Out of My League

by Dirk Hayhurst

  “That’s not a suit,” I said, looking at him.

  “It’s dress clothes,” said Chip. “For people with style.”

  “Oh,” I said, taking in his style. He looked like he was going to lead a revival at a Southern fish fry. I turned my eyes to the shoes he gave me.

  “What?” he asked, looking at me looking at his shoes.

  “These are ...”

  “Careful, now.” Chip eyed me.

  “These are awesome,” I finished.

  “For sure they are. You gonna look like a pimp in those,” he said, as if the shoes had made the outfit go from Cinderella’s maid dress to the belle of the ball. I smiled at his enthusiasm, then looked to the shoes and wondered if he meant the usage of pimp in the literal or slang sense of the word.

  “Thanks,” I said. “They fit well, like they were made for me.”

  “Use ’em for however long you need.”

  Luke’s door opened. He walked out in front of us with a pile of clothes in his hands and a scowl on his face, not bothering to say hello as he marched to the bathroom. I’m not exaggerating when I say that exactly one minute later the toilet flushed and the door swung open, revealing a perfectly dressed Luke, as if he were just taken out of his Republican action figure packaging.

  “Damn.” Chip looked at me, then back to Luke. “How’d you do that?”

  “Do what?” asked Luke.

  With no ride to the stadium, we pulled our rolling suitcases behind us all the way down Burnside Street, piercing the silent night with the sound of plastic wheels grinding over concrete and blacktop. As we got closer to the stadium, other street-walking players in their dress clothes joined us, heading the same way. Our ranks grew as we neared the park, a whole legion of curfew-violating, well-dressed, luggage-toting, twentysomethings staging a Jets versus Sharks–style choreographed dance fight in front of PGE Park. Shortly after, a bus arrived, collected us, and took us back to the Portland airport.

  Flying was a real perk, or at least it seemed like one on paper. If you did the math, however, you’d realize you missed just as much sleep, if not more, doing the minor league airport shuffle. Players tend to compare travel times by how long they are in the actual vehicle. A three-hour plane ride is obviously shorter than a twelve-hour bus trip, but this says nothing of the layovers, security check-ins, baggage claims, and all the other bullshit that it takes to get a group of thirty men—some of whom don’t speak English—trying to check bats and talking about “blowing up chicks,” onto a plane in the post-9/11 era. By the time our plane skidded in to Salt Lake’s airport, we felt like we’d been profiled as deviants, robbed by luggage fees, fed complimentary pretzels, and fired out of a cannon. Hurray for flying.

  Standing at the luggage carousel, guys placed bets on whose bags would slide down the chute first. Our trainer acted like a bookie, holding the money until the luggage popped out. Hamp won. Instead of apologizing to everyone complaining about how he was a lucky bastard, he gloated, telling them they’d just funded his next trip to the strip club. Then, just to rub it in, he promised to waste the money on an ugly girl.

  There was no bus to pick us up outside the Salt Lake City terminal. We were staying at the Sheraton City Centre, and it sent a shuttle to collect us. There weren’t enough seats for everyone, so some had to stay behind. Who stayed was decided like all short supply items in baseball are decided, by who had the most service time, meaning I lost. It turned out that even if I would’ve made the first shuttle cut, I would have had to do some waiting because my room wasn’t ready when I arrived. While everyone else was foraging for breakfast or catching a power nap before heading to the ballpark, I was stuck with my roommate, Matt Antonelli, in the lobby.

  Players are given the option to select a road roomie at the beginning of the year, and I picked Anto because he was about as easygoing as they got. Usually pitchers room with pitchers since we operate on a similar wavelength, but after years of road roomies, I knew that Anto, a position player, had the makings of an all-star travel companion. Anto had the personality of a big, friendly dog. He liked being around people, but also liked lying on his bed. He loved to play a good game of ball, and then get fed. For Anto, life was very simple; as long as you didn’t pull his ears, he’d be your best friend.

  Anto had a few peculiarities. For one, healthy food was like poison to him. He couldn’t consume plant life, or anything that consisted of less than 50 percent fat calories. In fact, the longer the nuclear half-life of his meals, the more he liked them. I’ve seen him turn his nose at seafood spreads furnished by big league rehabbers only to run to McDonalds for a Quarter Pounder. The man could eat Styrofoam as long as you covered it in hot sauce.

  Anto was also a Bostonian, which made him partial to certain words, like friggin’ and retarded, which he pronounced “retahhhdid.” Used in a sentence it would sound like, “That’s retahhhdid, it’s friggin’ one in the afternoon! Rooms should be ready by one in the afternoon.”

  “That’s just the tiredness talking. This is a nice place, you’ll like it.”

  “I’d like it more if they had cookies in the lobby. I’m stahhhv-ing.”

  “I’m sure the rooms will be ready soon. We gotta wait.”

  And so we did. Boredom made me run through the names on my cell phone. Anto texted his female counterpart on the other side of the country between pouts of friggin’ disgust. Muzak played; I think it was supposed to be the Police, with Sting’s vocals replaced by the splashy sounds of a tenor saxophone. Two hours from now the first shuttle would leave to take us to the field for batting practice.

  “I hate this friggin’ town,” said Anto, clapping his cell phone shut. This was odd-hour anger speaking. A mixture of duress and fatigue compounded by the anticipation of expectation. He would have to start tonight, operating on hours of sleep you could count on one hand.

  “It’s not the town’s fault.”

  Anto sighed again. He made for his travel bag housing his laptop. “Do they have free Internet, at least?”

  “No, you have to pay for it. That’s how you know it’s a nice place: they make you pay for everything,” I said cooly.

  He dropped his bag back to the floor and slumped back in his seat. “This is friggin’ retahhhdid! I’ll bet the Red Roof doesn’t charge us for Internet and we would have our rooms ready by now. I really hate this friggin’ town.”

  “I can’t begin to tell you how tough you sound when you use the word friggin’ over and over like that. I’ll bet if you drop a few of those angry friggin’s on the people at the front desk, they’ll work faster.”

  He stared at me for a second and then said, “Shaddup.”

  I waved my hands dismissively and turned away. We continued our sit in, listening to the faux Police send their message in a bottle. My roomie mashed the buttons on his cell phone with fury, probably explaining his frustrations one text at a time. I got up and paced the lobby, amusing myself by trying to step on certain colored tiles but not others. I had picked my way across to the front door when a horde of large, beefy gentlemen came in. They filled the lobby, wide shoulders and boxy frames housing deep voices.

  I recognized them to be a team, as they had all the characteristics of my traveling companions except they were much, much larger. Indeed, they were football players, the Chicago Rush arena team logo was marked on their luggage. What are the odds a Triple A team and an arena football team would take in the same hotel? I wondered. Salt Lake City was offering a lot of sports entertainment options this weekend.

  The footballers joked about like my team did as they waited for their room keys to be distributed. Then they dispersed from the lobby en route to their rooms. My roommate and I remained, still no word as to how long it would be until our room was ready.

  Shortly after the football team passed through, two more large men walked in; they looked very much like bodybuilders. At first, I thought they might be stragglers with the football team, but something was different about this pair: t
hey were both wearing tiaras and holding hands. They strolled up to the counter and, in high, hair-stylist voices, inquired on their rooms. Theirs were ready. The deskman passed them their keys, they giggled, smooched, and headed toward the elevator.

  I tried to act cosmopolitan. I didn’t stare. Besides, they were bigger than me. My roommate did, though. He watched them sashay their way to the elevator doors and goose each other in. He watched them until the doors closed. The look on his face would make you think they just went through the doors of the Twilight Zone. He gawked back at me, across the lobby.

  I smirked, and offered him a shrug. What else could I do? “That’s something you don’t see every day, huh?” I said to the deskman.

  “Not every day. But you’ll be seeing a lot of it this weekend,” he said back, matter-of-factly.

  “Why’s that?” I inquired.

  “There is a transvestite convention going on here these next few days.”

  The record skipped. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “There is a transvestite convention, going on here, until Monday. Sir.”

  “Oh.”

  On cue, a gentleman walked through the lobby doors wearing super-tight jeans, a rhinestone V-neck, and a pair of heels. His toenails were done in a bright cherry red. He had large sunglasses on, and more than a touch of mascara. He had fake eyelashes and a mole and was carrying a mannequin head with a wig on it.

  This time I stared. I mean, stuck to the ground like a lawn ornament stared. This new guy, or girl, or whatever, walked past me on the way to the desk but stopped to take note of my staring. He/ she cocked his/her hip out to the side, adjusted his/her sunglasses down a tick, and peered over their rim. “See something you like, honey?”

  “Um,” I said, voice cracking like a schoolboy’s, “no, ma’am.”

  “Well,” he/she paused and looked me up and down, “I see something I like.”

  “Oh Jesus,” I blurted.

  I spun away like I had to answer my phone, or mother, or the voices in my head—anything to break eye contact. He/she didn’t give chase, simply snorting at my cold shoulder like I was missing out on something fantastic. He/she then proceeded to the front desk, checked in, and went on his/her way, wig and all.

  I glanced to Anto, who looked as if he’d lost his mind from the experience, mouthing the words, “I hate this town, I hate this friggin’ town!”

  I came back up to the front desk, looked the deskman in the eye, and in my toughest, tough-guy voice said, “You have got to get us our friggin’ room ready now!”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll just give you the keys and you can head up. I’m sure she’ll finish with you in the room.” He got the keys and slid them to us.

  We made a beeline for the elevator. When the doors opened, Chip and Luke were standing there. We pushed past them, forcing our way into the elevator before they could exit.

  “Hey man, what’s the rush?” said Chip.

  “Oh Chip,” I said patting him on the shoulders, “are you ever going to hit well this series.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Salt Lake City was Mormon country. Regardless of your views on the Mormon faith, there is one thing baseball players accept as fact: Mormon chicks are hot. I don’t know what it is about them, but they are the closest thing to Scandinavian women that America has to offer. Blond, buxom, and, because their faith demands it, they are oh so sweet to gentlemen.

  Because the bullpens in Salt Lake City are exposed down the foul lines, they provided open views of the field and its surroundings. This is a fantastic perk since Salt Lake’s stadium is one of the most eye-pleasing places to watch a game in baseball. Your ticket buys you breathtaking views of the snowcapped mountains behind the stadium, as well as views of the blond-capped ones within it.

  Thanks to the warmer weather, we weren’t the only ones taking off our coats. Beautiful, and assumed Mormon, ladies flitted into the stands, sitting in giggly packs, waving at us when we looked their way. Naturally, Dallas was the first to notice the local demographic. He stared into the mass of blondes like a dog might watch his master eat at the dinner table. Lord knows what was running through his head, something starring Ron Jeremy as the leader of a polygamous compound, no doubt.

  Two women came down and sat a few rows from where we were. Dallas was glued to them. They wore skintight black shirts, pumps, bangles, and had their hair done up. The women were older, maybe scraping forty. They watched the boys on the field, yakking away, swinging their giant purses around like hammers. Then, suddenly, like spooked deer, they caught sight of us training our rifles on them.

  “Why are they frowning?” asked Fish.

  Before I could answer, Dallas was talking. “’Cause they think we’re being rude. Fuck, this pair should be happy someone’s looking at them.”

  Yet, instead of running, the girls’ heads pulled back and shook as if they were talking about how inappropriate we were, and yet they stared right back at us.

  “Mmm-hmm. That’s just for show,” said Bentley, sighing before looking someplace else in the stands. “Those girls are the worst variety of cleat chasers.”

  “There is a variety?” I asked.

  “Of course, but you already know them,” he said, dismissing my question. I continued staring at him to indicate I did not know.

  “Hayhurst is a virgin,” said Ox, like I had some condition explaining why I was so naïve.

  “Oh. How quaint,” said Bentley.

  “Not for much longer, though,” I said, proudly.

  “Wonderful. At any rate”—Bentley cleared his throat, using his fingers to count—“you’ve got your whores, those are the ones who don’t care if people know they want to land a player. They often look like prostitutes. You see them outside locker rooms mostly. They really like the Latin guys for some reason.”

  “The insiders,” said Ox. “They work for a team. Tell you they love baseball and are in it for professional reasons, but they’ll screw anyone on the team if the situation presents itself. Ha, I would know.”

  “The trophies,” said Bentley. “You see more of these at the big league level. They go all-out to land a player. They’re like big game hunters. They study you, what you like, and so forth. Then, once they end up with you, they let you foot the bill. They act stupid, but they’re smart. And they’ll trade you in for a better deal too.”

  “Horny host moms,” said Ox. “I shouldn’t have to explain that one.”

  “Princess Lay-mes.”

  “What?” I balked at that title.

  “Princess Lay-mes,” repeated Bentley. “They show up to the park, overdressed, but not slutty. They want attention, but act like they don’t. They’re a contradiction.”

  “Like these ladies here?” We looked back to the cougars a few rows in.

  “Yes, except they’re also cougars.”

  “So, Queen Lay-mes,” I said, impressed at my wittiness.

  “Very clever.” Bentley nodded to me. “But it’s all an act.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Certainly. Look at them,” said Bentley, and we all turned back to the women, who, again cocked their giant earring-wearing heads to the side as if to telegraph offense. “They go through this routine of being offended by obvious interest, so they can somehow preserve a shred of respectability, though they all want the same thing.”

  “What are you all staring at?” shouted the women, heads cocked skeptically.

  “Observe,” Bentley whispered to us. Then, to the ladies, “The girls behind you.”

  The cougars jerked ’round to inspect who Bentley referenced. Younger models sat there, completely oblivious to Bentley’s call. When the cougars noticed they were once again competing with youth, they seemed more offended than anything our gawking could have incited.

  “Could you get their attention for us?” added Bentley. “They’re closer to our age and we’re only in town for a little while.”

  “Hey now, we aren’t as old as yo
u think we are,” said one of the women.

  “See,” said Bentley, folding his arms over his chest. “In Triple A, age isn’t just a factor for the players.”

  “Yeah, and the best thing about cheating with an older chick is that your wife can’t get jealous,” said Dallas, trying to look cool like Bentley, folding his arms over his chest after he spoke.

  Everyone’s eyes left the girls and turned to Dallas.

  “Jesus, Dallas, what the hell kind of comment is that?”

  “What? Your wife can’t get all hurt about it because an older woman is uglier and shit. You know, she can’t feel bad about herself not being good enough, like she would with a younger girl. You know how girls can be.”

  “Do you even hear the things you say?” said Ox.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “How busted up a chick you bang when you’re married isn’t the point. You’re married, you shouldn’t be banging any other chicks, period.”

  Dallas looked at everyone in the group. An uneasy smile grew across his face. “Come on now, I’m just fucking with you guys. Jesus, every time I say something about girls, you guys freak out. It’s like you all turn into Gayhurst here.” He laughed to himself, despite the thick wall of bullshit looks surrounding him. “I think it’s fucking hilarious. You guys are too easy.” Dallas got up and walked over to the stands to start up a “harmless” conversation. We all watched him go, shaking our heads.

  “So, Dirk, any of this made you consider a prenup?” asked Bentley.

  I shook my head. “Nah.”

  “Are you sure? It’s not as insulting as it—”

  “I’m not getting divorced,” I said, flatly.

  “Of course, of course,” said Bentley, appeasingly. “Though, if you do make it to the big leagues, remember, you’re not the only person who makes it to the Show. Your wife can change too. It’s funny how it works up there.”

  “What do you mean?

  “I’d hate to see you in a situation like Dallas, that’s all.”

  “Honestly Bent, I don’t think that is ever going to happen.”