Authors: Dirk Hayhurst
Out of My League (24 page)
Chapter Forty-four
When I got back to Portland, I was about as happy as I could be. The place Bonnie picked out for our wedding was a beautiful outdoor space that would be absolutely dazzling when the colors of the fall came. We found a small but affordable apartment not too far from her work, and a gym where I could train. My family, though things would never be perfect, had finally stabilized, and my dad and I had made peace. Finances were still tight, but Bonnie and I were enjoying the discovery of how creative we were in putting together a wedding on a shoestring budget. Though the experience was only four days in total, peace of mind was worth missing the All-Star game for, and, just like I rationalized, I was returning to a successful pitching campaign fully charged.
In fact, my first week back I pitched so well, Luke called and left me a voice message explaining how, after every game up in the Show, a packet of game notes showing minor league stats gets passed around. He said people up there knew who I was, and that I should keep doing what I was doing because
they
noticed. He said they were looking for a reliever and I could very well be their guy. His voice mail pumped me up so much I was convinced it was only a matter of time before Luke’s prophecy came true and I got the call.
they
noticed. He said they were looking for a reliever and I could very well be their guy. His voice mail pumped me up so much I was convinced it was only a matter of time before Luke’s prophecy came true and I got the call.
Then, one evening while I was lying on my perfectly adequate air mattress, in my perfectly adequate apartment, enjoying the prospects of my perfectly adequate life, Chip knocked on my door.
“Yeah, buddy, come on in,” I said.
“Did you hear the news?”
“What news?”
“Your boy Dallas got called up.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t happy anymore.
I called Adam as soon as Chip convinced me the news wasn’t a really cruel joke. It took Adam a few moments to recover from my ambush of fresh, hot outrage when he answered the phone, but soon he had me calmed to the point he could understand what I was angry about.
“How does that happen, Adam? I’ve been the hottest reliever on this team for a month and a half now.”
“I know it, they know it. It doesn’t make sense,” Adam soothed.
“I know this game isn’t fair, but, well, that’s not fucking fair!” I whined.
“No it isn’t, Shizzle.”
“I want you to explain how I can outpitch Dallas and still not get the call.”
“He’s on the forty-man roster and you’re not.”
“Screw the forty-man!”
“You’ll like it when you’re there. I get this call at least ten times a year, Shizzle. Guys just like you, pissed for the exact same reasons. But when it comes down to a choice between two dirtbags and one is on the forty-man, even though he has terrible numbers, he wins. That way the big club doesn’t have to shuffle the guys currently on the forty-man roster and risk losing a guy they like by running them through waivers. They take a guy off to put you on, they could lose him.”
“I wish they’d lose Dallas,” I grumbled.
“Don’t worry, in September, if you’re still pitching like this and he’s still pitching like crap, they’ll get rid of him and call you up.”
“September is almost three months away! What are the chances I’m still this hot then?”
“You’re a machine. You’ll be fine.”
“Machine, my ass. I don’t want to have to be perfect for three months when I’ve earned the opportunity now.”
“Oh, I know, you’re the best, baby. You’re the man. You’d be a terror up there. But the game isn’t fair, no matter what league they play it in.”
“Will you quit saying that?”
“As soon as it becomes fair, I’ll call you, I promise.”
I slouched into the wall and tried to calm my breathing. Chip peeked in the doorway and indicated he was going to the ballpark, and I waved him off to go without me.
“What do I do now?” I asked Adam.
“Keep doing what you’ve been doing.”
“And if I don’t? If I never do this good again?”
“Don’t think like that. You’ve made your mark in this league. You’re an all-star here.”
“Don’t say that word. That could be the reason I wasn’t called up and Dallas was.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Adam.
I hadn’t told him I turned down the All-Star game to go home to be with Bonnie. Admitting it to him made my stomach turn. Instead of the whole truth, I said, “Dallas made the All-Star team and I didn’t, that bastard.”
“Yeah, it makes him look better,” said Adam. “Makes him look more valuable for a trade.”
I slapped a hand to my head.
I knew it!
I knew it!
“But don’t worry. Teams know who you are, Shizzle. If you don’t make it this year, what you’ve done will put you at the front of the line next year. You just get your mind back into kill mode and this won’t even be a blip on the radar.”
“You sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’m your agent, would I lie to you?”
Weeks passed. Angry, bitter weeks in which I spent a lot of time pissed at baseball, cursing it and Dallas, and the brass, and the whole goddamn industry. Ironically, I pitched better than I ever had before. I struck hitters out in bunches and threw harder too. It was like every time I took the mound I did so with the intent of striking out Triple A altogether. I wanted to show anyone up there watching that they made a mistake, that I was the right guy and they should have picked me. But it was pointless. I wasn’t going anywhere, and the harder I tried the more frustrated I got.
Then, after the anger ran its course, I began to feel sorry for myself. That’s when I let my guard down. In Vegas I took a beating so bad it ruined my entire first half of work. I gave up seven runs in a third of an inning; another pitcher and I combined for nearly thirteen runs in the same inning, all earned—a league record. My ERA, which was holding steady in the 3s, shot up to a high 5. It would take me a couple months of uninterrupted success to get it back down to something respectable. Now it was no longer a question of whether I could be perfect for the rest of the year, but a requirement for me to be perfect if I was going to convert this season of success into the fulfillment of a big league dream.
The pendulum of my life in ball was on the downswing again, and the regret everyone warned me about started to take over. I feared that refusing my bid to the All-Star game was another mistake, just like not going to Winter Ball, or attempting marriage and baseball at the same time. I could feel my window of opportunity slipping shut, and it felt like a lie—a big, fat, heavy lie about how the best player always gets promoted. It tormented me with its injustice, and nothing Bonnie or Adam or even Abby said to me made it any better.
Weeks turned into months, and soon the end of the season was in sight. Making it to the Bigs, however, was just as far out of view for me as ever. Chip got called up, then sent back down. Hamp went up, then Bentley. Hundo went up, Headley too, and several others came and went. I,
naturally,
remained behind. I told everyone who got their wish granted I was excited for them, but I was seething with jealousy. As happy as I was about being a player in Triple A at the beginning of the season, I was now equally bitter for the same reason. The only occurrence that brought me any marginal satisfaction was that Dallas, as predicted by Adam, pitched poorly, got traded, and then, got sent down again. He was out of the system and I’d never have to deal with him again. Still, he’d made it, after all the shit he pulled, the son of a bitch made it—something I now feared I’d never be able to say.
naturally,
remained behind. I told everyone who got their wish granted I was excited for them, but I was seething with jealousy. As happy as I was about being a player in Triple A at the beginning of the season, I was now equally bitter for the same reason. The only occurrence that brought me any marginal satisfaction was that Dallas, as predicted by Adam, pitched poorly, got traded, and then, got sent down again. He was out of the system and I’d never have to deal with him again. Still, he’d made it, after all the shit he pulled, the son of a bitch made it—something I now feared I’d never be able to say.
Chapter Forty-five
With about two weeks left in the season, I marched into the clubhouse’s weight room after I was pulled from another bad outing. When I arrived, I was already working out the numbers of my failure in my head, calculating my new ERA, totaling up fresh hit to strikeout ratios. I had worked my statistics back into something respectable after the Vegas blowup, not what I had before the All-Star break, but maybe good enough for a September call up, I hoped.
I started running on the treadmill, shooting for a mile, or whatever distance it took to catch up with peace of mind. Numbers and possibilities chased after me as I ran. I kept thinking about how many days there were left in the season, and if this outing would be the one that knocked me out of the running, or would it be the next one?
I hit a mile without remembering how I got there, then stopped the machine and let the slowing treads eject me from the back of the mill. Wiping sweat from my brow, I looked at my reflection in the mirrored walls of the weight room. In my heart I knew numbers weren’t the issue. I needed more than that. I needed someone to say I was the right guy, someone to say I was worthy, someone to say yes. I needed someone to look at me and say yes, goddammit, yes, this guy is worth the call up, this was the guy worth rearranging a roster for.
The game ended. I sat at my locker as the other players filed in, throwing down their equipment and peeling off their sweaty clothes. Runoff from the ice my arm was wrapped in dripped down from my elbow and formed a wet spot on the floor next to my own dirty cleats and damp hat. My God, I thought, I was so close—did they see how close I was? Did they understand how much this season meant to me, that if I didn’t make it after all I’d accomplished this year, it would be like lifting an impossible weight to convince myself I could do it next year when the strikeouts might not come and bats might not break?
“Dirk.” Abby came behind me and laid a hand on my shoulder.
“What’s up, Abby?” I asked, returning from the abyss.
“Oh, Ready wants to talk with you about that play.”
The pitches, hits, and results rolled through my mind. “Which play?” I asked.
“He’ll tell ya. He just wants to make sure your head’s in the right place.”
My head is where I need it to be,
I thought as I went grudgingly into Ready’s office. I was focused on my job, so focused I was practically strangling it.
I thought as I went grudgingly into Ready’s office. I was focused on my job, so focused I was practically strangling it.
When I crossed the threshold of Ready’s office, Abby shut the door behind me, effectively saying this was going to be a bad meeting. I did my best not to show my anger with the timing of a private chew out by the manager, even though we were out of the hunt for the Triple A playoffs by a dozen games. Ready was not a manager to be trifled with. If he sensed I was bitter at him, he’d step on my neck for the rest of the year and not let up.
I sat in front of Ready’s desk. He looked at me with tired, annoyed eyes, as if this meeting was a waste of his time, one he wouldn’t have to hold if I hadn’t gotten sloppy.
“I know it’s late in the season, but you give up a knock, you got to back up the bag,” said Ready.
For Christ’s sake!
I screamed inwardly,
I was in the vicinity. Who cares if I didn’t form a perfect eclipse with the outfielder’s throw? Come on, Ready, is this necessary?
I screamed inwardly,
I was in the vicinity. Who cares if I didn’t form a perfect eclipse with the outfielder’s throw? Come on, Ready, is this necessary?
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re better than that. I shouldn’t be having this meeting with you.”
“I know,” I said, and dropped my head.
He sighed through his nose, then leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head. Abby didn’t say anything, just sat there, quiet, looking at the floor.
“Okay,” said Ready. Then, just as tired and annoyed, “This Saturday you’re heading to San Francisco to pick up Maddux’s start in the Padres’ rotation.”
My head snapped up and my focus narrowed in on him. His face was so placid, I thought I had imagined the words. I looked to Abby, who simply looked back at me with the same casual look.
“What?” I asked, tentatively.
“You’re flying out Friday to join the big league team in San Fran,” repeated Ready.
“I’m going to the big leagues?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Ready.
“Yep,” said Abby, and he patted a hand on my shoulder.
“Congratulations,” said both of them.
The walls started to bend and ripple as reality and fantasy collided in real time. Something like vertigo hit me, though I was still sitting in Ready’s office chair.
“I’m going to the big leagues,” I repeated to myself, saying it out loud as if checking it to be real. Ready and Abby stood up. I shook their hands, thanked them for the opportunity, guidance, support. Then I hugged Abby, and thanked him for putting up with me.
“I told ya things would even out,” he said. “Now go up there and keep doing what you been doing.”
“I’ll ... I’ll ... I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will,” said Abby.
I stood there for a second, taking it in. I had no idea what to do next. I had spent all my life waiting for this conversation to happen, but now that it had, I had no clue how to act.
“What the hell are you still in here for?” asked Ready, finally smiling at me. “You got a lot of people to call.”
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