Authors: Dirk Hayhurst
Out of My League (22 page)
Chapter Forty
After spending the last few years running out of the pen when my number was called, it felt weird to lead the team onto the field from the dugout. It just wasn’t natural. However, once I got on the mound and started warming up, things felt right. I was able to find my minor league rhythm, that familiar dance of winding and delivering.
I knew Bonnie was in the stands. In fact, she was almost right behind home plate. In PGE Park, there are boxes behind home plate, and one of them is always reserved for players’ families. Bonnie could see me from it, and I her, but she did not wave or call to me as I prepared for the game. Now that I was on the mound, she stayed in the shadows, watching from a distance so that I wouldn’t read panic on her face should I get into trouble. She was a performer herself and understood just how nerve-racking it can be to have people in attendance who know you.
There were also some radar guns in the stands. They belonged to scouts. For whom, I didn’t know. It was getting close to the All-Star break and soon after that would be the trade deadline. Scouts were out hunting down marketable talent anywhere they could find it. It reminded me that my own team wasn’t the only route to the big leagues. If I pitched well today, I might have a shot with someone else.
The stage was set, and when the umpire said, “Play ball,” I punched my time card and went to work, pumping the zone full of strikes. I pitched like a reliever, moving fast on the mound, trying to keep the pace uncomfortable for the batter. Most starters move slower since they know they’ll be out there for a while, but I reset as soon as I got the ball, shook, wound, and fired again.
I struck out the side in the first inning. I did it again in the third. By the time I came out of the game in the fifth, I’d punched out nine hitters and allowed only one run. It was a stellar performance, one that ended only because I’d hit my pitch count and had to come out. Abby told me he’d love to send me out for another inning, but then he’d lose his job if I got hurt. Safety first, he said. “You want that arm to last the whole season, don’t ya?” Then he slapped me on the butt and picked up the phone to call in the cavalry.
When I made it back to the locker room, I went to my own phone. Bonnie had texted me several times, like an emotional game log of what I was doing and how she was reacting to it. Each message was full of congratulatory sentiments followed by lines of exclamation marks. After I read through all fourteen of her messages, I started to realize how big this day was for her as well. Not just because of the engagement, but because she was going to be my wife, and as such, she’d be tied to my highs and lows on the field for as long as I chose to play this game.
After putting my arm in ice, I went into the underground tunnel outside the lockers and called Bonnie.
“Honey!” she screamed. “You did awesome!”
“Thanks, honey. Where are you?”
“I’m above the dugout.”
“You’re not in the wives’ box?”
“No. Oh my God, you were right. They’re ridiculous. One of them accidently spilled wine on one of the other players’ wives, I don’t know who, she had fake boobs though, had to have, they defied gravity. Anyway, the one who got wine on her had a fit. She screamed about the cost of the shirt and how so-and-so was going to buy her a new one. Ugh. I am so glad Chip’s wife was there. She showed me how to get out, subtly.”
“Do you know how to get back into the service tunnel?” I asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“Look down the left field line.” I had walked down to the pen’s rear entrance and was peeking out with my phone against my head, waving.
“I see you! Hi!” She waved back.
“You wanna come down here and make out with me, during a game?”
“I’m on my way,” she replied instantly.
“I’ll meet you at the security—” The line went dead and when I looked back toward the roof of the dugout, she was gone.
“She’s such a wholesome girl,” I said to myself.
I met Bonnie near the security checkpoint and snuck her down the tunnel and out toward the bullpen, tiptoeing behind the relievers in the pen. We ducked behind the outfield fence line between the giant ivy-covered stone wall and the outfield fencing. We passed the scoreboard and the batter’s eye, and went all the way to where the centerfield cameras were set up. From there we watched the game for a bit, me in my uniform pants with my shirt damp from ice and sweat, she in jeans and a hoodie.
“Was it fun? Watching me pitch?”
“It was great. At first I was so nervous, but then, when you started kicking butt, I was like,
Oh yeah, that’s my future husband!
”
Oh yeah, that’s my future husband!
”
“I’m glad. I can’t believe I pitched that well. Nothing satisfies quite like a stellar outing. I think that’s why guys hold on in this game so long—it’s such a good feeling.”
“Well, you pitched awesome.” She put her head on my shoulder. “I hope you get the win.”
Some of my fellow relievers were in the game, and things were starting to unravel. The River Cats were making a comeback, slowly but surely.
“That doesn’t matter to me. I’m just glad I pitched good,” I said. “I’ll go back in the pen after this outing, and wins don’t matter for relievers, just quality appearances.”
“I still hope you get it. You earned it.”
I didn’t debate her on that. Instead, I asked, “Did you make any friends?”
“I don’t know,” said Bonnie. “I don’t know what having those girls as friends means. I got along with some of them. Some were nice, but some were just putting on a show. It’s like there were ways you’re supposed to behave but no one tells you what they are. I mean, the whole concept of meeting a group of random women wherein a veteran wife has to show you how to act even though you supposedly can act however you want? Isn’t that weird?”
“You have no idea,” I said, musing to myself over my years of experience with the same matter, only with a different gender.
“Some of the girls were snobby, others were nice. Like, I showed my ring to some and they were happy for me, and congratulated me. Others were like,
Oh my God, it’s pink. Did you tell him to get you that or did he mess it up?
”
Oh my God, it’s pink. Did you tell him to get you that or did he mess it up?
”
“Wow, they said that?” I asked.
“Yeah. One of them said they wouldn’t even think about saying yes unless there were at least two karats on her finger.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s like that on the team too. We sit in the bullpen and talk about how important cars and shoes are. Stuff that has no bearing on our life at all but is suddenly very important because we’re all stuck with each other and comparing.”
“Well, I don’t care what anyone else says. I love my ring. I think it’s great. I like that it’s different, it’s ours. And I love you because you’re different, and you’re mine.”
“I love you too,” I said, putting a soggy arm around her.
“And I like that you are still wearing those pants.”
“Yeah,” I said, putting my nose on her head.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Why don’t you come back here and help me make the most of them?” I tugged Bonnie back behind the outfield fence and out of sight.
Chapter Forty-one
“I fucking hate my wife,” roared Dallas, like he was smacking her as he said it.
The team was in Fresno now, and it was only a few days from the break. I had put Bonnie on a jet some weeks ago after our exquisite visit. We made the most of our time together, enjoying the many fine virtues of Portland while mapping out post-wedding ideas. We even went to an Ikea furniture store together, where I counted walking through the place as post-start conditioning.
But, as it always seemed to do, our time together came to an end all too quickly. I kissed her good-bye and watched her board a plane back home while I hopped a flight to another minor league town, Fresno, California, home of the Grizzlies. We’d see each other again soon, however, as I’d bought a ticket to head home and help finalize some of the wedding details over All-Star break. In the meantime, it was back to life as usual in the Portland Beavers pen, where, presently, I was trying to survive another emotional tirade brought on by Dallas’s married life.
Dallas had just come from the lockers where he was texting his wife. The conversation must have gone badly, though no one asked Dallas to elaborate since, by this point in the season, we’d all learned not to get him started. Unfortunately, we’d also learned that what we wanted rarely had an impact on what Dallas did.
“She never fucking lets me do anything,” he kept going. It was like listening to a child complain about how his mommy won’t let him go hang out with his friends.
“What do you want to do?” asked Bentley.
“I just want to go out with the boys after a game. You know, just go to a bar like I did in the old days and shit. But she fucking gets all pissed off about it, like she doesn’t trust me.”
“You did get another girl knocked up in your first year of marriage,” said Bentley.
“That was over a year ago,” pleaded Dallas.
“One year isn’t that long a time for something that big.”
“It ain’t just that, man. She fucking nags me all the time. She’s never nice, like she’s so fucking smart and I’m so fucking dumb. And she ain’t got no friends.”
“Try killing her with kindness, bro,” offered Bentley.
“I’d just like to kill her,” said Dallas.
“A lot of times girls pick up on your lack of affection. I’ll bet if you went out of your way to make her feel like you loved her, she’d change her ways.”
“I’d like to get out of the city and then send her the divorce papers and say, ‘Yeah, it’s like that, who’s hot shit now?’ That’d wipe that look off her fucking face.”
Bentley sighed, and uncrossed his legs. “I don’t know what to tell you, Dallas. I think you two should see a counselor.”
“I tell her that all the time, I tell her she needs to see one.” Dallas spoke rapidly, pleased to find himself in agreement with Bentley for the first time in their conversation.
“No, the both of you,” corrected Bentley.
“Why? What the fuck did I do that I need to see some shrink?”
There was a collective groan by the guys in the pen. I stood up and went to the watercooler as I couldn’t take it anymore. Dallas had always been promoted by this time in the season, or, conversely, I had been demoted. Not since our first year had Dallas and I been on the same team this long. I always wanted to keep up with him, but now I realized that being separated from him was actually the better scenario.
Our communication had become increasingly strained of late. I was like his alter ego, actually. The more he talked about living it up in the moment, the more I hunkered down on the value of responsible, big-picture decision-making. While he complained about his married life, I talked fondly of high hopes for mine. But maybe the biggest factor was that I was pitching better than him. Dallas always had the money, the girls, and the numbers; now it seemed the tables had turned, and he did not like it.
It’s common for players to hope other players, even teammates, fail. This is because we know there are only so many spots available at the top and, even though we like our teammates, we want that spot for ourselves. On the days I had to back up during big league camp, I wanted other players to fail because it meant I’d get some playing time. During the season, I hoped to outpitch my teammates so that I could get the call. With Dallas, however, I was hoping he would outright blow it so his career would end. The way he spoke without thinking, his absence of filtering, his complete lack of self-awareness—it was almost as if Dallas didn’t want anyone to respect him. I know I didn’t. At best, I could only nod and agree, and that was only to keep him from getting pissed at me.
While I was standing at the water cooler, mulling over how much I wanted Dallas’s arm to explode and force him to disappear from the game, Abby popped out of the dugout and looked down to the pen. He gestured to his open mouth with his left hand, folding one finger like a hook had caught him and was tugging him from the water—it was Fish’s warm-up signal.
Immediately, Fish jumped up and started preparing for action. Though Fresno’s bullpen is far down the line, it’s exposed to the field. The pitcher and the catcher are both open targets for balls struck foul while they work. To protect them, other occupants of the pen stand off the side of the pitcher and catcher, gloves on, ready to take a bullet for their buddies. Though only two bullpen dwellers needed to get up, the entire bench cleared, taking the opportunity as a way to escape from Dallas’s impromptu therapy session. I stood by Fish, while a few other guys went down to protect the catcher’s back. Some even ran down to use the dugout bathroom.
Dallas was the last to get up, but when he did, he came over and stood next to me. I focused on the field to make it seem like I was locked on to the game, oblivious to Dallas. But it didn’t matter what I did with my body language, or what our previous history was. If he wanted to talk, I was going to have to listen.
“Women just don’t understand how hard this lifestyle is,” he started. “It’s like having another family full of brothers and shit, and we do more than just hang out on the field. I mean, going to a bar and blowing off steam together is part of our fucking, you know, our fucking ...” He labored for the word, which is how he sucked me in.
“Culture?” I finished for him.
“Exactly. It’s our culture. It’s what we fucking do. It don’t mean nothing.”
“I guess it means something to your wife.”
“Yeah, but it don’t mean the right thing,” said Dallas.
“What is the right thing? The thing we players share, or the thing you and your wife share?”
“What we share,” said Dallas, gesturing to the immediate surroundings. “That’s what I try to explain to her, but she don’t understand baseball players.”
“But you’re married to her, shouldn’t her definition matter more?”
“You’re starting to sound like her,” said Dallas.
“I just mean that the biggest part of your life shouldn’t be controlled by one of the smaller parts. Baseball’s definition shouldn’t control your marriage, right?”
“That’s easy for you to say, you’re pitching good right now.”
“What?” I turned to regard him for the first time in our chat.
“I’ll bet if you were pitching like shit, you wouldn’t be so quick to say things like baseball ain’t a big thing.”
“I didn’t mean it wasn’t a big thing, I meant it wasn’t the biggest thing.”
“Then why the fuck are you playing it?”
I was starting to get angry. “How did this become about me? I play because it’s a once-in-a-lifetime job with a major payout if I succeed. It doesn’t control me.”
“Bullshit. I remember what you were like back when you were in A ball. I remember how busted up you used to get about it being hard for you ’cause of the atmosphere. You can’t fucking pull the high-and-mighty shit on me now, like you’re above baseball and shit.”
“That was six years ago,” I said.
“Now you got it all figured out?”
“If you don’t like what I have to say, don’t talk to me.”
“Sounds like you think you got it all fucking figured out and think you can tell me what I should do.”
“You’re unbelievable. It’s always about you, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t ask you to judge me.”
“I’m not. I just disagree—no, no, that’s it.” I’d had enough and I waved my hands as if to say the act was over. “I
am
judging you and you’re fucking guilty. You read into everything more deeply than you need to because you know you fucked up your life and now you want everyone to feel as shitty as you do. Well, guess what, you fucked up and I don’t feel a damn bit sorry for you.”
am
judging you and you’re fucking guilty. You read into everything more deeply than you need to because you know you fucked up your life and now you want everyone to feel as shitty as you do. Well, guess what, you fucked up and I don’t feel a damn bit sorry for you.”
“Baseball changes you. You think it doesn’t, but it does.”
“Baseball changed you,” I said.
“You’re still a judgmental asshole, that ain’t changed.”
“And you’re a martyr no one feels sorry for.”
“Start getting money and attention and see if it don’t make you do crazy shit. You’ve never been in my shoes. Hell”—he started laughing to himself—“it don’t matter, you never will be, you aren’t going to make it anyway.”
“Fuck you,” I said, squaring up with him.
“Oh, you wanna fight, motherfucker? I’ll beat your ass like I did back in A ball.” We were locked eye-to-eye, fists clenched, ready to throw down on the edge of the left field foul line.
I took a step back, not sure I had what it took to finish what I was starting. “I don’t want to fight you. I got nothing to prove to you,” I said, shaking my head and backing away.
“You’re a pussy, that’s what you proved. You’re a fucking pussy, you’ve always been a fucking pussy.”
I wasn’t much of a fighter, but even if I was, the fact that we were on the field, in uniform, in the middle of a game did not escape me. No matter how good a reason I had, breaking a teammate’s nose in broad view of fans would severely damage what I’d been putting together this season.
“You’re lucky we’re playing right now or I’d straight whoop your ass,” taunted Dallas.
“No,
you’re
lucky we’re playing a game right now,” I said.
you’re
lucky we’re playing a game right now,” I said.
“Oh really”—Dallas laughed—“you think you can take me, huh? All right, we can do this in the locker rooms right now. We can do this in the hotel, bitch. We can do it anywhere, anytime, fucking pussy.”
The other guys in the pen had turned to inquire why Dallas was screaming at me in the outfield. They saw me standing there, frozen and unable to call Dallas on his bet to fight. They say the bigger man walks away, but I knew from years of experience on a team that you can feel pretty small when the occasion you didn’t stick up for yourself is shared by a team of onlookers. But I didn’t want to fight, at least not as bad as Dallas. I just wanted to see him get what he deserved. I wanted him to see himself for what he was.
“Fucking pussy,” he said again when I failed to move.
“I feel sorry for you, Dallas.”
“Why’s that, pussy?”
“Because you need this game. You need it to save you. If you didn’t have baseball, you’d just have your fucked-up life off the field with no way out. If you wanna fight later on, that’s fine, but no matter what you do or say to me, it’s never going to be as bad as what you’ve done to yourself. You might kick my ass, but it will never hurt me as bad as it must hurt to wake up to the life you live every day.”
Fish had to stop warming and pull back a rabid Dallas. That’s when I walked away, to the safety of the dugout, with Dallas shouting slurs and challenges at me from behind. I acted like I didn’t feel his words hit me, not from the outside at least. I felt them inside, where they practically begged me to turn around and spear him and beat on him until we were separated by teammates with both our faces bloody from trading blows. I felt them all the way into the dugout, where I sat down, calm and controlled like I’d just been pulled from a bad outing. I felt them after the game had finished, after I talked to Bonnie, and every time Dallas and I passed each other in silence the next day. However, I did take some small satisfaction in knowing that as frustrated as his words made me, it wasn’t half as bad as what my words had done to him.
Other books
The Gazelle Who Caught a Lion by Hyacinth, Scarlet
Rise of Shadows by Vincent Trigili
Tropic Moon by Georges Simenon
Dark Shadows by Jana Petken
Love and Larceny by Regina Scott
Miracle at Speedy Motors by Smith, Alexander Mccall
His Majesty's Hope by Susan Elia MacNeal
Act of Passion by Georges Simenon
Vampire Eden by Newman, Liz
The Revolt (The Reapers: Book Two) by Katharine Sadler