The Bullpen Gospels

by Dirk Hayhurst

  “That’s because it’s a diagram. It’s not to scale.”

  “What does scale mean?”

  I stopped there to let the crowd take it all in.

  “Lunchbox, what do you have to say for yourself?” the judges asked, not shocked at all after playing with him for a few months.

  “Hey, it’s not my fault. I’m not Mr. Science Nerd like Hayhurst is.” Everyone in attendance laughed, which made Lunchbox laugh as well, thinking he had won the room over. I wanted to point out to him that everyone was laughing at him. But I think Rob said it best when he said, “I’m going to take that as a guilty plea, but I’m going to waive the fine, since I don’t think it’s fair to fine him when life has already done it.”

  Soon after, the court session broke down into a storytelling free-for-all with random fines sprinkled in for spice. It was one of the first times the team, as a whole, communicated, laughed, and socialized. Then the doors of the clubhouse opened and in walked the Brass. Grady and Kevin Towers, or “KT,” the infamous general manager of the Padres, were in town to inspect the players and their progress. Having them here meant the eyes of the real Grim Reaper of baseball were on us.

  If there was one person to impress in the organization, one person superior to all others, it was KT. He spent almost all his time with the big-league team and rarely appeared in our part of reality.

  The room didn’t quiet down, but the jovial, relaxed tone began to escape as KT walked about the place, shaking hands with a few individuals, like Chase, and greeting others. He walked right past me as if I didn’t exist, and for all intents and purposes, I didn’t. I looked at Ox, whom he also didn’t bother to acknowledge, and said, “I have not spoken to that man one time in my entire career here.”

  “Don’t sweat it. He doesn’t talk to a lot of guys. I think I’ve met him once.”

  “I just don’t understand why he wouldn’t at least say hello or just point and say my name like Grady. I don’t think he even knows my name.”

  “You have to make guys in his situation know your name. It’s too easy for them to ignore you.”

  “What do you think I’ve been trying to do this year, Ox? I’ve tried to put up the best numbers I can.”

  “Numbers and reports are one thing, bub. There’s no substitute for firsthand impressions.” With that, Ox slapped me on the back and went off to punch Manrique. He was right though, there is no substitute for seeing someone get the job done firsthand. If I pitched well while KT was here, if I could make him remember my name, it could take my career from nonprospect to prospect.

  Chapter Forty-one

  From my perch in the pen, I searched the stands behind the backstop trying to pick out exactly where the king of the Brass was sitting. He had to be dead center, picking apart the game and all its little details, writing them down in notes to be used in the real-life fantasy draft of the Padres of the future.

  That night I got my turn to pitch, as I hoped I would. I clip-clopped down the steps of the bullpen and hit the right field grass on a jog heading in to finish the seventh. When I made it to the mound, I kicked some clay out from where my stride foot lands, licked my fingers, and smacked the rosin bag.

  My audition started out well. I K’d the first guy swinging. I felt pretty badass about it because I did it when it mattered with the right people watching. You can always say a pitcher is lucky when he gets hitters to mis-hit a ball, but there is no arguing that K’s are impressive. At least I felt impressive, which was a mistake because it went to my head.

  I tried to look elite on the mound, as if I could manufacture some ace-style mound presence. I hear about how big leaguers have a swagger to them, and I tried my best to produce it, even though I wasn’t sure what it was. I think I flexed my bicep while pretending to look at the ball.

  Knowing this was a big opportunity, I felt like I was on some baseball pageant, and instead of asking me about my personal interests in baking and world peace, they asked me to get hitters out, not let anyone score, and look pretty doing it. I gave up a single to one of the league’s hottest hitters, and I felt my tiara and scepter start to slip away, but recovered by popping the next hitter out. I escaped the inning, no runs scored.

  Escape was not what I wanted, however; I wanted impressive, stellar, and, above all, memorable. The Brass could write this inning up anyway they wanted, that I got lucky or that I made my pitches. I needed something unquestionably good.

  Randy sent me out for the next inning. I didn’t expect to return because I wasn’t the typical eighth-inning guy, but I was glad for another chance to prove myself. I trotted out to the mound like some purebred racehorse. When I finished my warm-up pitches, my catcher, a tall blond giant of a guy, walked out to me to discuss my sign preference for a runner on second. “Second sign, shake first?” he asked.

  “Yeah, that’s fine.” In spring training we do some other outs-plus-one-oriented bullcrap because the coaches demand it of us, but when game time rolls around, we do what’s easiest.

  “Okay,” he said, “this first guy has a real long swing. I think we can get in on him, so let’s start off there and work away.”

  “You’re the boss, Mort. Just tell me what you want and where,” I said, a tad cockily.

  “Okay, let’s go with your two seamer, then.”

  “Oh, you want Mr. Nasty then, huh?” I said, now fully cocky.

  “Mr. What?”

  “Mr. Nasty, the old bat eater.”

  “Uh…whatever.”

  “You got it baby.” I bobbed my head up and down.

  He flipped his mask back down over his skullcap, packed his mitt, and retreated to the dish. I dug in on the mound.

  Indeed, the first hitter was tall, long armed, and equipped with a formidable piece of lumber. He extended his hands out over the plate for a few mock swings—excellent plate coverage, as promised. Mort, squatting behind the dish with the umpire hovering over his back, flashed a single digit, then swirled it as if he was stirring coffee—a two seamer. I had no objections, nodded my head, and took my hand to the ball cradled in my glove.

  I wasn’t rushed to get ready to face this hitter; I wasn’t tired from the previous inning; and I wasn’t even working against arm fatigue. Everything was in my favor, as good as I could ask for. I had my best stuff in an optimal scenario, making for a perfect audition. This encore inning was my chance to impress. I wound, kicked, and snapped my best two seamer into flight, aiming to jam the hitter just as I did in the windswept plains in High Desert. The long-armed, jammable guy with the slow bat turned on my boring bat eater and crushed it well over the left field fence, over the railing that separated the parking lot from the field, and into the darkness of the world outside the game.

  I stood on the mound kicking dirt as Long Arms jogged around me, excited, party-themed music blaring over the stadium’s speakers. A volley of fireworks shot up and boomed above us, crackling back to earth in the night sky. Fans roared, some took the opportunity to scream out how much I suck. Mort stood behind the plate with his mask in one hand and a shrug on his shoulders. The umpire handed him a ball, which he tossed out to me about the time Long Arms crossed the plate and clapped hands with his compadres. As he walked into the dugout, I realized he was the guy standing next to Juice’s girl in the outfield during the previous day. I suddenly wished Juice had ripped his long, home-run-hitting arms off.

  One pitch, that’s all it was, and I told myself not to worry about it. Everyone gives up home runs, and a home run on the first pitch is a fluke, you know that. Recover and then focus on the next pitch, that’s the key, that’s what shows a true competitor. I tried to manufacture a stable bridge of internal propaganda to take me from a negative to a positive. I could strike out the side and look great now, maybe even better than I would have otherwise looked without the run, the dark stroke of a solo shot serving to bring out the bold, bright, punch outs I’d soon record.

  The next hitter singled to left; then I threw a wild pitch, grant
ing him second. Then I gave up a double and he scored. Goddamn it! I screamed internally. Suddenly, my inner arrogant voice was crucifying me. What the fuck are you doing? You are blowing this big chance! I scrambled around the mound, full of anxiety trying to pull out bad thoughts, but there were just too many of them. Just when I thought I’d could still salvage it, was too late.

  Randy called time out and made his way from the dugout to the mound, one hand extended to the bullpen. My night was over. I cast my eyes to the stands, in an attempt to search out what those great decision makers thought, hoping to read a face or an expression. KT chatted idly on his cell phone; Grady dragged a pen across a notebook. I could feel the words he penned, words I had no idea about but safely assumed as bad, branding me again. A whole year of numerical success was now a paragraph of doubt based on eyewitness failure.

  In a game of getting people to like you, I had missed a prime opportunity, and I cursed myself, and the game, and my luck, and whoever the hell else would listen as I made my way back into the dugout. I placed my glove down like a teacup, grabbed a drink, tried my best to breathe without letting the anger escape. I held myself together, though I could split the earth with my disgust.

  When the inning changed, Drew came in, patted me on the shoulder, and said, “Short memory, dude.” It’s something the best relievers have, but unfortunately, the Brass, who only see you pitch once or twice a year, do not.

  Chapter Forty-two

  I spent a lot of the night angry, frustrated, and paranoid about my career and what was being written about it. I felt it clear as day because for so much of the year I had let it go. Feeling its return was like being wrapped up in the nostalgic confines of a straitjacket. I blew a great opportunity, and I knew it. It stewed inside me, sickening me. I needed to get it out of my system, but I had no one to unload on. I learned a long time ago teammates don’t want to hear you whine. They have their own issues to deal with, and they know nothing, no words, no medicine will make the cold bite of failure heal faster. I think it’s one reason why so many players tip brews, to help relax, to help forget, to celebrate a better time, or to talk of the of ones to come.

  My mother was up. She worked nights and didn’t get off till after midnight. I could call her and talk about the issue. Who knows what she’d tell me, but it was better than talking to myself. I certainly didn’t have anything nice to say.

  Standing outside the Frisco hotel in the cool night air, I scrolled to her name in my cell phone, then dialed. The phone rang a couple of times before she picked up.

  “Hey, babe! Wow, what’s the date? I thought you’d lost our number,” she answered. The sound of late-night cable television dribbled in the background.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “What’s up? How are you?”

  I sighed. “I pitched like shit tonight.”

  “Oh, well, that sucks.”

  “Yeah, I did it in front of the Brass, the decision makers.”

  “Well, how bad was it?”

  “Home run, single, wild pitch, double, ’nother run. I didn’t even get an out.” I had already forgotten any positives.

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah…I’m terrible. It’s nights like tonight when I feel like I’m only ever going to be mediocre.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “I was reading online, and it said you were doing pretty well.”

  “Well I was, and I think I made the Brass take notice, but I had this opportunity to—”

  “Hey, can you hold on?” she interrupted. “Your brother wants the phone.”

  “What?” I said, slightly irritated at the mention of my brother and his demands.

  “Just hold on….” She put the phone to her chest, but I could hear muffled conversation between my brother and mother.

  “You know, just once I’d like to talk about something that’s going on in my world without him getting in the way,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if anyone was listening or if anyone ever did for that matter. It wouldn’t take much to promote me from irritated to pissed off.

  “Alright, hold on!” I heard her strain. Then to me, “Your brother wants to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. Stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “I can’t tell you; he has to do it.”

  “What am I, the principal?”

  “Just hear him, okay?”

  “Fine.” My mom transferred the phone to my brother.

  “Hey,” came his rough, tarry voice.

  “What do you want?”

  “Did Mom talk to you?”

  “She told me you wanted to speak to me, that’s all.”

  Some shifting of the phone, background noise fading away, a sound of a door opening and closing, and then the faint fuzzing of wind over the receiver. “Look, I uh…” He took a deep breath and started up again, “I’ve been going to some meetings, some AA meetings and…Well, I’ve been sober for a few months now and my sponsor told me I should call up the people I’ve hurt, you know, while I was drinking and apologize. He said it was part of the process.”

  “Apologize?”

  “Well, ask for their forgiveness.”

  I’ll admit, I’m afraid of my brother. I thought of him as a monster and talked to him only when I absolutely had to. I had my career goals, and he had whatever the hell he had, which I stopped caring about a long time ago when he decided the best way to resolve our differences was to get shit faced and beat the fuck out of me. I spent most of my formative years weathering the storms, picking up the pieces, watching him kill my father and frustrate my mother, and the last thing I thought about, right after dealing with my own failures, was forgiving him of his.

  “Look, Brak, I pitched like shit today, I don’t think I want to deal with this right now.”

  “Just hear me out, okay? I have to ask you because it’s part of the steps, for my sponsor.”

  I got a better grip on the phone. Then something deeper and meaner than breaking down on a ball field took hold of me. “Is that it?” I accused. “Is that your way of asking me to forgive you for all the shit you’ve put us through? A fucking phone call and somebody put me up to this BS?”

  “No, it’s not like that.”

  “Then, what’s it like?”

  “I’ve already talked to Mom and Dad, and I realize now that I’ve got a disease, Dirk. I’m an alcoholic.”

  “No shit.”

  “But I’m working on it. I’m getting help. I have a counselor and a sponsor and—”

  “And this sponsor is going to fix it? What about all the other law-mandated counseling you went to in between trips to the bar? What about the other help that was supposed to stop you from beating the hell out of us?”

  “This is different.”

  “Doesn’t feel different to me.”

  He sighed and labored to keep himself in check. I could tell I was frustrating him. I wanted to. I wanted him to explode. I wanted him to yell at me and turn into that monster I knew so well because I felt like one. I felt disgusting and broken, and I didn’t want to hold it back. I didn’t want to forgive, and I didn’t want to hear about it. I took plenty of blows from him, and it was his turn to take some of mine.

  “I expected you to be skeptical, I understand. I know I’ve hurt you and a lot of people.”

  “You know? You don’t know anything, Brak, I wanted to kill you. Seriously, I thought about it. I thought it through. I could claim self-defense and no one would bat an eye after all the trips the cops have made to our house because of you. I’ve lain awake hoping for you to wreck your car and die. That night you broke my head open and I had to lie to the police about it. That night you chased me around with a knife. When you grabbed the wheel of the car when I was trying to get you home and almost wrecked us. Every time I talk to Dad, every time I hear Mom yell, every time I think about home. You break and you destroy, and all we can do is try and hold it together.”

&nbs
p; “I know.”

  “No, you don’t!”

  “YES I DO!” he roared. “There were nights I wanted to be dead too! There were nights I wanted to kill myself, Dirk. Do you know what the fuck it’s like to feel like that? Of course you don’t. You think your fucking baseball struggles are everything in life, running from one side of the country to the next while I fuck up back at home. You’ve never known the shit I have. What’s the worst you’ve dealt with, huh? Make a bad pitch? Christ!”

  “The worst I’ve had to deal with is you, Brak.”

  “Great, then think of me the next time you pitch like shit. It should make you feel much better.”

  The phone sat silent for a minute while he collected himself. I had beaten him, but it did not satisfy as I hoped. “I know this is my own fault,” he said, somber, focused. “There are no excuses. That’s one of the first things AA teaches you, and it’s true. There are no excuses; you have to accept responsibility. I accept my actions, but you are part of this.”

  “How am I a part of this? I didn’t make you start drinking.”

  “Yeah, but you have the power to forgive me for it.”

  “Why should I? Because your sponsor needs me to do it so you can get your AA merit badge?”

  “Goddamn it Dirk…. No, not because of AA, but because I don’t want to struggle with this anymore. Because I’m tired of fucking up. I want to have control of my life again. I’m not good with words like you, but I’m asking you the best way I know. I need you to give me another chance.”

  “I don’t know if I feel convinced.”

  “It’s not all about you, Dirk! It’s not all about how you fucking feel! I may be a drunk, but at least I’m not an arrogant son of a bitch.”

  I had a strong notion to dismiss his words. Who was he to tell me anything, least of all what I was? Yet, as rough and tarry as his argument was, he was more right than I’d like to admit. The brotherly thing to do was forgive, even if it was messy, even if it didn’t feel good. But the way he so easily called me out as arrogant while touting this redemption of his pissed me off. He suddenly had an undeniable sense of direction. He knew what he wanted, where he stood, who he was. He accepted the circumstances, and he seemed stronger for it. I’d never heard him talk that way, or level any argument against me that wasn’t drunken gibberish. I felt jealous and spiteful. I wanted him to stay lost because I felt he deserved it. But here he was, found, and I could just hate him for it.