Out of My League

by Dirk Hayhurst

  “What the fuck is wrong with these people?” came a reply from one of the older guys on the team, staring out the window at them, smiling and waving despite his commentary. “Get a life!” he said with the same happy-to-see-you countenance on his face.

  The buses pulled us into the player parking lot located under the structure of the stadium. It was full of hundred-thousand-dollar cars stocked with every luxury and amenity imaginable, including Barbie-esque girls with identity-shielding sunglasses in the driver’s seats.

  Our luggage, which I hadn’t seen since giving it to a clubby in San Francisco, did not come with the team. Instead, it was unloaded by the Padres’ clubhouse staff and brought to us. While the team waited for their bags, they went to the lockers to lounge around. I followed behind them, feeling very much the way I did when I was about to enter the lockers in San Fran.

  Even if you weren’t a baseball player who struggled for years in the minors with self-doubt, even if you didn’t look upon reaching the big leagues as akin to entering the holy of holies, even if you’d never seen a baseball game in your life, you would, without a doubt, blurt a resounding “Wow” upon entering the Padres’ clubhouse.

  To start, the facility is round, like the kind of room King Arthur’s round table would be located in if King Arthur had access to a hundred-million-dollar budget and stylish leather couches. The lockers formed the outer wall of the space, all of them custom-cut wood with drawers and cabinets and cubbies and plug-ins for accumulated goodies, baseball and otherwise. Mounted overhead was a ring of flat-screen Sony televisions. In all, the locker room was home to over a dozen sets facing every angle, making sure there wasn’t a bad view in the house. The leather couches formed the inner circle of the place, surrounding a Padres’ logo stitched into the carpet on the floor.

  There were hallways on the north, south, east, and west portions of the circle. From the entrance to the locker room, the hallway directly across from me led out to the field, batting cages, and the cafeteria. The Padres had a fully stocked kitchen where I was told you could order just about anything you wanted and a clubby would make it for you. Or you could make something yourself from the vast supply of groceries in the industrial refrigerators. There were racks of chips, cookies, Cracker Jacks, and other calorie-stuffed garbage the minor league strength coach would have a conniption about if he caught us eating it. They sat on shelves for anyone to take at any time, even now, the evening after a game in another city.

  The hallway to the west went to the bathroom, although the term bathroom didn’t do it justice. The showers were marble, or some similarly expensive-looking stone. Next to the showers was a sauna, followed by a room just for pooping and reading magazines about guns, yachts, cars, and the habits of naked ladies. Finally, there was a set of sinks and mirrors surrounded by hair sprays, razors, and lotions—to make sure you looked good for the ten people standing at the gate when you left.

  The hall to the west led past the coaches’ offices, the clubhouse laundry space, and the weight room. What a weight room it was, too, full of the best equipment and more of those fabulous flat screens. The strength coach, that huge guy with the shaved head I saw earlier, kenneled all his powders and mixes here. There were barrels of the stuff, not to mention can after can of readymade shakes and boxes of protein bars.

  I had a locker in the main room, and I spent a good deal of time looking at it, running my hands across the wood of its custom edges, feeling the fabric of my jersey hanging inside it. There was something about putting my hands on it all that made it feel more real to me. As the other guys buzzed around me, going through their post-trip routines, I walked about the place slowly, staring in awe at it all. The thing that struck me was how vast the difference was between what I knew and what I was seeing. After a career in the minors, a player comes to appreciate things as simple as Gatorade mix in the water cooler instead of water, or two choices of peanut butter for a pre-game spread. By comparison, the spartan existence of the minors made this display feel excessive to the point of absurdity. I wouldn’t dare complain about it, and yet, I couldn’t help but wonder how anyone could ever get used to this. How could any player say this was what he deserved? And I had only tasted the tiniest spoonful!

  My thoughtful ramble came to a stop in front of the snack shelf in the cafeteria. I wanted to take one of the packs of Fig Newtons there, but I stayed my hand. I felt like I was in someone else’s house and taking the Newtons would be like stealing. As I stood there, one of the other players I didn’t know, who had changed out of travel clothes and into a set of street clothes, pushed past me and started wantonly grabbing items off the shelf and wedging the goodies into his computer bag until the sides bulged.

  He noticed me staring pensively at the treats and said, “Go ahead, dude.”

  “Am I allowed?”

  “Are you allowed? Jesus.” He rolled his eyes and looked around to see if anyone else was hearing my talk. “You’re in the damn big leagues, man. Big leaguers are allowed to eat Cracker Jacks and Fig Newtons.” He pulled a few off the shelf and threw them at me. They bounced off my unready hands. I picked them up off the floor and put them all back, except for one pack of Newtons. One was enough, I decided.

  “Look, you pay fifty dollars in dues a day to be here whether you eat one or twenty. Might as well get your money’s worth.” He grabbed another item for himself and walked out of the room. I remained, looking at the snacks for a while longer. I took one more pack of Newtons and walked out.

  Our bags came shortly after our arrival. A clubhouse attendant brought mine to me, then gave me a ride on a service cart through the stadium, outside, across the street, and right up to the front of the Marriot Gaslamp Hotel, where new Padres stayed. He dropped me off in front of the hotel’s doorman, who, as odd as this spectacle would have been at any other hotel, didn’t bat an eye as he opened the door and bowed his head at my passing.

  Much like the hotel in San Fran, the Marriot Gaslamp was stunning, and a reservation had already been made for me. While explaining all the luxuries the hotel offered, and on which floors I could find them, the lady at the front desk said the bar on the roof—known as the Sky Lounge—offered one of the best views of the ballpark anywhere—and since none of the hotel guests had to stand in line for access, I should definitely experience it. After dropping off my bags in my room, I did just that.

  She was right about the view. From the edge of the rooftop bar, I could see over the Western Metal Supply building that made up the left field portion of Petco. I could see the huge banners of the great Padres icons in all their glory, including a nearly hundred-foot poster of Hoffman. I marveled at it, wondering what it must feel like for him to drive to work every day and see a building-size mural of himself on the side of a stadium. I gazed on the field, welling up with pride that I was one of the people who would say they got to play on it.

  “Number Fifty-Seven!” came a voice from behind me. That was my number. I turned to see Bentley standing there with two drinks in hand. He casually made his way over to me with a big league smile stretched across his face and handed me one. “Welcome to the Sky Lounge,” he said, and clinked my glass with his.

  “Thanks for having me,” I said.

  “Enjoying your seven and seven?” he asked, referring to the seven nights in a hotel and seven nights’ worth of meal money—just over a grand in cash—the Padres gave me to get settled in with.

  “Very much so,” I said, turning back to the view.

  We stood there looking off the roof and onto the field. Bentley had been here longer than me and his seven and seven must have run out by now, which prompted me to ask him, “Are you staying here the whole time?”

  “Yeah, it’s cheaper than moving into an apartment since we’re only here for a couple days out of the month. Besides, you can’t find a lease for just a month and a half. You’re committed to the hotel. Which is fine. I have an elite membership card. You should get one too”—he nudged me—“the poin
ts add up quick.”

  “How much is it per night?”

  “I think the rates here are something like two hundred sixty dollars for a normal guest.”

  I choked on my drink. “Two hundred and sixty dollars?”

  “Something like that.” He looked to my gaping mouth and raised an eyebrow. “You’re in the Show, you can afford it.”

  “Maybe, but that’s still a lot of money.”

  “Not anymore.” He took a sip of his drink.

  “That blows me away,” I said. “I mean, this off-season, I was working at a television store, and now I’m sipping a mixed drink from the top of a five-star hotel overlooking at the major league field I play on. I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

  Bentley said nothing.

  “Maybe I’m wrong for thinking this, but it makes me wonder why there is such a huge gap between the guys up here and the guys in the minors. I mean, if you just spread out the smallest portion of all this to the guys below it would make their lives so much easier, don’t you think?”

  “That’s a terrible idea,” said Bentley.

  “Why do you say that? There is so much here.”

  “Because it’s meant to be this way. It’s a grind for a reason. The guys who can’t take it don’t deserve to be up here. Besides, the union fights for us to have all this. There have been guys up here who went through hell to make it like it is. It’s not for just anybody.”

  “Maybe. I guess I’ve just never experienced anything like this. I know I’ve worked my ass to get up here, but I feel like I don’t deserve all this. It’s so much so fast.”

  “I feel like I deserve it,” Bentley said, and then gulped his drink.

  “Really?”

  “Of course. We beat the odds; we deserve all of this. If this is what they want to give us, then take it. Don’t ask questions. Besides, this here”—he waved his arms as if to claim everything around us, the field, the hotel, the bar—“this is the only level you can make an impact at. It’s the only one that matters—the only one people care about. All the rest of that stuff is just practice to get here.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” He stopped me. “This is the only league that matters. Your career in baseball starts here.”

  I started to speak but stopped as his words sank in. I had never thought of my life in the minors as practice. I thought of it as surviving, enduring, grinding. All of the suffering for this, now written off with one, single word. I couldn’t believe he could say such a thing to me. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized he was right. The Bigs were the only level that mattered. Everything done in the minors was done to get players here. More than anyone, I knew there was no reward for those people who came close. Everything in baseball revolved around this league.

  “You’re here. Now you just need to focus on staying here.”

  “Right,” I said.

  He lifted his glass and clinked it against mine. “Here’s to a long career in the Bigs.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  I came to the park early the next day. I figured, since I was young, I should probably be there before anyone else. Showing up early says you’re more prepared, hungrier, and more committed than other players. It says you want to stay in the big leagues and are willing to do whatever it takes.

  I knew players and staff were still formulating their opinions of me, and I wanted them to be good opinions. It might only have taken me an hour to get all my pre-game work in, but an hour would not satisfy the people who were making judgment calls about my rookie work ethic. Every player knows that any exerting activity done in excess of what is required, which has no quantifiable relationship to on-field results but is pleasing to the eye of coaches and evaluators, is called “eyewash.” But, no matter how disingenuous it is, eyewash is an important part of rookie evolution. Older players expect it, and younger players freely give it because it’s the only way a player can avoid getting accused of being comfortable.

  This is one of baseball’s greatest ironies. Young players desire nothing more than being comfortable so they might succeed, but older players detest young players who act comfortable. Not on the field, per se, but in their everyday behavior. A rookie player should always carry himself with the proper mix of terror, hunger, thankfulness, humility, confidence, and utter doubt.

  Thankfully, I was in no danger of being comfortable. If anything, I felt guilty, like someone had given me a gift far too expensive for me to accept. The jet, the hotels, the money, the treatment—it was all so overwhelming it was nearly impossible for me to fake anything but utmost unworthiness. Yet, there was no way to express this sentiment except by pitching well and working hard. Like anyone who has been to the big leagues for the first time, I wanted to show I could handle the gift. I wanted to show I could be a good rookie to all who judged such things, I wanted to perform well on the field, and I wanted to be loved by my teammates.

  Since I was a starter now, I had to throw mandated bullpens between my starts. I’d be facing the Rockies in a few days, and I was bound and determined to recapture the focus that got me to the Bigs—to do what everyone told me I should keep doing, which was not having hyperemotional freak-outs like the one I had in San Francisco.

  Balsley and the team’s bullpen catcher escorted me out to the pen before the team stretch. Since the night I talked to him on the hotel phone, I’d felt uncomfortable around Balsley. He seemed cold to me and, since he was the boss and I didn’t want to piss him off, I steered clear unless he needed something from me. I thought we’d get a better feel for one another during our bullpen session. He was the big league pitching coach, after all; I wanted his approval more than anyone else’s, and I would do or say anything it took to get it.

  Stretched, warm, and ready to throw, I took the mound in the Padres’ bullpen, told the catcher to get down, and set up low and away. I flicked my glove to announce a fastball, fired, and missed wide. The ball came back. I reset, flicked my glove again, fired, and missed, again. The ball came back. Balsley watched impassively at my side. I took a focusing breath, gave another flick, and this time threw a strike, right down the middle, belt high—the only kind of strike you’re forbidden to throw.

  I cringed. By this point, Abby would have said something out of nowhere about my ears not being pulled back and how it was messing up my finger extension. Balsley, however, said nothing. Instead, he walked down to the foot of the mound and looked at me. Not at my eyes like he was trying to convey a thought, but at me as a unit, like I was some piece of machinery and he wanted to see the parts move from another angle. I flicked my glove again, fired, and missed.

  The silence was crushing. I shook my head and mumbled, “What the fuck is wrong with me?” Come back to it later, I thought. Sometimes you don’t find your groove in a practice session on the first couple of tosses. Moving forward and hitting spots with your other pitches can help you get your feel back. Abby would say there is no sense in dwelling on a bad pitch when you’ve got other pitches that need work. I waved my glove to tell the catcher to move to the other side of the plate, then signaled for a sinker, but Balsley stopped me.

  “No,” he said, “stay down and away.” He continued looking at me like a mechanical instrument. “No use throwing to another spot on if you can hit the one that matters most. Low and away is where you make your living; you should be able to hit it nine out of ten times at this level.”

  I nodded my head, consenting to his command. In fact, the catcher moved back as soon as he spoke, leaving me little option. I wouldn’t dare voice my difference of opinion, of course; the big league pitching coach’s word was law. I flicked my glove again, even though we all knew what I was throwing, wound and fired low and away for another miss. The ball was returned, the motion repeated, and the result the same. This went on for ten or so throws with me mixing in strikes like they were accidents. In the silence and the scrutiny, I began feeling like I had forgotten how to pitch.

  I k
ept taking nervous glances at Balsley, but his face was stone. He did, however, count the strikes he thought worthy, announcing them so I might hear how low the number was. When I got to ten strikes out of who knows how many, I stopped and looked at him, completely lost. I knew I was making a bad impression. Or at least I thought I was. Maybe he’d seen this before and wasn’t worried about my lack of control. Maybe he knew this would happen. Maybe he knew how intimidating he was to rookies. Why wouldn’t he talk to me?

  In fear of suffocating in the silence, I spoke in his place. “I don’t understand it,” I said. “I know this sounds like a cop-out, but I’m a strike thrower. It’s what I do ... I ...” I stopped there as Balsley turned his head away from the comment, seemingly disgusted by excuse-making.

  “I believe you,” he said, though I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic. In fact, despite his softly spoken three-word reply, his face seemed to scream, This is the big leagues, either you get the job done here, or you don’t. I have no sympathy.

  I thought about the words I shared with Bentley on the roof of the hotel last night, about how this was the only place you could really make an impact. Then I thought about the type of people who made impacts up here, if I was one of them, and if they made excuses. I tried another player/coach relationship technique: an appeal to arrogance, like I did with the strength coaches back in spring training.

  “I, uh, don’t know how much time I’ll get up here in the Show, so I want to soak up as much info as I can. Anything you see wrong, I’m all ears. You’re the best coach in our system, and I obviously need to make an adjustment. I want to stay.”

  I regretted saying anything almost immediately. Balsley picked me apart in short order, a regular dissection on the mound. He missed nothing, factoring my stride length, my landing foot’s angle in relation to my hips, the degree to which I crossed my body, and the length of my inseam compared to my torso. He even had me walk to see which way the balls of my feet struck when my foot fell. Most of the critiques focused on the mechanical, but when he was done, he told me that much of my delivery was just me compensating for me. It was like getting genetically sequenced and finding out I had more in common with poop-throwing monkeys than I did with strike-throwing big leaguers. I didn’t know how I was supposed to process all the analysis, or if I even could. Balsley did confess that this point in the season wasn’t the right time to work on it, which brought us back to square one: finding a way to hit the mitt low and away. The only difference now was, as I spent the rest of the bullpen time winding and missing, I could take comfort in the fact that it wasn’t really my fault, what with my entire body being a grab bag of inferior products and all.