Authors: Dirk Hayhurst

Out of My League (17 page)

BOOK: Out of My League

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Chapter Thirty-one

Four days later, I awoke at 3
A.M.
to Chip, smacking me on the top of the head. “Wake up, bro.”

“Are the neighbor guys having sex again?” I asked, groggily.

“It’s time to go,” he said, standing over my bed.

Luke, Chip, and I had gone to bed only four hours earlier, after our last home night game. It was a travel day, and to get to our next destination, Salt Lake, we had to be up and back at our own stadium to rendezvous with the team bus by 4:30
A.M.

I sat up on the bed and stared bleary-eyed at Chip. He was already dressed with his bags by the door. I had packed most of my stuff last night but left my dress clothes hanging next to the bathroom so I could ready myself like a fast-moving assembly line.

I’d made a trip to Goodwill to get some travel duds of my own, and after suiting up and brushing my teeth, I came back to the living room with a terrible realization: I had no dress shoes. I hadn’t taken the time to get them. I proceeded to have a minor freak-out, going so far as to wonder how I could disguise my feet by slipping dark socks over tennis shoes. I would never live this down, I thought. Ready would kill me and the guys on the team would have a field day.

“Shit,” I said, pulling my just combed hair. “I got no shoes!”

“What size do you wear?” asked Chip.

“I don’t know. Like, an eleven or something.”

Chip went to his bedroom and brought back a pair of his shoes. “Here, try these,” he said, handing me a pair of black leather shoes. They were really different from my style: polished, flashy, with no laces or buckles. I looked at them funny, wondering on what occasions Chip wore them. That’s when I realized that Chip was wearing something that didn’t look like a suit at all but like a really flashy bowling outfit, as there was no suit jacket, just matching shirt and pants with custom breast pockets and pleats.

“That’s not a suit,” I said, looking at him.

“It’s dress clothes,” said Chip. “For people with style.”

“Oh,” I said, taking in his style. He looked like he was going to lead a revival at a Southern fish fry. I turned my eyes to the shoes he gave me.

“What?” he asked, looking at me looking at his shoes.

“These are ...”

“Careful, now.” Chip eyed me.

“These are awesome,” I finished.

“For sure they are. You gonna look like a pimp in those,” he said, as if the shoes had made the outfit go from Cinderella’s maid dress to the belle of the ball. I smiled at his enthusiasm, then looked to the shoes and wondered if he meant the usage of
pimp
in the literal or slang sense of the word.

“Thanks,” I said. “They fit well, like they were made for me.”

“Use ’em for however long you need.”

Luke’s door opened. He walked out in front of us with a pile of clothes in his hands and a scowl on his face, not bothering to say hello as he marched to the bathroom. I’m not exaggerating when I say that exactly one minute later the toilet flushed and the door swung open, revealing a perfectly dressed Luke, as if he were just taken out of his Republican action figure packaging.

“Damn.” Chip looked at me, then back to Luke. “How’d you do that?”

“Do what?” asked Luke.

With no ride to the stadium, we pulled our rolling suitcases behind us all the way down Burnside Street, piercing the silent night with the sound of plastic wheels grinding over concrete and blacktop. As we got closer to the stadium, other street-walking players in their dress clothes joined us, heading the same way. Our ranks grew as we neared the park, a whole legion of curfew-violating, well-dressed, luggage-toting, twentysomethings staging a Jets versus Sharks–style choreographed dance fight in front of PGE Park. Shortly after, a bus arrived, collected us, and took us back to the Portland airport.

Flying was a real perk, or at least it seemed like one on paper. If you did the math, however, you’d realize you missed just as much sleep, if not more, doing the minor league airport shuffle. Players tend to compare travel times by how long they are in the actual vehicle. A three-hour plane ride is obviously shorter than a twelve-hour bus trip, but this says nothing of the layovers, security check-ins, baggage claims, and all the other bullshit that it takes to get a group of thirty men—some of whom don’t speak English—trying to check bats and talking about “blowing up chicks,” onto a plane in the post-9/11 era. By the time our plane skidded in to Salt Lake’s airport, we felt like we’d been profiled as deviants, robbed by luggage fees, fed complimentary pretzels, and fired out of a cannon. Hurray for flying.

Standing at the luggage carousel, guys placed bets on whose bags would slide down the chute first. Our trainer acted like a bookie, holding the money until the luggage popped out. Hamp won. Instead of apologizing to everyone complaining about how he was a lucky bastard, he gloated, telling them they’d just funded his next trip to the strip club. Then, just to rub it in, he promised to waste the money on an ugly girl.

There was no bus to pick us up outside the Salt Lake City terminal. We were staying at the Sheraton City Centre, and it sent a shuttle to collect us. There weren’t enough seats for everyone, so some had to stay behind. Who stayed was decided like all short supply items in baseball are decided, by who had the most service time, meaning I lost. It turned out that even if I would’ve made the first shuttle cut, I would have had to do some waiting because my room wasn’t ready when I arrived. While everyone else was foraging for breakfast or catching a power nap before heading to the ballpark, I was stuck with my roommate, Matt Antonelli, in the lobby.

Players are given the option to select a road roomie at the beginning of the year, and I picked Anto because he was about as easygoing as they got. Usually pitchers room with pitchers since we operate on a similar wavelength, but after years of road roomies, I knew that Anto, a position player, had the makings of an all-star travel companion. Anto had the personality of a big, friendly dog. He liked being around people, but also liked lying on his bed. He loved to play a good game of ball, and then get fed. For Anto, life was very simple; as long as you didn’t pull his ears, he’d be your best friend.

Anto had a few peculiarities. For one, healthy food was like poison to him. He couldn’t consume plant life, or anything that consisted of less than 50 percent fat calories. In fact, the longer the nuclear half-life of his meals, the more he liked them. I’ve seen him turn his nose at seafood spreads furnished by big league rehabbers only to run to McDonalds for a Quarter Pounder. The man could eat Styrofoam as long as you covered it in hot sauce.

Anto was also a Bostonian, which made him partial to certain words, like
friggin’
and
retarded,
which he pronounced “retahhhdid.” Used in a sentence it would sound like, “That’s retahhhdid, it’s friggin’ one in the afternoon! Rooms should be ready by one in the afternoon.”

“That’s just the tiredness talking. This is a nice place, you’ll like it.”

“I’d like it more if they had cookies in the lobby. I’m stahhhv-ing.”

“I’m sure the rooms will be ready soon. We gotta wait.”

And so we did. Boredom made me run through the names on my cell phone. Anto texted his female counterpart on the other side of the country between pouts of friggin’ disgust. Muzak played; I think it was supposed to be the Police, with Sting’s vocals replaced by the splashy sounds of a tenor saxophone. Two hours from now the first shuttle would leave to take us to the field for batting practice.

“I hate this friggin’ town,” said Anto, clapping his cell phone shut. This was odd-hour anger speaking. A mixture of duress and fatigue compounded by the anticipation of expectation. He would have to start tonight, operating on hours of sleep you could count on one hand.

“It’s not the town’s fault.”

Anto sighed again. He made for his travel bag housing his laptop. “Do they have free Internet, at least?”

“No, you have to pay for it. That’s how you know it’s a nice place: they make you pay for everything,” I said cooly.

He dropped his bag back to the floor and slumped back in his seat. “This is friggin’ retahhhdid! I’ll bet the Red Roof doesn’t charge us for Internet and we would have our rooms ready by now. I really hate this friggin’ town.”

“I can’t begin to tell you how
tough
you sound when you use the word
friggin’
over and over like that. I’ll bet if you drop a few of those angry
friggin’
s on the people at the front desk, they’ll work faster.”

He stared at me for a second and then said, “Shaddup.”

I waved my hands dismissively and turned away. We continued our sit in, listening to the faux Police send their message in a bottle. My roomie mashed the buttons on his cell phone with fury, probably explaining his frustrations one text at a time. I got up and paced the lobby, amusing myself by trying to step on certain colored tiles but not others. I had picked my way across to the front door when a horde of large, beefy gentlemen came in. They filled the lobby, wide shoulders and boxy frames housing deep voices.

I recognized them to be a team, as they had all the characteristics of my traveling companions except they were much, much larger. Indeed, they were football players, the Chicago Rush arena team logo was marked on their luggage.
What are the odds a Triple A team and an arena football team would take in the same hotel?
I wondered. Salt Lake City was offering a lot of sports entertainment options this weekend.

The footballers joked about like my team did as they waited for their room keys to be distributed. Then they dispersed from the lobby en route to their rooms. My roommate and I remained, still no word as to how long it would be until our room was ready.

Shortly after the football team passed through, two more large men walked in; they looked very much like bodybuilders. At first, I thought they might be stragglers with the football team, but something was different about this pair: they were both wearing tiaras and holding hands. They strolled up to the counter and, in high, hair-stylist voices, inquired on their rooms. Theirs were ready. The deskman passed them their keys, they giggled, smooched, and headed toward the elevator.

I tried to act cosmopolitan. I didn’t stare. Besides, they were bigger than me. My roommate did, though. He watched them sashay their way to the elevator doors and goose each other in. He watched them until the doors closed. The look on his face would make you think they just went through the doors of the
Twilight Zone
. He gawked back at me, across the lobby.

I smirked, and offered him a shrug. What else could I do? “That’s something you don’t see every day, huh?” I said to the deskman.

“Not every day. But you’ll be seeing a lot of it this weekend,” he said back, matter-of-factly.

“Why’s that?” I inquired.

“There is a transvestite convention going on here these next few days.”

The record skipped. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“There is a transvestite convention, going on here, until Monday. Sir.”

“Oh.”

On cue, a gentleman walked through the lobby doors wearing super-tight jeans, a rhinestone V-neck, and a pair of heels. His toenails were done in a bright cherry red. He had large sunglasses on, and more than a touch of mascara. He had fake eyelashes and a mole and was carrying a mannequin head with a wig on it.

This time I stared. I mean, stuck to the ground like a lawn ornament stared. This new guy, or girl, or whatever, walked past me on the way to the desk but stopped to take note of my staring. He/ she cocked his/her hip out to the side, adjusted his/her sunglasses down a tick, and peered over their rim. “See something you like, honey?”

“Um,” I said, voice cracking like a schoolboy’s, “no, ma’am.”

“Well,” he/she paused and looked me up and down, “I see something
I
like.”

“Oh Jesus,” I blurted.

I spun away like I had to answer my phone, or mother, or the voices in my head—anything to break eye contact. He/she didn’t give chase, simply snorting at my cold shoulder like I was missing out on something fantastic. He/she then proceeded to the front desk, checked in, and went on his/her way, wig and all.

I glanced to Anto, who looked as if he’d lost his mind from the experience, mouthing the words, “I hate this town, I hate this friggin’ town!”

I came back up to the front desk, looked the deskman in the eye, and in my toughest, tough-guy voice said, “You have got to get us our friggin’ room ready now!”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll just give you the keys and you can head up. I’m sure she’ll finish with you in the room.” He got the keys and slid them to us.

We made a beeline for the elevator. When the doors opened, Chip and Luke were standing there. We pushed past them, forcing our way into the elevator before they could exit.

“Hey man, what’s the rush?” said Chip.

“Oh Chip,” I said patting him on the shoulders, “are you ever going to hit well this series.”

BOOK: Out of My League

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