. Continue.”

  “Anyway,” Rosco said, “when the stadium hired a cute new concession stand girl, Carl was the first to talk to her.”

  “Oh shit! He nailed the concession stand girl! Awesome! What did she look like?” This was Slappy, of course.

  “Relax Slap, let me tell the story. Carl followed the new girl around like a lost puppy, but he didn’t nail her.” Slappy deflated. “The girl was nice to him, but the kind of nice that doesn’t necessarily mean I like you back. You must be used to that, huh, Dirk?”

  “Religious preference, dude, just tell your story.”

  Rosco continued. “We all knew what was going on, but no one said anything, letting Carl make his own mistakes. Of course, the pretty, new girl liked the players more than Carl, but we all played dumb for Carl’s sake.

  “Then, in the middle of a losing streak, Carl did that thing where he said something dumb at the wrong time to the wrong player, and instead of ‘fuck off’ he was told, ‘Oh yea Carl, well I took your girl home last night and fucked her brains out. She says she hates you!’”

  “Oh boy. How did Carl take that?” Pickles asked.

  “He snapped. He charged the guy like a wild animal, flailing and punching and kicking. It was actually pretty noble, him defending his lady. Unfortunately, it ended with him getting stuffed headfirst in a trash can.”

  “Oh my God, that’s horrible!”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t our best moment,” Rosco said, shaking his head. “Carl took it bad too. Not the trash can thing, that had been done before, but the woman thing. We’d seen him upset, but this was like DEFCON 1. He didn’t talk to us for a while, didn’t even tell anyone to screw themselves like usual. Instead, he started writing up some kind of letter, like a last will and testament. He left it on the table of the clubhouse where the team could read it. It said something about how he was so sad he would die without ever knowing the love of a woman. It was pretty deep stuff.”

  “What did you guys do?” I asked.

  “Well, uh…” Rosco scratched the back of his head, clearly a little embarrassed. “We did the only logical thing a minor league baseball team could do to fix the problem. We bought him a hooker.”

  “You what?”

  “Oh, don’t act so shocked. You said you’d have sex with a three hundred pound dude if the Taliban put a gun in your face.”

  “First off, that’s because I’d have a gun in my face, and second, if I was sleeping with him, none of the other dudes would mess with me cuz he’d be my bitch. It was the smartest scenario.” The rest of the guys agreed. “I rest my case.”

  “Whatever makes you sleep at night. Anyway, the hooker wasn’t really a hooker, she was a call girl. She was higher class. We had to book her and stuff. At least that’s what I heard. Our dirtbag clubbie with supposed mafia connections said he would set up the whole thing for us, and we just needed to raise the cash. Before I knew it, the idea had legs, and guys were pitching in money for the Get Carl Laid Fund.

  “We ended up raising a decent amount,” Rosco said, rather surprised. “We passed the cash onto the clubbie, and he took care of the details.”

  “Does this clubbie still work in the minors?” Slappy asked. We ignored him.

  “The lady they booked turned out to be a real professional with a specialty in role playing. So, the guys scripted out how they wanted the whole thing to go down. They brought her to a game, got her tickets, and told her to hit on Carl the whole night as if she were in love. She was great, had Carl fumbling with his bat on and off the field.

  “After the game, she hung around and asked Carl out for a little postgame show. Carl didn’t have a place of his own, still living with his parents, and he didn’t know what to do. The clubbie thought of that. He arranged it so the two lovebirds could head back to his place.”

  “Why didn’t you get him a hotel room?”

  “We were on a budget.” Understanding nods all around. The minors were still the minors.

  “The girl took care of the rest,” Rosco continued. “She walked him through the entire process and rung his bell many times over.

  “The next day in the locker room, the guys came in early to discuss Carl’s night. When Carl came in, we met him with cheers and applause. Some guys got up and shook his hand, slapping him on the back. I’m surprised cigars weren’t handed out. Then we asked him the question everyone was dying to know, ‘So, how was it, buddy? Was she everything you wanted?’ To which he replied, as cool as ice: ‘Oh, she was okay, but the one the guys bought me last year was better.’”

  “No way—” the boys around Rosco said, mouths open, staring in disbelief.

  “Exactly. I could have dropped dead right then and there,” Rosco said.

  “Wow! You guys got took by a retarded kid,” Pickles blurted.

  “Man,” Rosco corrected.

  “Good, I’m glad you got took. Serves you guys right,” I said, my arms crossed like a nun.

  “Why are you so offended? I thought you’d be inspired! There’s hope for you!”

  “Hope that you guys will pitch in and buy me a hooker?”

  “I just had a great idea guys!” Slappy declared. He got up, walked behind me, and placed his hands on my shoulders. “I know a great cause we could use our quarter toss money for!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The bus home from Modesto was very much like the bus to it. We arrived early, near the crack of dawn, with a game looming hours away. I went home to my borrowed bed, slept late, went to stretch, and spent another night in the bullpen. The following day brought another game, then another, and another, and so on. Soon the days and nights began to blur together. Sometimes I pitched.

  When I did take the mound, I did great. I didn’t change my style and it wasn’t always amazing, but I was successful. I was confident. I didn’t worry about what happened once I let go of the ball. I didn’t see the Baseball Reaper anymore, and I didn’t fight myself. I was pitching the best I ever had in my four tours of the Cal League—far too well for any defeatist thoughts. The team was great, funny, entertaining. My host family was fantastic. I began to feel like a superhero again, as if I could do great things through my success.

  On the top of that list of deeds was swooping into my parents’ house. During this visit I imagined they would all be happy to see me. No one would be fighting or drinking or crying. We’d all talk about baseball and about how great it was that I was in the big leagues. I’d turn out my pockets, flush with cash, and we’d go out and get a new car and a new house and a new life. It was a good dream. Hell, I’d even buy grandma a new washing machine.

  One night, on an off day, I lay in bed thinking about that beautiful vision and the time line I was on to make it come true. I needed to move forward, and I began to wonder if I would or if I was too stale a product in the eyes of the Brass to escape from A-ball. Then, my cell phone rang. The Lake Elsinore trainer was calling.

  “Hey Will, how’s it going?” I asked.

 
“Hey Dirk, I’ve got some news for you.”

  I thought about the last trainer who called me with news. “Am I going to like this news?”

  “You should, you’re heading up to Double-A. Congratulations! You earned it. Your flight leaves tomorrow, so you need to come in and get your bags and your medical folder.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Yeah, I know it’s sudden, but you know how it is. The team’s in Corpus Christi right now, part of an eight-day road trip. I’ll give you the rest of the details when you pick up your stuff. I’ll meet you at the field.”

  “Holy shit. What time?” I sprung out of bed.

  “In an hour. Can you make it?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Cool, see you then, and congratulations.”

  And as I closed the cell phone, I also closed my time in A-ball. In a matter of eight hours, I would be gone. I would disappear from Lake Elsinore, leaving all my friends behind without so much as a good-bye. I thanked my host family, packed my bags, and caught a plane early in the morning to a new team in a new town with a whole new set of circumstances.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  In the cab, riding from the airport to the field in Corpus Christi I decided to call my parents and tell them the good news—the first call home I made since my assignment to Lake Elsinore. Like any job, getting promoted is a good excuse to call family and boast. I was excited.

  I rang the newly replaced house phone. My dad, much to my surprise, picked up with a tired “Ya?”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hey.”

  “How’s it goin’?”

  “It’s goin’.”

  “Is Mom around?”

  “Who knows.”

  “Well, I got some good news. I got called back up to Double-A.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah, I’m on my way there now. Good news, huh?”

  “I thought you were gonna quit,” he said, in a queer, almost disappointed way.

  “Yeah, me too, but I’m back on track now.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said hollowly.

  One little note of excitement was all I wanted, but my words seemed to tumble into him like a deep, empty well.