Out of My League

by Dirk Hayhurst

  We lost the game, dropping our record to 48 wins and 82 losses. It was our last day in San Fran, a getaway day, and everyone was in a hurry to shower, feed, and get dressed for our team flight. While the rules of life on the baseball field were constant between Triple A and the Bigs, the rules off of it were vastly different, and my initiation into them began with the words, “Get Hayhurst to do it.”

  I literally had my pants down when this comment was made as I was changing into my Goodwill special. I looked around to see what exactly I was supposed to be doing as I didn’t want to screw up and incur the wrath that came with it. “Do what? What am I doing?” I asked.

  “Beer bag,” said Sean Kazmar. Sean, or “Kaz,” was a former teammate of mine, and a fellow player under the representation of my agent. He was called up from Double A to play shortstop rather serendipitously, as every other shortstop in front of him for promotion got hurt. I had more time than him at every level in the minors, including signing a year ahead of him. But now that he had arrived in the Bigs before me, he was my boss.

  “Do I ask the clubby for it? Is it like a princess backpack for beer or something?” I asked, thinking of the sissy pink bag guys in the pen usually got saddled with to playfully mark their low standing. I was actually excited at the thought of carrying something like that as a rite of passage.

  “No, nothing like that,” said Kaz. “Just get a garbage bag, make sure it’s a black one so fans can’t see what you’re carrying, and fill it with beer and ice.”

  “How many beers should I get?”

  “About ten to fifteen.”

  “What kind?”

  “A good even mix.”

  “Are you getting one too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many other guys are getting beer bags?” I asked this so I could have some kind of semblance of where I was in the pecking order. I knew I was at the bottom, that was obvious, but knowing who the other low men were could help me know who I should shadow.

  “It doesn’t matter who else is getting bags. Just make sure you have one so you don’t look like you’re not doing your job.”

  It turned out that the beer bag was just the beginning of big league travel experiences. Instead of taking one bus to the airport, we took two: one for the coaches and staff, and one for the players. There were seating rules for players, of course. Players with the most service time got to sit where they wanted at the expense of everyone younger than them. However, unlike the minors, where coaches rode the bus with players, older players did not sit in the back to avoid the coaches. On the big league bus, older players sat up front. This allowed them to be the first ones off the bus when it got to wherever it was going.

  Everyone who was not at the top of the heap in service time trickled to the rear of the bus, picking up seats like scavengers. Rookies were expected to double up; they were also expected to wait for their veteran counterparts to find a seat they liked before sitting themselves.

  I stood until everyone was seated, then took my place next to another young guy, which wouldn’t have been so bad were it not for the two bloated bags of beer we had between us. We weren’t safe yet, however, because when the bus started rolling, my seatmate and I were called into bartender service. The responsibility of the person carrying the beer bag is to vend the brews within it to whoever wants one. If an older guy barks out a request for a Corona, it was my job to dig through the bag and locate one for him. If I didn’t have the requested beer, I had to conference with other rookies who might have one on tap. Once I found it, I played waiter, taking the brew to the person who requested it.

  “Aren’t you going to open that for me?” asked Hamp.

  “Sorry,” I said, staring down at the bottle. Considering how many people were drinking on the bus, it was ironic to discover that a bottle opener was an afterthought. I had to crack the cap by using a hook on a seat back.

  “Here you go, this Bud’s for you,” I said, handing it to him.

  “I asked for a Coors.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Jesus, Hayhurst, you got one job to do, figure it the fuck out, rookie.”

  The buses drove past the airport entrance but no one seemed to care. It traveled past the exit, the rows of no-trespassing signs, and onto some obscure service entrance where normal humans would be incarcerated for even thinking of driving there. Sure enough, a security vehicle, lights pulsing, intercepted us, but not to stop us. Rather, the vehicle escorted us onto the tarmac. Gates that never opened swung wide upon our approach. We drove past planes and the passengers who boarded them. We drove past tractors pulling luggage and fuel tanks. Jets took off beside us and still we drove, out to a lone plane parked in an obscure area I never knew airports had until today.

  When the bus came to a stop, I watched the other rookies. None of them stood. Heads down, they minded their own business until every veteran leisurely rose and exited. Some of those veterans yakked away as they went, expensive cell phones pressed against expensive sunglasses crowning expensive haircuts, all of it wrapped up in expensive suits that screamed seven-figure contracts. Others sprang up with headphones cast around their necks, bumping out tunes as they drained the last of their rookie-fetched beers, stuffing the empty bottles in the crevices of the bus seats, and exited, designer luggage trolling behind them.

  Next, we rookies stood. We grabbed our battered luggage and hoisted up our assigned garbage bags full of ice and beer, then followed after our lords and masters. Stepping off the bus, we formed the tail of players lining up in front of the plane. A security screening task force met us at the steps of our jet, where we were cordially asked to sit down in chairs set up specifically for us outside the plane, and kick our feet up so we might be comfortably wanded. When it was my turn, I set my travel bag down to be casually searched, then placed my twenty-pound bag of ice-cold beer next to it. I expected it to be confiscated, and me possibly arrested; after all, you can’t board a commercial plane anywhere in the country with a container housing more liquid than a shot of espresso. The security force paid no mind to the beer or the puddle forming beneath it, however, and asked me to please flip my belt buckle over, wished me good day, then released me to the plane.

  My God, what a glorious thing it was. Polished wood trim, cavernous leather seats, and beautiful stewardesses—I’d never been on such a nice form of transportation in my life. Just inside the cabin’s entrance was a veritable buffet of food laid out for our fancy. Players mulled over plates of crab legs, quesadillas, fruit, cheese, nuts, chips, cookies, sandwiches, gum, peanut butter and jelly, vegetable plates and dips, pretzels, crackers, little meats stuck with toothpicks, trays of cold cuts, and even plastic cups of wine—both red and white. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Truly, it was ambrosia, for we traveled like gods. Of course, I dared not touch any of it with my defiled rookie hands, lest I be cast out of the plane into some dark, cold place where there was much weeping and gnashing of crab leg–deprived teeth. I’d probably be stuffed in the luggage compartment or strapped to the wing.

  I pressed down the aisle of the plane with no idea where I was headed, and when I arrived in the back, I was promptly commanded to turn around and retreat to another area, “where rookies belong.” No one bothered to tell me where exactly that area was, but before I could locate it, I was stopped and ordered to fetch a fruit plate for one of the veterans, grab a Coors Light for another, and make sure the other rookies I passed during my quest were obediently doing their jobs with equal euphoric gratitude.

  A stewardess asked me if she could take my bag of beer, which I had been dragging with me since entering, dribbling water up and down the aisle. After I found a Coors Light, I allowed her, yet when she grabbed the plastic garbage bag my hand instinctively clamped hold. Was I allowed to let her take the bag? Would I be breaking some unsaid rule if I did not? That garbage bag of beer was my sacred responsibility after all. It was my cross to bear, and I did so with pride. She assured me it was okay, I wasn’t the first person
she’d taken a beer bag from, and wrenched it from my white knuckles saying, “We’ll take care of it from here.” Then she stopped, and in an apologetic tone, said, “Unless you plan on drinking it all yourself.” Was it common for big leaguers to bring garbage bags of beer on a plane? Well, yes, I guess it was since two other rookies brought bags as well and this stewardess was no beer bag virgin. But drink it all ourselves? I gave her the bag immediately before someone older could command me to start chugging.

  Done playing waiter, I stood awkwardly in the aisle, wondering where in the hell I was allowed to sit. Of course, no one wanted a seatmate, even though the seats on this plane were larger, more comfortable, and possessing more legroom than those found in the elitist realms of first-class commercial cabins. In fact, they were so nice a player could sit next to another and hardly notice his presence unless he was sitting at one of the chairs built around tables where, presently, poker was flourishing with hundred-dollar bills and stacks of colored chips. I would have sat in the bathroom or simply stood the entire time if Bentley had not offered me a seat next to him.

  Bentley sat in the back, from where I had just been just ejected, one seat in front of Trevor Hoffman, the lord of the Padres himself. Jilly, who I was warned could be naked at any moment, was also there, and across from Bentley was right-handed boy wonder and consummate media darling Jake Peavy. It was hallowed ground and my rookie instincts screamed out to run, but Bentley offered and I dared not refuse him. A month ago, Bentley was in Triple A with me. We spent our time throwing peanut M&M’s at people in the beer garden. Now I was a rookie while he was just another god in the pantheon.

  The cabin doors closed. Hoffman plugged in a traveling Bose speaker system and connected it to his iPod. Soon, the back of the plane was a concert hall. Classic rock banged away as Hoffman slouched leisurely, observing the actions of his team when not scrolling through his exhaustive music collection.

  A new stewardess came and asked everyone in my area if they wanted drinks for takeoff. She hit all the veterans, then looked to me.

  “And for you, sir? Anything to drink?”

  I blanked. A simple question like that and I blanked. I could feel that sense of hyperawareness strike me again. The pause while I searched for words stretched painfully long, and I could feel the eyes of all the big names surrounding me, piercing me, waiting to hear what I would request. Ironically, I could say anything I wanted, the plane was stocked with a cornucopia of beverages, but every decision seemed to carry a chain of events and assumptions connected to rookie behavior. I felt as if I hadn’t earned the right to ask or do anything, and yet by being there I had earned the right to ask and do anything I wanted.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I forced out.

  “I’ll have red wine,” Bentley said. “You should have some too, Dirk. You like red wine, right?” He said it in that anybody-who’s-anybody-drinks-red-wine kind of way.

  I hate red wine. “Yeah, I love it.” I beamed.

  “He’ll have some red wine, too,” Bentley said. Then, turning back to me, “I don’t think there is anything better than a nice glass of red wine after a game to help you relax.”

  “Totally,” I said. Yes, there is nothing like a nice flight in a luxury jet stuffed with crab legs, on-demand bottle service, and $500 poker buy-ins to make a guy fresh out of poverty feel relaxed. I’m right at home now that I have that glass of red wine.

  When the plane started moving and Hoffman switched the song blaring from his Bose mini-system to “Arms Wide Open” by Creed, an undeniable feeling of “fuck yeah” washed over me. I felt like I was really part of something when I heard it, some inner circle. My God, I thought, I’m on a big league jet! I’m floating in the heavens with the rest of the gods of red-blooded children’s dreams. I stared out the window and could feel greatness take hold of me like the g-forces that threw me back in my luxury seat. I looked down upon the masses from my flying chariot’s window. I was supreme among men. I was a big leaguer nervously sipping crappy red wine from a plastic cup! Behold my greatness ye mortals, and cower!

  I had a quick vision of myself in my hometown, strutting down the street like I was in a Bee Gees video. Childhood enemies were blinded when they looked upon me; women were struck dumb, ensnared by my aura. Children ran to me, but a cop with gentle eyes and an Irish accent shooed them away saying, “Run along now, children. Mr. Hayhurst has important business to tend to. Top of the morning to you, Mr. Hayhurst.” He’d tip his cap and I’d continue walking, walking right into the sunset, where dreams fluttered ’round like little butterflies.

  After a few minutes of daydreaming, I turned back to the plane, where my butterflies fried and exploded on a naked Jilly. While I was frolicking among my manifest greatness, he had stripped down, jammed one of the tiny airplane pillows onto his head, and tied a blanket around his neck like a cape. He looked like a naked bishop with a can of Bud Light as a scepter.

  “You gotta take this fucking game serious, boys! Take this shit serious!” he declared. Then, up and down the aisle he ran, bellowing, “This is a serious fucking game and you have to have a serious approach. I’m tired of all this fucking around. We’re better than this!” He put a leg up on the armrest of one of the other rookies’ chairs so that his bagpipe was dangling ominously before said rookie’s face. “I’m just tired of us dicking around. We are better than this, and I believe that! Lotta season left, boys, but we have to fucking want it!” He did a bit of dynamic stretching as he spoke, creating a swinging motion, which, in turn, created a rocking motion between the rookie’s face and the object it was trying to avoid.

  Jilly took his foot down and resumed pacing the aisles, eventually making his way back to me. Thank God I was in the window seat. “How about you, Hayhurst? You take this shit seriously?” he asked, hands on naked hips. I felt strange for retaining this detail, but his entire body was tan and shaven, and when I say entire body, I mean entire body.

  I stared at him, my plastic cup of hardly touched red wine in hand, wearing my wrinkled suit from Goodwill that smelled like dead old people. I had just carried a garbage bag full of beer past federal agents and witnessed a grown man wearing a blanket as a cape nearly tea bag another man. I said the only thing I could think of: “Your penis is tan.”

  “What?”

  “Oh God, I take this shit very serious, sir, very serious.” I slammed the glass of wine.

  “Good!” Jilly roared. “Good, because we don’t want guys up here who are just going to fuck around.”

  I nodded. “No sir, no, we don’t.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  A stewardess brought me a fresh garbage bag of beer cans after the plane landed in San Diego. Again, those with the least service time stayed seated until the vets deplaned. Upon their exit, I gathered up my stuff and followed them out and onto another set of buses that parked on the tarmac for our convenience.

  The buses took us to Petco Park, the great cathedral of San Diego baseball I’d been trying to get into since I first signed my contract. I had actually been inside its hallowed walls once before, back when I was playing for the Lake Elsinore Storm. It was meant as a treat for us minor leaguers, though the experience wasn’t quite the same as being a big league resident. The Storm was not permitted in the big league locker room; we changed inside an auxiliary dressing room that was smaller than some of the smallest minor league lockers. There were rules about unnecessary activity on the grass, rules about what mound to use in the bullpen, and rules concerning where we could watch the game. We were given minor league meal money for the day since, technically, it was an away game, but it didn’t go far. Concessions in Petco Park were nearly ten dollars for a slice of cheese pizza and a small drink.

  Even so, it was an amazing experience. The stadium was gorgeous and the crew at Petco put our names up on its gargantuan display board. The bright lights, the manicured turf, and cavernous seating, it was the genuine article, the perfect place to fantasize about what could be if everyth
ing came together. I didn’t get to play on the field that day, a stroke of bad luck that left a thorn in my side for years. But—I smiled to myself as we circled the stadium—in five days I would be the genuine article as I took the mound to start against the Rockies.

  The buses stopped in front of the players’ and staff entrance to wait for the gates to open. There, just beyond the entrance, was a group of people: super fans. They waved at us, homemade poster board signs held over their heads, clapping and hopping up and down. They all wore Padres-logoed paraphernalia. Some, mostly the ladies, went overboard with Padres’ earrings and visors with twenty or so pins stuck in the bills. There were lawn chairs next to them, indicating they’d been hanging around the place for quite some time, anxiously awaiting our return.

  For some reason, I connected the size of the crowd to our win-loss record. I imagined the Yankees had larger crowds; maybe some of them were women, clad in bikinis, waving signs that said something more provocative than “Keep your chins up!”