Out of My League (21 page)
Authors: Dirk Hayhurst
Chapter Thirty-eight
It had been nearly three months since Bonnie and I had last seen each other. We desperately needed this visit. Video-chats, cell phone calls, and texts were no substitute for physical contact.
Since players often go without seeing their wives for long stretches during the season, wife visits are often referred to as “conjugal visits.” Yet, after these long-endured sexual frustrations are vigorously worked out, having a family in town can be a bit of a chore. The player is technically the host, though he usually doesn’t have the means or the space to entertain. He’s also working, so he has a routine in place and a job to focus on. The spartan accommodations he’s adapted to can be an irritant to the guest, who is accustomed to one-thousand-thread-count sheets and down-stuffed pillows. Baseball is a grind, and visitors who haven’t worked up the calluses necessary to endure it without complaints can make a player’s life more distraction than satisfaction, not to mention sharing a bed after months of slumbering solo, can really screw up your sleeping.
I explained all this to Bonnie, how things would be a little rough around the edges, and she said that, after four years of traveling around in white passenger vans with no air-conditioning as part of Christian college ensemble groups, sleeping on the seats with moody girls whining about their periods, she could handle a few days in a crappy apartment.
But, she pointed out, she was sleeping with girls back then, not boys, a huge item of contention considering Bonnie’s parents’ views on anything remotely sexual before marriage. I tried all the classic arguments: that her folks didn’t have to know about it; that we were going to be married soon anyway; and that we weren’t going to be doing anything, but Bonnie still put up a fight. In the end, I won because we didn’t have the money for a hotel, and as fate would have it, Chip’s family was going to be in town the same time as Bonnie, thus stuffing the apartment with chaperones: Chip, his wife, and his two little girls.
With our temptation curbed, there was only one other issue: the players’ wives. Just like coming on to a new team can present a period of adjustment to the rookie player, it can present adjustments to rookie wives and girlfriends. Being a player’s wife is almost like being a player, and considering what I knew about being a player, I wasn’t sure if I wanted my wife to be a part of that sorority. There are unwritten rules, seniority issues, periods in which rookies have to prove themselves. Of course, like all groups of women, players’ wives can be warm, caring, and thoughtful in ways men will never know. But they can also be shallow, catty, and judgmental in ways men will never understand.
The day before Bonnie hit town, I brought this issue up to Chip, asking him if he thought it was worth connecting Bonnie with the other Beaver wives or not. For me, this wasn’t an option since my teammates were my teammates, but for Bonnie, there was an association choice.
“I tell my wife to stay clear. There’s more drama than there needs to be. You know how guys can be with rumors between teammates and who’s getting called up and so on.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking of the many times the pitchers have gotten together to figure out who deserved a call up when the opportunity presented itself. It was like attending a cult meeting when Estes got called up.
“Wives do that too, but way worse. When their husband doesn’t get the call, they get mad at the wife of the player who did. They take it personally. That’s what it all comes down to, really—they take a lot of stuff personally that isn’t personal. They don’t understand the game the way we do. Players come home and complain about their jobs, and all the wives know is what their husbands tell them, and then they think everyone is a back-stabbing, cheating, undeserving son of a bitch. I don’t need my wife around that.”
“That’s a good point,” I said.
“It’s an elite club, bro. Being a player’s wife makes you special. Just like the players think they’re special. Wives get cocky too. Some of them even count service time, like they been there longer and they deserve better treatment because they’re an older wife. It’s crazy.” Chip shook his head.
“Then”—he put his hands up as if he were telling someone to slow down—“they compete with each other. Buying stuff, dressing up, getting work done. I remember the first time my wife showed up to the wives’ section and there were women dressed up like they were going to the club. My wife just got done changing my kids’ diapers, and they all standing ’round like they on a runway. She came home and told me they was all outta they minds.
“Keeping up with the Joneses,” mumbled Chip. “You know how you see players in the Bigs with their cars and clothes and stuff. Well, you don’t really need all that. I mean, I like to look good, but I don’t need to spend eighty thousand dollars on a car so my kids can grind Cheerios into the seats and spit up on the floor. They do it because the people around them do it. The game corrupts you. You don’t need that.”
“They aren’t all like that, are they?”
“No, but just like it’s hard to be your own person on this side of the game, it’s hard to be your own person on that side. It’s easy to follow everyone else. I like my wife just like she is.”
“I like Bonnie how she is.”
“There ya go.”
“Do you think your wife would mind sitting with Bonnie, you know, showing her the ropes, like a veteran wife?”
“Your wife like kids?”
“Bonnie loves kids.”
“Great, she can help my wife change their diapers.”
Bonnie got in on May 27th, the first game of an eight-game home stand against the Sacramento River Cats and the Las Vegas 51s. We’d planned this out so she could have a good week with me before heading back home. I was planning to propose to her on Wednesday, the 29th, the second game of the stand, because that was the day the photographer was free and, according to the weather forecast, things looked promising for outdoor activity.
I met Bonnie at the airport with flowers. She met me with a hot yellow dress. Her aunt, who lived in the Portland area, drove me to pick Bonnie up and immediately regretted it as we started making out within seconds. We must have necked at least a hundred times before we finally made it to my room. It was pathetic, but it was absolutely what the doctor ordered, and we probably would have spent more time testing the waters of temptation if Chip’s family wasn’t at the apartment.
I waited until the last minute to leave Bonnie for the ballpark. After discussing where to pick up tickets from will call, where to sit in the wives section, and where to wait post-game, I decided she would be okay without me and gathered up my things for the park. Then, the instant the game was over, I rushed into the locker room in an effort to make a quick getaway and rejoin her. However, while I was stripping down, Abby pulled me aside.
“We’re gonna start ya on this Wednesday. You okay with that?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah,” I said robotically, thinking about the prospect of picking up a start on the same day I was planning to propose. “Of course I’m okay with that.” Starting can be a real mind-bender if you’re used to the pen, where life is lived on the spur of the moment. Starting gives you time to think about how things can go, all the what-ifs and happenings you can’t control. I felt my mind sag under the weight of both a start and a proposal. I thought about telling Abby I might not be in the right frame of mind for a start, but I’d already given him all he wanted to hear, and then there was the golden rule of baseball reminding me to be thankful for the opportunity lest I never get one again.
When Bonnie and I made it back to my apartment, Chip and his wife were already in bed. Because the kids were sharing a room with them, they had to go to bed at the same time their kids did. Bonnie and I decided to retire as well so as not to disturb the scene.
Lying there on our squeaky mattress, in my air conditioner-less room, Bonnie told me she was sad I didn’t pitch tonight.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said, “but I have good news. I’m going to be starting on Wednesday.”
“Awesome!”
“Yeah, you’ll get to see me pitch, maybe more than you wanted.”
“Is starting a good thing or a bad thing for you since you’re a reliever?”
“It’s good. It’s priority innings. It means a lot to pick up a start.”
“I hope you do good.”
“Me too.” I laughed nervously.
“I liked watching you in your little baseball pants,” she said, changing subjects while walking her fingers across my chest. Soon she was kissing me on the side of the cheek. “I wish I could see you in them now.”
“Oh, maybe I should bring a pair home with me?”
“Then I could take them off of you.”
“Someone’s a little frisky.”
“Well yeah, we’ve only been apart for nearly three months.”
“I know, frisk away, baby,” I said, rolling to meet her affection with some of my own.
“Don’t you ever get tired of waiting to, you know, have sex?” she asked.
“You have no idea,” I said.
“What if we just said to hell with it and had sex right now?”
I pulled back and looked at Bonnie. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”
“It’s those pants, I’m telling you. You turn me on as is, but after watching you in those pants, grrr, my little baseball player.” She started rubbing my chest. Then, she smiled at me and said, “We could totally do it. No one would ever know.”
“I’m pretty sure the family of four one bedroom over would hear us. I’ve been told it’s remarkably easy to hear sexual activity in this building.”
“I could be really quiet.”
“Bonnie, we’re not going to have sex.”
“Are you scared?”
“No, I’m not scared! Why does everyone keep asking me if there is something wrong with my desire to have sex with a woman—including the woman I intend to have sex with?” I sat up on the mattress. “We have waited this long to get it on, we can wait a few more months to do it right. I can even bring the pants home with me. Besides, I pictured my first time being someplace a little more romantic than on an air mattress in an efficiency apartment with no AC.” I lay back down. “Every time this thing squeaks I feel like my grandma is going to burst through the door and scream at us.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, don’t be sorry. I like it when you’re frisky.” I kissed her. “I’m just asking you to bottle it for me until we’re ready to pop the cork in grand fashion.” I started rubbing her slumped shoulders. “I promise it will be worth it,” I said. “Not a day goes by around here that someone doesn’t try to give me tips.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
On the day I got engaged, I ate blueberry pancakes. I remember it because it was one of the few times I had breakfast that wasn’t hijacked from the field. While treating Bonnie to whatever she wanted, I decided to spoil myself a little too. Then, as we let our food settle, we talked about how wonderful it would be if I kept pitching well and made it to the big leagues. How, if I made it up for a long enough chunk of time, we could go house shopping. The talk of a house gave way to furniture, then dogs, then kids, and then guessing all the superpowers our kids would have. Finally, after checking the time, I curtailed the conversation and suggested we head up to Washington Park and visit a special place I’d discovered.
Hand-in-hand, we walked up the hill to the International Rose Test Garden, where we strolled around, reading placards and taking frivolous pictures. I played as casual as I could, hiding all my glances to my cell phone clock. At roughly 11:30, I “casually” led us into the Japanese Gardens. Little did Bonnie know, I had already paid one of the Beavers’ personal photographers to pose as a tourist reading a pamphlet on the south end of the koi pond with the bridge on it. In fact, Bonnie was so taken by the sights of the garden, she didn’t notice me nod at the photographer as we walked by, en route to our mark.
“It’s a beautiful place, isn’t it?” I said, squeezing Bonnie’s hand as we walked toward the bridge.
“It’s great. I think we should have one of these at our house. A little one, with a little pond full of fishes.”
“Right,” I said. “To go along with our expertly trained dog, our modernly appointed house, and our MENSA-candidate child who will be both an All-Star athlete and a concert grand pianist. Is there anything else you want while you’re at it?” I stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked across the pond at the photographer, who put down her pamphlet and picked up her camera, and began adjusting the lens.
“No, I’m a simple woman, with simple needs.”
I chuckled and put one hand in my pocket, tracing the edges of her ring with my finger.
Bonnie looked around on the bridge a little, taking in the views, and then she slid in next to me, leaning on the railing.
“Bonnie, I love you,” I began.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”
“I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“Mmm ...” She snaked her arm around mine and rested her head on my shoulder. “It’s going to be great.”
“It is. But I think it’s time we made it more official.” I uncoiled her from around me, stepped back, and took a knee. My pose widened her eyes as what was happening set in on her.
“Bonnie, I’ve never been as happy or as confident in my life as I have been in the few months that we’ve known each other. There is no doubt in my mind that you’re the woman God made me for. I love you, and with this ring I promise you that I always will. So, even though I’ve already asked you this question before, for the sake of our dog, house, and koi pond, will you marry me?”
Bonnie was tearing up, but she was smiling and giggling. She reached out her ring finger and said, “Yes.” I slid the ring onto her finger, and then, in one smooth motion, stood from my knee, wrapped my arms around her waist, and picked her off the ground, spinning her around on the bridge. I set her down and we kissed on the bridge to the sound of a few onlookers in the park clapping.
“It’s beautiful,” said Bonnie, admiring her new ring.
“I’m glad you like it. I was a little worried.”
“I love it, it’s perfect. You did good, honey.”
“Oh yeah, and there is someone I’d like you to meet.”
I waved to my photographer to come around and join us. I explained how I’d arranged to get the whole thing on film, which made Bonnie happier than the proposal itself.
“I may not understand just how significant the wedding experience is to a woman, but I do know that capturing once-in-a-lifetime moments are a big deal. Now your family can see, and we’ll have these pictures for generations.”
“Yeah, that’s great,” said Bonnie. “But more importantly, I can put these on Facebook and brag to all my girlfriends. This is awesome!”
“Well”—I ran my hand through my hair—“that’s what marriages are all about, bragging on Facebook.”
Chip and his wife clapped for us when we got back to the apartment. Bonnie showcased her ring. Then she started calling her family and announcing the big news.
“Congrats, bro,” said Chip, as we stood next to each other listening to Bonnie relate the story in four-part harmony to her parents.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You gonna remember it the rest of your life.”
“I hope so. I don’t ever want to forget these days.”
“You won’t. Neither will she. That’s why it’s so important to do it right. Days like this will keep you both sane during a long season.”
“I think I did good.”
“You did great, bro. You can tell by the way your girl acts. She’s one happy princess right now. She’s gonna be calling all her friends until you pitch tonight. Heck, she’s probably gonna be calling while you pitch. You gonna look up in the stands after you get an out and she’s gonna be yakking away with no clue what’s going on. It’s like she just got called up to the big leagues.”
“That’s probably a good thing. If I know she’s not concentrating on me, I’ll probably pitch better. I can’t stand pitching when I know my family is there because I can almost feel them looking at me. I know what they’re thinking. I can’t seem to focus on the game because I’m always aware of them. Do you know what I mean?”
“Not really. I always play better when my family is around.”
“That’s right. You said that. Well, not me. I play terrible. I almost always pitch bad when my folks show up. The last time my parents were at a game, I took a line drive in the crotch. The last time my extended relatives showed up, I gave up seven runs in a third of an inning. It’s uncanny, man. Anytime I know people are watching with big expectations, it’s like I’m cursed. Thank goodness they only see me pitch once every three years or so. I hope I don’t do the same while Bonnie is here.”
“It’s probably not them, it sounds like it’s you.”
“Probably, but I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Be confident, that’s what. Don’t worry ’bout all those other eyes. You got your queen in the stands tonight, she loves you no matter what. She don’t want you worrying about her while you’re pitching. You just keep doing what you doing.”
“I’ll try.”
“Probably not a good time to tell you that this is a TV game, huh?”
“What?”
“Yeah, you gonna be on television tonight, baby.”
“That’s just great.”
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