Authors: Dirk Hayhurst

Out of My League (36 page)

BOOK: Out of My League

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Chapter Sixty-six

Aside from Peavy, our starters weren’t going very deep into games. This meant the bullpen was getting a lot of action, even for an NL team. When the pen’s red alert phone rang, many of the guys sarcastically whimpered. Some even pretended to cry, turning away with mock grief before forming finger guns with their catching hands and shooting their throwing arms like Old Yeller being put down behind the barn. This abundance of opportunity wouldn’t have been a bad thing if I were even the slightest bit confident I wouldn’t get my ass kicked when I came into the game.

When I got on the mound, things went berserk. I couldn’t repeat my delivery or consistently hit a spot. What I could do was dwell on my many problems as I had an abundance of time to kill, sitting in my silent corner of the pen, waiting for the season to end. I mapped out everything that could go wrong in any given situation, and while other guys pretended to cringe when the pen’s phone rang, I wasn’t faking it.

After the Dodgers series at home, San Francisco came to town. I managed to stay out of the mess until the last game of the series when I was called in to extra innings. I entered as the long man, and would pitch as long as I could, or until the tie was broken.

I gave up two runs without recording an out, was pulled, and got the loss.

My confidence was shot. It took everything I had to convince myself I could hack it in the big leagues, that if I had my good stuff, I wouldn’t be going through this. I rationalized, coached, recited, and even flat-out lied to myself to keep from going under. What I knew about myself as a baseball player was starting to slip away, and I was hanging on by teammate life support.

“It sucks, bro. I know you’re down, but if nothing else, remember the paychecks,” said Chip, with a punctuating head nod. “Just think how happy you and your queen are going to be knowing you don’t have to worry about moving back in with your folks. Think of the new car you gonna buy with cash.”

“I don’t want to think of it that way. There’s something wrong with being in the big leagues and just grinding out ass-kickings for checks.”

“It sucks,” said Luke. “You don’t play well here and people think you’re stealing checks, but so what? Take the money. It’s basically what everyone else is doing up here right now. The season was over for a lot of these guys weeks ago. Most of them are worried about their contract status, arbitration, if they’re going to have a job next year, and who’s going to own the team. Don’t read too far into this—it’s a mess.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you don’t have an ERA of 10.”

“So do a lot of other guys. Everyone is pitching like shit right now. Don’t let it rattle you.”

“I’m better than this, though,” I said. “You know that, you know I’m better than this, right?” They looked at me like I was some strung-out junkie.

Chip and Luke nodded their heads slowly, just like Frenchy nodded his head, and Anto his, and everyone else I cornered to talk about my insecurities with.

At first I let the insecurity come sparingly, testing the waters for compliments and pick-me-ups, but now I was letting them flow, bending conversations to my troubles and dumping my fears on anyone who would listen.

There is a threshold in baseball you only discover when things are going bad, the one your teammates have for enduring the venting of your frustrations. Every player goes through rough patches, and from time to time, every player needs to express their feelings about those rough patches to a teammate who was there and understands. But teammates tire of listening to other teammates whine extremely fast. This is when a player finds out his true friends. Chip, Anto, Luke, Frenchy: they were some of the truest friends I’d ever had in baseball, but even they had their limits.

Limits or not, I just couldn’t stop myself. I had pushed everyone else out of my world, dubbing them all incapable of understanding what I was living through. This was an elite world, for elite people. I couldn’t talk to Bonnie about my frustrations because she was incessantly positive, always telling me I was going to do better, always trying to discount the glaring negatives. I felt like I was one of her clients and not her husband-to-be. Then there were my parents, who still thought advising me like I was pitching in high school was reasonable nine years after graduating. My friends were too busy fawning over what it must be like to be in my shoes to empathize with my frustrations. Fans had no clue, the pitching coach had no stomach for weakness, and I’d be better off leaping from the top of the Gaslamp’s rooftop bar than tell the veterans I wasn’t enjoying my time in the Bigs. The only people I had left to talk to were those in similar situations, and the more I spoke to them about my problems, the less respect they had for me.

“Maybe I should ask Balsley if I can do some extra pen work? Maybe that would help me find what I’ve lost?”

“Not a good idea,” said Luke.

“Why not? It might help me.”

“It might, but you weren’t doing that when you showed up here, so starting a new routine with two weeks of the season left will just make it look like you’re grasping at loose ends. I’m telling you, just keep your head down and ride it out.”

“It sounds like you don’t want me to succeed, man,” I said.

“Why would you say that, of course I want you to,” said Luke.

“Then why would you advise me not to try and get better?”

Luke looked at Chip for help on the issue. Chip just looked away.

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying, people here are evaluating and it’s obvious this group is overanalyzing character traits. I think it would make good sense just to ride it out and not draw any more attention to yourself. Maybe if you roll a few good outings together you could ask for some extra work, but ...”

“But what?” I asked.

“But I don’t think now is the time.”

I didn’t like Luke’s answer. “If you were hitting bad, would you take extra cuts?”

“Yeah, but that’s what hitters do.”

“Then why can’t pitchers? Why can’t I?”

“I don’t think Balsley likes ... It’s late in the year ...” He shrugged. “Hey, man, you do what you need to do. I’m just telling you what I think.”

I looked at him with skeptical eyes, with something very much like anger or resentment welling up inside me. Then I relaxed and thought about his words. We weren’t competing against each other, after all. Maybe if Frenchy had said something like this, I would have more reason to doubt, but Luke was a catcher; he wouldn’t do me dirty.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said.

“Yeah, man. We’re all in the same boat. I need a few hits,” said Luke.

“Lord, you know I could use a few,” said Chip.

“You roll up some good outings, you won’t even think about extra pitching,” said Luke.

“Yeah,” I laughed anxiously, “yeah, you’re probably right.”

Chapter Sixty-seven

We flew to Denver to take on the Rockies, where we would lose two of three, after already losing three of four against the Giants. I made it into one game, the second, and, ironically, managed a perfect one, two, three inning in a game we were losing by eight runs. I contributed my sudden success to the handful of change I tossed into the meditation pond next to the waterfall in the visitors’ bullpen.

After game three, our getaway game with the Rockies, when the rookies got back into the locker room we discovered all our clothes were gone. Our suits, pants, and anything that could be considered street clothes aside from our socks and shoes had been removed. Hanging in their stead were little orange and white outfits, the same commonly found on Hooters girls.

Our rookie hazing began now.

It was our last cross-country trip of the year, and while all the players with a year or better of service time wore their normal suits, those of us with less were to be stuffed into Hooters costumes. It was a real wrestling match to get the outfits on. The tight orange spandex was not flattering to the bumps and bulges of the male body. To make the event less pornographic, we tried to wear underwear beneath the sheer, revealing fabric. However, our boxers and briefs proved larger than the tights, and we had to roll them up to make them fit. The extra fabric immediately shot up ass cracks and bunched up in various undercarriage hairs, resulting in a never-ending display of wedge-picking and ball-adjusting.

“How they gonna give me a small, bro? You see this ass, you think this fits into a small anything? Come on, man,” said Chip, wrestling his tights on like a walrus squeezing into a tutu.

“I don’t have any matching socks to wear with this,” I said, looking down at how stupid my long black dress socks and dress shoes looked with orange Hooters shorts.

“You’re dressed like a slutty waitress and you’re worrying about your socks and shoes choice? What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Chip.

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t look right,” I said, shrugging.

“Having a bulge in the front of these shorts doesn’t look right. The socks are fine.”

“Where am I going to put my ID?” I asked, though no answer came.

“I think I should wear my cup,” said someone from the other side of the room, which quickly received the response of, “Get over yourself, dude, it’s not that big.”

Heath Bell wandered around the locker room taking pictures of us all doing our darnedest to keep our manhood in short shorts. He snapped more pics as we struggled to get our Hooters tank tops on. When we finally got everything on, and everything tucked in, we were ushered out to the field for a very special team picture.

The grounds crew stopped what they were doing to watch us come on to the field, laughing hysterically at us. Stadium staff and cleaning crews halted to stare at us, pulling out camera phones to immortalize their good fortune.

“Okay, ladies, smile for the camera,” said Heath as he continued documenting.

And we did smile. We smiled and laughed because, as embarrassing as it was, it was also a rite of passage. It was like getting your degree, a moment when everyone acknowledged that we’d made it to the big leagues. There were fifteen rookies in total. Sixteen if you counted Justin Hatcher, the first-year bullpen catcher. We threw arms over each other’s shoulders and smiled big for the camera. We formed the nastiest, most undesirable pack of Hooters girls that ever walked the face of the earth, and we were as proud as hell about it.

When the on field pictures stopped and our new marching orders were given, we goosed each other off the field. I thought we’d go get on our plane now, but Hoffman and Jilly had other plans. “I think it’s time we bought these girls a couple of drinks.”

Across the parking lot from the stadium was a restaurant known as the Chophouse. It was a bar-and-grill type of place, though we were only interested in the bar portion. With veterans on all sides of us, we were herded across the parking lot and up the steps of the Chophouse.

When we entered the place, food dropped out of mouths. Sixteen cross-dressers ambled into the joint, picking and tugging as they came. We were directed to the bar, where Jilly slapped down money and ordered a round of Patrón tequila shots. The bartender had to have the manager step in to help him mix up a batch for us. Ladies came up to have their pictures taken with us—some grabbed our butts and tried to stuff one-dollar bills down our orange shorts. The shots were distributed, clinked in a toast to our honor, then downed. Then more shots came, were clinked, and downed, Then more came. I had never drunk so much so fast, and by the time we picked and tugged our way out, I was working hard to keep a straight line back to the team buses.

We still had to get a beer bag. Still had to go through security check, survive the five-hour plane ride, and check in to the hotel in Washington. I called Bonnie from the parked plane and told her I loved her over and over again. I told her other things too, but I couldn’t remember them. I think she told me she hoped I didn’t do anything too stupid. I remember taking offense to that and telling her I was on a plane with a bunch of responsible adults and nothing stupid could happen. Then I told her I had to get off because one of the guys was falling out of his outfit and the other guys were trying to hit his exposed parts with ice cubes and I wanted to try.

That plane flight was one of the most liberating experiences I’d had since I’d been on the team. I don’t know if it was because booze kept showing up in front of me or if it was because guys kept doing stupid and entertaining stuff, but we all had a good time. It was one of the first times I could stop thinking about my status as a rookie player and just enjoy the experience.

When the plane touched down in Washington, Hoffman turned the song blaring on his iPod speaker system to “My Way” by Frank Sinatra. I sang along to it for a verse or two before I turned to Frenchy sitting next to me and said, “You remember those transvestites in Salt Lake?”

“Yeah,” said Frenchy.

“I wonder if they got started like this?”

Chapter Sixty-eight

I was sober by the time the team made it to the Ritz in downtown DC, but I wished I was still drunk. If I was, I wouldn’t have remembered the feeling of being stared at by the staff and occupants of a five-star hotel, pulling bunched orange spandex from my ass while searching for where I’d stashed my credit card.

The next day was an off day. Bonnie got into town that night. She’d driven six hours after work to see me, overjoyed that I was on her side of the country again. I was happy to see her again since the rookie hazing had me feeling better about my life for the moment. We grabbed dinner in the hotel’s pricey, over-the-top restaurant, then lounged in the posh hotel room eating snacks from the mini-fridge.

“I have a little something for you,” said Bonnie. I was lying on the bed when she spoke.

“Oh, will I like it?” I asked, naughtily.

“Oh, you are going to love it,” she said. She pulled out a Victoria’s Secret bag from her luggage and set it down on the bed in front of me. I started to imagine what type of provocative outfit might be inside the bag.

“You like animal print, don’t you?” she asked.

I squinted at her. I’d never really pegged her for the safari-in-the-bedroom type. “Depends if I’m the predator or the prey,” I said.

“You’re the prey.” She giggled.

“I think I
am
going to like this.”

“Okay, then you take it out of the bag.”

I smiled slyly at Bonnie as I tugged the bag along. Still looking at her, I reached into the bag and felt fur. Then, my expression changed. I pulled out the item in the bag to reveal a homemade stuffed animal with purple spots, a long neck, and antlers.

“Is this a—”

“A Garfoose!” Bonnie finished. She was so excited for me to see it.

“Oh my gosh.” I stared at the stuffed animal for a second. It was just like I had imagined it to be.

“Do you like it?”

I looked at Bonnie. “Do I like it? I love it! It’s great!”

“I’m so glad, it took me forever to make it.”

“Honey, it’s amazing.” I made the stuffed Garfoose dance on the bed.
“Nom, nom, nom.”
I pretended to make the Garfoose bite her leg. “It’s not what I had in mind when I saw the Victoria’s Secret bag, but it’s still fantastic.”

“I made it for you because I knew you were having a rough time up here and I wanted you to feel better. Sometimes you need something around that can breathe fire on the other team, right?”

“This”—I held the Garfoose up—“this is just fantastic. Come here, gorgeous.” I reached out and tugged her over to me for a kiss.

“I can’t believe we’re going to be married in two weeks,” she said.

“I know, and there’s only nine more games until the season’s over,” I said with a sigh of relief.

“You can survive until then, right?”

“Absolutely. With this guy to protect me, I can survive anything.”

The hotel phone rang on the nightstand next to us, interrupting our fun. I picked it up, cradling the Garfoose in my arms as I put the receiver to my head.

“Hello?” I pushed the Garfoose’s face toward the receiver as if it was going to do the talking, while Bonnie giggled at me.

“Dirk? It’s Darren Balsley.”

I put the toy down, along with my smile. “Hey. How’s it going?” I asked dryly.

“Peavy’s wife is expecting to give birth today or tomorrow, so he’s going home to be with her for the delivery. You’re going to pick up his start tomorrow, okay?”

“Uh, sure, of course,” I said.

“So just come to the ballpark like you’re on the starting routine again.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Have a good night, then.”

“You too.”

He hung up.

“What was that about?” asked Bonnie.

“I have to pick up tomorrow’s start because Peavy had to leave town on account of his wife is giving birth.”

“Oh.” She noticed my anxious expression. “Is this a good thing?”

“Yeah,” I said, though my voice lacked commitment. “Yeah, starting is always a good thing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I said again, preoccupied with what was ahead of me.

“Well, great.” She picked up the Garfoose toy and made it play bite me on the side of my face. “You’ll get this start to show them what you’ve learned since your last one.”

“Yeah,” I said, pushing the toy away. “Yeah, what I’ve learned.”

“This is a bonus,” she said.

“A bonus,” I repeated. I lay back on the bed and Bonnie laid her head down across my chest.“Just a bonus. No pressure.”

BOOK: Out of My League

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