It’s amazing what a single swing of the bat can do. Atkins’s swing didn’t just change the score, it changed September’s paycheck chances, big league service time, scouting reports, player reviews, and contract opportunities—and all of it was in my head as he trotted around me. Why couldn’t I tune it out? So many thoughts at once, like a densely compacted bomb of negativity went off in my brain as soon as leather struck wood. Even the act of thinking about it for the few seconds that I did made me feel guilty since any coach in the world would tell me such thoughts had no business on a baseball field.
Where was Bonnie? I wondered. Was she inside the stadium right now, or getting her foot tended to? Hopefully she was not present to see me, for she of all people could surely see through the scowl I wore to mask my thoughts and discern the wreckage beneath. I didn’t want her to see this; I didn’t want anyone to see this, but the only way out was forward, through the fire. It’s a terrible conclusion that every starter must come to terms with at some point in his career, the realization that the damage is done, and the best you can hope for is finishing your outing by not adding to it.
I put my glove up indicating I wanted a fresh ball from the umpire, but he didn’t toss me one until Atkins crossed home plate. I guess this was done so I didn’t throw it at Atkins or something. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind, what with all the extraneous crap currently populating it, but now it seemed like a therapeutic exercise worth trying. Instead, I attempted to channel my frustrations into effective pitching, like I did after things got hot in San Francisco. I failed. I walked one more hitter in the third inning before getting out, bringing my total walks for the game up to four. I was a bust, and after only four innings, I was removed from the game.
Jersey off, sweat soaking my undershirt and matting my hair, I sat at my locker staring into the abyss. I didn’t see the custom woodwork, my shiny big league name tag, or any of the other luxury things that had stunned me when I first arrived five days ago. I saw failure, unvarnished failure that was surely broadcast in HD all around the country. I’d put myself in line for the loss as I burned through nearly one hundred pitches in four innings.
The outing played over and over in my head like a pre-game video loop. Unlike my start against the Giants, this performance didn’t have a nervous rookie excuse to hide behind. This was the outing of a poor pitcher. In fact, to those wondering if my borderline success against the Giants was luck or blooming skill, this start would be the retroactive lens through which it was interpreted. It was like having two bad outings rolled into one and, with the adrenaline leaving my system and no batters to occupy my attention, I was tearing myself apart over it, completely uninterrupted.
A hand fell on my back as I sat, swirling down the spiral at my locker. It was one of the trainers. They had brought Bonnie down to the training room following my removal from the game. They patched her up enough so she could watch me pitch, and promised to finish their work when I finished mine. They were going to have her checked out by a doctor, and they thought I might like to tag along.
I lumbered into the training room, dragging the ball and chain of my fresh big league failure behind me. Bonnie was waiting for me in one of the private examination rooms of the main training room with her foot soaking in a container of warm water and iodine. When I walked into the room, she reacted to me as if I was the one injured. There were members of the team around so she didn’t blubber over me, but it was easy to see that she wanted to.
“Are you alright?” we asked in unison.
“I’m okay,” we both responded.
She was okay, and her injury was being well tended to. I, however, was lying as much for her sake as my own pride. I didn’t want the guys around me to think I was weak.
“I’ve got to get some ice on my arm,” I said to her. “Then I’ll come back in and join you.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll be here.”
The training staff wrapped my arm up in ice, one bag on my elbow and one on my shoulder. After they finished, I went back into the little examination room with Bonnie. When the door clicked shut, my guard went down, exposing the broken man behind the shield. I let my head fall back against the wall. Bonnie didn’t say anything, knowing that when I’m in a wounded state she would have to choose her words carefully.
“Well, I had my chance and I blew it,” I began.
“No, you didn’t ...” She stopped to consider her words for a moment. Then, realizing pat statements were not going to cut it, she offered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it was a bad outing.” She put her hand on mine.
“Me too,” I said. “My body just wouldn’t cooperate. I couldn’t throw strikes.” I looked desperately to Bonnie. “I don’t understand why I’m not getting the ball over the plate like I always have.”
“I don’t know either, honey.”
“It’s like I just lost it.” My head went back to the wall.
“You haven’t lost it.”
“It sure feels that way.”
“Look at me,” she said, but I didn’t. “Look at me. You haven’t lost it. You can’t think that way.” She tried to pull my face around to hers, but I resisted.
I couldn’t look at Bonnie. I knew where I was, and how I was expected to behave. Of all the things I dreamed of doing in a major league locker room, crying on the shoulder of my fiancée was not one of them. She wasn’t supposed to be here, and I was starting to think I wasn’t supposed to be here either.
“When it falls apart out there, it’s like you’re in free fall with no chute. You know you’re falling and you can’t stop it. It took a lot to make that feeling come out of me in Triple A, but here, if I fall behind on a batter I’m immediately rattled. It’s like I can feel what everyone is thinking. I’m hoping I can get outs and this is the one level where I need to know I can get them.” I mocked myself with my own laughter. “Jesus, I’m in the Bigs and hoping.”
“It was just one outing, babe.”
“But my career starts here,” I said.
“That’s not true. You’ve been playing for a long time. You’ve had a lot of success.”
“Those words don’t apply when the outing in question is the one that decides your future. Do you think this is going to help us stay up here through September? I don’t think so.”
“You’re under a lot of pressure and you’re expanding this into a bigger thing than it needs to be.” She said it all very controlled, trying to cool me off.
“Bonnie, it doesn’t get any bigger than this!”
“You’re not a starter,” she offered.
“I don’t need your excuses,” I said. “I need to pitch better. A player can’t complain about his opportunity, he can only make the most of it.”
The handle of the door latch turned along with the sound of a knock. In walked one of the team physicians. He introduced himself, and I responded chipper and cheery, like the entire day had been full of nothing but rainbows. “Thank you so much for seeing her.”
The doctor said it was nothing, that he was happy to do so. He checked Bonnie’s foot, cleaned it, and then patched it. Convinced she was in good hands, I stepped out to take off my ice bags. While assisting me in unraveling my arm from the wraps that held the ice on, one of the trainers asked me if I was worried about Bonnie while I pitched, if it was distracting.
I knew there was nothing I could do to change my outing, no way to go back in time and fix it. However, if there was a way to paint it in a different color, a way to convince those making decisions that this disaster wasn’t entirely my fault, maybe this disaster wouldn’t look so bad after all. Maybe Bonnie cutting her foot was a blessing in disguise. If I told the trainers I couldn’t focus knowing my fiancée was hobbling around on a sliced-up foot, maybe the powers that be would show me mercy. I had an excuse, all I had to do was take it and run with it.
“It wasn’t the best thing to have happen on a start day,” I said, wadding up the wrap and shedding the ice. “She’s my fiancée, after all. I
mean, she is the most important thing in the world to me.”
Chapter Fifty-nine
I got called into Buddy Black’s office the next morning, I didn’t need my agent or a pitching coach to tell me why. I hadn’t gotten the job done, and now my worst fears were coming to fruition. At least, after I shut the door behind me, Buddy told me he would make the execution quick.
“Have a seat, this won’t take long,” said Buddy.
I sat as instructed and stared nobly back at Buddy like a man about to be shot for taking part in a revolution.
“CY is coming off the DL, which means he’s going to slide back into your spot in the rotation.”
I nodded, all the while thinking, Bless you, Bud Black, for not telling me I sucked, but simply saying my time was up. I braced myself for the real words, as they were surely next to come.
“So, that means we are going to slide you into the pen, back into a role you know.”
“The bullpen?” I asked, trying not to show my surprise.
“Yeah. We probably won’t use you for a day or two because of the innings you had yesterday, but you never know.”
“Of course,” I said, still quite stunned.
“Alright, that’s it. You’ll be in the pen tonight.”
“Thanks, Skipper.” Buddy nodded at me, indicating that I was both welcome and free to go.
My first taste of the bullpen happened well before the start of the night’s game, when I was introduced to my new responsibilities as youngest guy in the pen: the Candy Bag.
Typically bullpen bags come in the form of what is commonly referred to as the pink princess backpack, complete with, but not limited to, frolicking Disney princesses, Dora the Explorer, Barbie, or any other pack embossed with colors and imagery that could induce a screaming fit from a six-year-old girl if Mommy doesn’t buy it for her. These packs are considered high fashion in the world of rookie embarrassment, and though many rookies say they hate wearing the pack because “It’s gay,” they really love it. They are secretly proud because it symbolizes, in a humorous and fun way, that they are now part of the fold.
The Padres, however, did not have a princess backpack. No Jasmine, no Belle, not even Pocahontas. Instead, we had a standard-issue navy ball bag modified for candy by an insert that read CANDY. I was let down by it. Without the fun of being the princess pack player, I was just a mule responsible for candy transport.
The guy who carried the bag before me was also in charge of training me on proper candy bag operation. Hamp, the bag’s previous owner, took me to the dugout supply room and showed me how it worked.
“Guys love these,” he said, cramming pouches of pumpkin seeds into the open bag. “And make sure you get some of these too.” He grabbed some pouches of sunflower seeds in varying flavors. “Guys are going through a real barbeque kick lately, but a little while ago everyone wanted Ranch. You need to pay attention to their eating habits so you have what they want.” He grabbed a few other pouches and wedged them into the bag.
“Why don’t I just put some of everything in the bag?”
“There is not enough room.”
“Why not just get a bigger bag?”
“Welcome to the big leagues,” said Hamp, deflecting the question.
He did have a lot of stuff in the bag. When he was done getting seeds, he pulled separate Ziploc plastic bags from the mother ship candy bag revealing all the goodies stashed within. There was a unique bag for chocolate, brightly colored sugary treats, seeds, and hard candies. Then Hamp pulled out a bag that had cans of dip, lighters, and packs of cigarettes.
The cigarettes caught me off guard. I knew chewing tobacco was as much a staple of the game as peanuts or Cracker Jacks, but smoking it? That didn’t seem right. I envisioned running to the mound, then having to take a breather around second base because of an emphysemic coughing fit.
“Do I have to stock those?” I asked, pointing toward the cigarettes.
“No, you just need to make sure you have this chew.” He pulled a box of chew off the stock shelf, took out a few of the pouches, and stuffed them into the candy bag. “You might also want to pick up a lighter now and again,” he said.
I looked around the stock room for lighters. There were none.
“Where do I get the lighters from?” I asked.
“You buy them.”
“I have to buy stuff for the bag?”
“Yeah. Guys who do the best candy bag pick up stuff. You know, they take pride in it.” He looked at me like he was handing me the keys to my first car and expected me to wash it and tune it or something. I wondered if he knew how hard that would be for me since there were no princesses on the bag.
“Some of the stuff you’ll have to buy,” he continued, “like this.” He pulled out a sleeve of Winterfresh gum. “This is Hoffman’s favorite. He chews a pack of it a game. You’ll have to pick that up. Other stuff you can steal from other locker rooms. Not every locker room we play in stocks the same candy, so keep your eyes peeled for new stuff.”
“Sample the local cuisine, so to speak,” I said.
“Yeah, and eat what they got too,” he said.
“So that’s it? Hoffman eats Winterfresh, don’t overpack, and make sure to raid the opposing pantries?”
“No, then there’s this side of it.” Hamp opened up a side compartment on the bag to reveal the other, more important side of the candy bag. He pulled out single-serving containers of Advil, Tylenol, Excedrin, Pain-Off, and various other pills from decongestants to antacids. There were tubes of nasal clearing hot creams for sore muscles, rubber gloves so players could rub in said creams without fear of lighting their delicate hands on fire, and cough drops for when their emphysema flared up.
Then the real supplies came out: various goops and stick ’ems that some morally sensitive fans would call the use of cheating, while we in the business simply called having an edge. There was good old-fashioned pine tar, the granddaddy of all baseball grip agents that always seemed to leak and cake on everything it came into contact with no matter how well it was sealed. We had a tube of Firm Grip, a scientifically engineered knockoff of pine tar, except when you worked it into your fingers, the harder you pressed the more grip you got. Firm Grip is also a lot easier to apply to those tight spots, like belt loops, hat bills, and the creases of your mitt without making a complete mess of yourself—that, and it doesn’t make your fingers smell like a pine tree.
There was shaving cream, specifically the gel stuff, which, when rubbed into the hands, makes the fingers slightly more tacky without turning them into flypaper-like pine tar or Firm Grip does. The effect of shaving cream doesn’t last as long as the other two, and you can’t store a dollop of it on your person in some secret place while pitching, but it should get you through an inning if applied right.
Finally, there was Coppertone Sunscreen. When rubbed into the skin and mixed with sweat and rosin, this stuff actually forms an SPF-40-caliber Fixodent, which a crafty pitcher can mix on the fly. A touch to the wrist slightly below the mitt for some screen, a wipe of the back of the neck for some sweat, a pat of the rosin bag for the third component, and you’ll have enough tack to make the ball hang from your fingertips. Everyone has their preferred method of adding a grip to a ball, but which one a pitcher chooses depends on his personal feel. My job, aside from providing tasty treats, was to make sure everyone had their respective edge ready and accounted for. It was a major responsibility, a sacred trust, and something that would, as Hamp said, “piss everyone off if you don’t do it right.”
“I got it.” I saluted him.
Hamp pushed the bag into my arms. “That’s it, bro. We meet at the steps and go out to the pen as a group. Heath usually leads us.”
“We go as a group, huh?”
“Yeah, of course. It shows unity.”
Chapter Sixty
I put the bag down in an area close to where Hoffman would sit. Then, I took all the bags inside the main bag that were full of candy and goodies a
nd set them around the main bag. I left the illegal substances in the main bag since they would be in plain view of fans if I didn’t. Finally, I took out Hoffman’s sacred pack of Winterfresh, peeled back the top of the package to make easy access to the sticks inside, then set it delicately on top of the closed main bag like a golden star on top of a tiny tree of bullpen treats. I was proud of the arrangement, like some interior decorator. However, as soon as I stepped away, the rest of the relievers ransacked my arrangement and left the bags scattered, knocking Hoffman’s gum from its throne.
More than anything, I wanted the arrangement to impress Hoffman. I wanted him to see that I was a good rookie and a good steward of junk food. I went back to the pile of bags and tidied things up, replacing the gum to its perch just before Hoffman’s arrival.
The other relievers greeted him by throwing handfuls of sunflower seeds at him, laughing as the seeds showered over him and plinked off the coffee cup he was carrying. I dared not throw any at him, but I did watch his every move, the ease of his stride, the firmness of his gaze. All my life I’d wanted to play on the same team as him, and now, I was. I was in his bullpen. Maybe I’d even pitch in a game that he would come into to save? It was one of those big league moments that left me spinning, wondering if this was really happening.
He arrived at my candy bag. I bit my bottom lip in anticipation of him being impressed by the well-arranged, expertly organized display of calories. He stared hard at the bag, holding his coffee in his left hand. Was this the best candy-bagging he’d ever seen? Was he going to congratulate me?
“What the hell is this?” he shouted. Then he picked up some of the bags and emptied their contents on the floor. “What’s all this other crap?” he shouted and started kicking the items across the bullpen floor. “How hard is it to do this job? Who the hell packed this?” He tossed the main bag across the pen where it bounced on the floor and came to a rest near my feet.
Out of My League Page 31