Authors: Dirk Hayhurst

Out of My League (18 page)

BOOK: Out of My League

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Chapter Thirty-two

Salt Lake City was Mormon country. Regardless of your views on the Mormon faith, there is one thing baseball players accept as fact: Mormon chicks are hot. I don’t know what it is about them, but they are the closest thing to Scandinavian women that America has to offer. Blond, buxom, and, because their faith demands it, they are oh so sweet to gentlemen.

Because the bullpens in Salt Lake City are exposed down the foul lines, they provided open views of the field and its surroundings. This is a fantastic perk since Salt Lake’s stadium is one of the most eye-pleasing places to watch a game in baseball. Your ticket buys you breathtaking views of the snowcapped mountains behind the stadium, as well as views of the blond-capped ones within it.

Thanks to the warmer weather, we weren’t the only ones taking off our coats. Beautiful, and assumed Mormon, ladies flitted into the stands, sitting in giggly packs, waving at us when we looked their way. Naturally, Dallas was the first to notice the local demographic. He stared into the mass of blondes like a dog might watch his master eat at the dinner table. Lord knows what was running through his head, something starring Ron Jeremy as the leader of a polygamous compound, no doubt.

Two women came down and sat a few rows from where we were. Dallas was glued to them. They wore skintight black shirts, pumps, bangles, and had their hair done up. The women were older, maybe scraping forty. They watched the boys on the field, yakking away, swinging their giant purses around like hammers. Then, suddenly, like spooked deer, they caught sight of us training our rifles on them.

“Why are they frowning?” asked Fish.

Before I could answer, Dallas was talking. “’Cause they think we’re being rude. Fuck, this pair should be happy someone’s looking at them.”

Yet, instead of running, the girls’ heads pulled back and shook as if they were talking about how inappropriate we were, and yet they stared right back at us.

“Mmm-hmm. That’s just for show,” said Bentley, sighing before looking someplace else in the stands. “Those girls are the worst variety of cleat chasers.”

“There is a variety?” I asked.

“Of course, but you already know them,” he said, dismissing my question. I continued staring at him to indicate I did not know.

“Hayhurst is a virgin,” said Ox, like I had some condition explaining why I was so naïve.

“Oh. How quaint,” said Bentley.

“Not for much longer, though,” I said, proudly.

“Wonderful. At any rate”—Bentley cleared his throat, using his fingers to count—“you’ve got your whores, those are the ones who don’t care if people know they want to land a player. They often look like prostitutes. You see them outside locker rooms mostly. They really like the Latin guys for some reason.”

“The insiders,” said Ox. “They work for a team. Tell you they love baseball and are in it for professional reasons, but they’ll screw anyone on the team if the situation presents itself. Ha, I would know.”

“The trophies,” said Bentley. “You see more of these at the big league level. They go all-out to land a player. They’re like big game hunters. They study you, what you like, and so forth. Then, once they end up with you, they let you foot the bill. They act stupid, but they’re smart. And they’ll trade you in for a better deal too.”

“Horny host moms,” said Ox. “I shouldn’t have to explain that one.”

“Princess Lay-mes.”

“What?” I balked at that title.

“Princess
Lay-mes,
” repeated Bentley. “They show up to the park, overdressed, but not slutty. They want attention, but act like they don’t. They’re a contradiction.”

“Like these ladies here?” We looked back to the cougars a few rows in.

“Yes, except they’re also cougars.”

“So, Queen Lay-mes,” I said, impressed at my wittiness.

“Very clever.” Bentley nodded to me. “But it’s all an act.”

“You’re sure?”

“Certainly. Look at them,” said Bentley, and we all turned back to the women, who, again cocked their giant earring-wearing heads to the side as if to telegraph offense. “They go through this routine of being offended by obvious interest, so they can somehow preserve a shred of respectability, though they all want the same thing.”

“What are you all staring at?” shouted the women, heads cocked skeptically.

“Observe,” Bentley whispered to us. Then, to the ladies, “The girls behind you.”

The cougars jerked ’round to inspect who Bentley referenced. Younger models sat there, completely oblivious to Bentley’s call. When the cougars noticed they were once again competing with youth, they seemed more offended than anything our gawking could have incited.

“Could you get their attention for us?” added Bentley. “They’re closer to our age and we’re only in town for a little while.”

“Hey now, we aren’t as old as you think we are,” said one of the women.

“See,” said Bentley, folding his arms over his chest. “In Triple A, age isn’t just a factor for the players.”

“Yeah, and the best thing about cheating with an older chick is that your wife can’t get jealous,” said Dallas, trying to look cool like Bentley, folding his arms over his chest after he spoke.

Everyone’s eyes left the girls and turned to Dallas.

“Jesus, Dallas, what the hell kind of comment is that?”

“What? Your wife can’t get all hurt about it because an older woman is uglier and shit. You know, she can’t feel bad about herself not being good enough, like she would with a younger girl. You know how girls can be.”

“Do you even hear the things you say?” said Ox.

“Yeah, why?”

“How busted up a chick you bang when you’re married isn’t the point. You’re married, you shouldn’t be banging any other chicks, period.”

Dallas looked at everyone in the group. An uneasy smile grew across his face. “Come on now, I’m just fucking with you guys. Jesus, every time I say something about girls, you guys freak out. It’s like you all turn into Gayhurst here.” He laughed to himself, despite the thick wall of
bullshit
looks surrounding him. “I think it’s fucking hilarious. You guys are too easy.” Dallas got up and walked over to the stands to start up a “harmless” conversation. We all watched him go, shaking our heads.

“So, Dirk, any of this made you consider a prenup?” asked Bentley.

I shook my head. “Nah.”

“Are you sure? It’s not as insulting as it—”

“I’m not getting divorced,” I said, flatly.

“Of course, of course,” said Bentley, appeasingly. “Though, if you do make it to the big leagues, remember, you’re not the only person who makes it to the Show. Your wife can change too. It’s funny how it works up there.”

“What do you mean?

“I’d hate to see you in a situation like Dallas, that’s all.”

“Honestly Bent, I don’t think
that
is ever going to happen.”

Bentley dropped the subject,

“Nah,” said Ox, throwing a paw on my shoulder. “Diggler here doesn’t need a prenup. He didn’t meet his girl in the baseball scene.”

I never expected Ox to defend me on something like marriage. I gave him a thankful smile.

“And, since he’s never used his penis for anything creative, he’ll be afraid to cheat out of embarrassment.”

“Thanks Ox, you’re a real friend.”

“Anytime, bud. Anytime.”

Chapter Thirty-three

Later in the series, back at the hotel, the boys were starting to get paranoid about an entirely different category of cleat chaser. One of our infielders said he was cornered in the elevator by two transvestites who asked if he’d like to join them in the hot tub. Another player was catcalled by a guy who looked a lot like Bluto from the
Popeye
cartoons wearing a prom dress.

Anto, despite the hotel demographic, insisted I join him at the hotel bar for dinner. Anto couldn’t eat the spread the team we were playing, the Bees, put out post-game. It was something covered in mushrooms, and a brown sauce he said would make him puke upon contact with his tongue. He said he needed a Philly cheesesteak and french fries or he would surely die of malnutrition, and then he said he needed me to protect him while he ate because if he got hit on by a dude his stomach would get queasy and he wouldn’t be able to finish.

While Anto ate, a few male guests strolled in. Since not all of the transvestites in the hotel were wearing gowns, you had to look for signs. Anto stopped and watched them with suspicion.

“Give me a drink,” said one of the new guests. “A stiff one, I mean
real
stiff. If I’m going to hit on one of the ladies out there, I’m going to need some serious ‘help.’ ”

The joke made Anto’s stomach settle, and he continued eating. Meanwhile, the gentlemen passed the test and went about their business, talking about sports and cars and shooting horned animals, and all the other stuff men talk about at bars. However, as time passed, the bar slowly filled with odd-looking characters, but since none of them sat by us, Anto felt okay to stay.

“You guys want anything to drink with your meal?” the bartender inquired. I think I was making her mad as I was only drinking water and eating the free nuts while Anto stuffed himself with grease.

“We should probably order a drink,” I said to Anto. We were eating at the bar, after all.

“You kiddin’? The prices on booze in this town are friggin’ ridiculous.”

“It’s Salt Lake,” said the bartender, acknowledging the exorbitant prices for liquor. “Not the best place to be a bartender.” She said it sadly, like she never made any money doing her job because of the tyrannies of abolitionists. This, of course, motivated us to buy something out of sympathy.

“I’ll have a Jack and Coke,” said Anto.

“I’ll have a ... a Kool-Aid,” I said.

“I don’t know what that is,” said the bartender.

“It’s got vodka and Sprite,” I said.

“And cranberry?” she asked.

“Sure, why not,” I said.

“Oh, a blush,” she said, and whirled away to mix it.

Soon the drinks were presented in front of us. Anto’s brown drink and my own drink, as pink as the gem in Bonnie’s engagement ring—with a little lime garnish.

“Oh, that’s a nice touch,” I said, taking the little lime out. “She even put a little sword in it for me.” I swashbuckled Anto’s arm.

The conversations across the bar stopped as the interest started focusing my way. I sipped my drink. Whispering broke out. I took another sip.

“Why are they all looking at me funny?” I said out of the corner of my mouth.

Anto, formerly oblivious to my drink in favor of his meal, gasped, “Dude, your drink. Stop drinking the drink.”

“Are you kiddin’?” I said, imitating him. “The prices for booze in this town are friggin’ ridiculous.” I thought I was very funny.

“You’re in a hotel full of gay guys and you’re drinking a friggin’ salmon-colored drink. And quit poking me with that friggin’ sword.” He smacked my hand away. “Either everyone thinks we’re one of the queens out there, or they think you’re going to bait the queens in here by drinking it!”

I looked around the bar. I had attracted a few disgusted looks, like that of the gentlemen who needed the “stiff” drinks, and a few stiff looks, like those from the gentlemen wearing makeup.

“So this is what it’s like to be a girl who sits near the bullpen?” I muttered.

“Did you just say this is what it’s like to be a girl?” asked Anto. “You’re gonna find out pretty soon if you don’t get rid of that drink.”

“It cost seven dollars!” I said.

“Then hurry up and drink it.”

“I can’t drink it fast. I don’t have good booze tolerance yet,” I pleaded.

Anto shook his head and went back to eating, only at double the pace.

“Fine,” I said. “Bartender, I can’t drink this. Give me a beer.”

“What kind of beer would you like?” asked the bartender.

“Oh, I dunno, give me something that tastes good.”

“Oh my friggin’ God. Who are you?” asked Anto.

“What? I just want to like what I drink, is that a crime?”

“Oh, come on now, guys, don’t fight,” said the new voice of a gentleman sitting down next to us.

Our new barmate was a taller fellow. He had a very, very close shave, nearly waxed. He had a little blush of his own, except his accentuated his cheekbones. His arms were shaved and adorned with bracelets. He wore a V-neck, which seemed to be the dress code around the hotel lately. He smiled at me very pleasantly. In the time it took me to acknowledge the man who sat down next to me, Anto started gagging, produced his wallet, put money on the table, and excused himself before he vomited, leaving me behind.

“Where is your friend off to?” asked the man.

“He’s upset with me,” I said, shifting awkwardly.

“Oh, that’s a shame. But there’s more fish in the sea. Sometimes they just jump right in your boat, right?”

“I ... Yeah.” I finished my seven-dollar beacon of gayness in one solid gulp. Screw tolerances.

“What are you drinking?” my friend with fine cheekbones asked.

“I’m sorry. Really. I’m not interested. Excuse me.” I slapped a ten on the bar and got up.

“You know,” said my gentleman caller as I started away, “it’s guys like you who are the worst. You pretend you’re offended when it’s obvious you’re interested. Well, get over yourself. I’m not going to chase after you, princess.”

Mouth open, I gaped back at him.

“Oh, too late now, honey. The bar’s closed.” He spun around on his stool.

BOOK: Out of My League

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