The Bullpen Gospels (18 page)

“Does this clubbie still work in the minors?” Slappy asked. We ignored him.

“The lady they booked turned out to be a real professional with a specialty in role playing. So, the guys scripted out how they wanted the whole thing to go down. They brought her to a game, got her tickets, and told her to hit on Carl the whole night as if she were in love. She was great, had Carl fumbling with his bat on and off the field.

“After the game, she hung around and asked Carl out for a little postgame show. Carl didn’t have a place of his own, still living with his parents, and he didn’t know what to do. The clubbie thought of that. He arranged it so the two lovebirds could head back to his place.”

“Why didn’t you get him a hotel room?”

“We were on a budget.” Understanding nods all around. The minors were still the minors.

“The girl took care of the rest,” Rosco continued. “She walked him through the entire process and rung his bell many times over.

“The next day in the locker room, the guys came in early to discuss Carl’s night. When Carl came in, we met him with cheers and applause. Some guys got up and shook his hand, slapping him on the back. I’m surprised cigars weren’t handed out. Then we asked him the question everyone was dying to know, ‘So, how was it, buddy? Was she everything you wanted?’ To which he replied, as cool as ice: ‘Oh, she was okay, but the one the guys bought me last year was better.’”

“No way—” the boys around Rosco said, mouths open, staring in disbelief.

“Exactly. I could have dropped dead right then and there,” Rosco said.

“Wow! You guys got took by a retarded kid,” Pickles blurted.

“Man,” Rosco corrected.

“Good, I’m glad you got took. Serves you guys right,” I said, my arms crossed like a nun.

“Why are you so offended? I thought you’d be inspired! There’s hope for you!”

“Hope that you guys will pitch in and buy me a hooker?”

“I just had a great idea guys!” Slappy declared. He got up, walked behind me, and placed his hands on my shoulders. “I know a great cause we could use our quarter toss money for!”

The bus home from Modesto was very much like the bus to it. We arrived early, near the crack of dawn, with a game looming hours away. I went home to my borrowed bed, slept late, went to stretch, and spent another night in the bullpen. The following day brought another game, then another, and another, and so on. Soon the days and nights began to blur together. Sometimes I pitched.

When I did take the mound, I did great. I didn’t change my style and it wasn’t always amazing, but I was successful. I was confident. I didn’t worry about what happened once I let go of the ball. I didn’t see the Baseball Reaper anymore, and I didn’t fight myself. I was pitching the best I ever had in my four tours of the Cal League—far too well for any defeatist thoughts. The team was great, funny, entertaining. My host family was fantastic. I began to feel like a superhero again, as if I could do great things through my success.

On the top of that list of deeds was swooping into my parents’ house. During this visit I imagined they would all be happy to see me. No one would be fighting or drinking or crying. We’d all talk about baseball and about how great it was that I was in the big leagues. I’d turn out my pockets, flush with cash, and we’d go out and get a new car and a new house and a new life. It was a good dream. Hell, I’d even buy grandma a new washing machine.

One night, on an off day, I lay in bed thinking about that beautiful vision and the time line I was on to make it come true. I needed to move forward, and I began to wonder if I would or if I was too stale a product in the eyes of the Brass to escape from A-ball. Then, my cell phone rang. The Lake Elsinore trainer was calling.

“Hey Will, how’s it going?” I asked.

“Hey Dirk, I’ve got some news for you.”

I thought about the last trainer who called me with news. “Am I going to like this news?”

“You should, you’re heading up to Double-A. Congratulations! You earned it. Your flight leaves tomorrow, so you need to come in and get your bags and your medical folder.”

“Wait. What?”

“Yeah, I know it’s sudden, but you know how it is. The team’s in Corpus Christi right now, part of an eight-day road trip. I’ll give you the rest of the details when you pick up your stuff. I’ll meet you at the field.”

“Holy shit. What time?” I sprung out of bed.

“In an hour. Can you make it?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Cool, see you then, and congratulations.”

And as I closed the cell phone, I also closed my time in A-ball. In a matter of eight hours, I would be gone. I would disappear from Lake Elsinore, leaving all my friends behind without so much as a good-bye. I thanked my host family, packed my bags, and caught a plane early in the morning to a new team in a new town with a whole new set of circumstances.

In the cab, riding from the airport to the field in Corpus Christi I decided to call my parents and tell them the good news—the first call home I made since my assignment to Lake Elsinore. Like any job, getting promoted is a good excuse to call family and boast. I was excited.

I rang the newly replaced house phone. My dad, much to my surprise, picked up with a tired “Ya?”

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey.”

“How’s it goin’?”

“It’s goin’.”

“Is Mom around?”

“Who knows.”

“Well, I got some good news. I got called back up to Double-A.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, I’m on my way there now. Good news, huh?”

“I thought you were gonna quit,” he said, in a queer, almost disappointed way.

“Yeah, me too, but I’m back on track now.”

“Uh-huh,” he said hollowly.

One little note of excitement was all I wanted, but my words seemed to tumble into him like a deep, empty well.

This was one of the reasons I didn’t call home. My dad was like any other father who pushed his son to be successful. He kicked me in the ass when I needed it, sometimes even when I didn’t. He was my first pitching coach and first life coach. Consequently, he was the person I went to for help handling bumps in both roads. It felt like I lost a piece of myself when I started pitching without him in the stands. Then, when he began to vacate other portions of my life, he felt less like a father and more like an unstable person living in my house.

Back in 2005, when things were going bad and my demons had manifested into cloaked figures and regular ass-kickings, I called my dad to tell him I hated baseball. I told him I was sick of it and I wanted out. Essentially, I called him to be told I should keep pushing from the man who had pushed me to chase this down in the first place.

He didn’t, though. He was bankrupt, no words to push himself along with and certainly none for me. He started screaming, his voice straining the speakers of my cell phone as the high pitches blared through. He told me to quit, “Just fucking quit! I’m sick of hearing you whine about it! Ain’t got no chance anyway. Doesn’t matter how hard you fucking try…”

It was so absolutely depressing to hear him say it. His passionate hatred for life could convince anyone it wasn’t worth trying anymore. I kept playing as a way of refusing to accept his words as gospel.

That was then, and this was now. I didn’t need motivation, I only wanted to share a victory. I was realizing, however, not only couldn’t my father give, but he couldn’t receive anymore either. He couldn’t share this feeling or take hold of the success with me. The pain of not receiving joy from loved ones was something I had become accustomed to. The powerless feeling of being unable to give joy back, however, was not. I felt my promotion turn to ash.

“Are you proud of me, Dad?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m playing professional baseball. I’ve been playing for a long time now. I know I may never make it to the big leagues, but I’d like to think you’re proud of me regardless. I haven’t given up.”

“You don’t need me to tell you I’m proud of you.”

“I need to know. I need to know that what I’m doing makes you happy. I want you to tell me I make you happy.”

“What does makin’ me happy have to do with what you’re doing?”

“I want to know you’re happy, Dad. Please, just tell me you’re happy.”

The receiver hung silent, then, “Nothing makes me happy anymore, Dirk.”

I held the phone like it was a brick as the cabby drove me down the cemetery roads of some forgettable, minor league tomb. The cab might as well have been a hearse.

“Can I talk to Mom?” I asked in a whisper.

Dad yelled for my mother. There was the sound of the phone changing hands, and my mom got on the line. “Hello?”

“Hey, Mom.”

“Well, hello,” she said, in a more typically cheery parental way. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” I mustered.

“How are things going?”

“Good, I’m on my way to Texas. Got called up to Double-A.”

“You did! That’s great!”

“Yeah…. It’s where I want to be, right?” The words bled out as if I were deflating.

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“Oh, I am.”

“How funny. I know you don’t like it when I talk about this, but I was reading in the
Mad Friars
the other day, and they said you weren’t—”

“Please don’t go there mom,” I interrupted. “You know I hate that crap.”

The Padres have their own team-specific media venue, which pumps out speculation and prophecy about kids coming up through the system. Like most minor league news venues, its reports are written to sell and hype as much as they are to inform. It’s a fine example of how people in my line of work are sifted into the prospects and nobodies. My mom treats it like the Bible, while I detest it.

“If you called more often, I wouldn’t have to read what they print.”

“The people who write that stuff don’t play the game, Mom. I do. If you are so concerned, then call me.”

“You’d just yell at me for getting into your business.”

“You are getting into it anyway, might as well get it from the source.”

“You know I don’t believe that stuff,” she casually lied.

“Yes, you do, and so do other people. Do you know what it’s like to be summed up by numbers and reports in the media? To be labeled? I can deal with the fact other people believe that I’m some kind of waste of space, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. You’re my mom.”

“I don’t understand why you get so upset about this. It’s just words.”

“You started the conversation off with, ‘I know you don’t like it but…’”

“Fine, let’s change the subject, then. Talk to me about something else.”

I sighed and shifted the phone from one ear to the other.

“What’s the matter?”

“Dad.”

“What about him?”

“Do you think Dad’s proud of me?”

“What?”

“Seriously, do you think he’s proud of me?”

“Sure he is. Why would you ask that?”

“Why can’t he say it then?”

“Dirk, your father can’t…He can’t say a lot of things anymore.” Her voice trailed away. I guess I didn’t stop to think about how many things he no longer said to her.

“I don’t understand that. Why can’t he just get past himself once in a while,” I pressed.

“You don’t need to hear him tell you things to know he cares.” She said it like a promise she hopelessly repeated to herself daily.

“He said that too, but what if I want to hear him say it. What about that? Maybe I just want to know I’m doing right by him, and I want to hear it from his mouth?”

She didn’t respond.

“Now you’re quiet too. Everyone’s quiet. I’m doing something so many folks would die to do, and it’s like he doesn’t even care!”

Still only silence on the other end of the line.

“Why can’t he tell me he’s proud of his son for grinding it out? Why can’t he just fake it once—”

“Are you done?” she interrupted. “I deal with this enough from him, I don’t need it from you. I’m sorry you don’t feel like he’s being the perfect father. I’m sorry things aren’t they way you think that they should be, but this is the way they are. So you are just going to have to get over it!”

Silence again, this time it was my turn. I spend more time in silence than I do in conversation with my parents.

I fought the urge to hang up. The cabbie looked back at me in his rearview mirror. I looked away from his eyes. Moments later, a calm, collected voice returned, “Honey, it doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t fix your father. He’s not right, and nothing we can do is going to change that.”

“I can’t accept that.”

“You don’t have a choice,” she said bluntly.

“Why?”

“Because some things aren’t simple to fix. Not even when you get promoted.”

I transferred the phone back to my other ear. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“So, have you met any girls this season?” More banal small talk.

“No.”

“Any good friends on the team?”

“…”

“If you aren’t going to talk then why’d you call?”

“…”

My brother’s rough voice rumbled in the background of the dormant line. Scratches echoed through the receiver as she moved her mouth from the phone to answer him. “I don’t know, where did you put them last?…Well look there…. No, I didn’t move them…. Why does your problem always become my problem?” She came back to our conversation with an exasperated tone, “I have to go, your brother can’t find his pants, and he’s got a meeting in a few minutes, and he’s panicking.”

“Fine.”

“Everything’s gonna be okay, Dirk, we are all proud of—I’m coming for Christ’s sake, put some underwear on, then we’ll worry about the pants! Gotta go, bye-bye.”

She hung up.

The first thing any player should do after arriving with a new team is meet the manager. Even if you’ve been called up and sent back down to a club where the coaching staff is familiar with you, go pay your respects. The skipper might say nothing more than welcome, or he might lay out his master plan and your part in it in four acts. He’s the manager; he can do what he wants. Some managers are moodier than others, and some have certain pet peeves, but almost all of them dislike being the last man on your list of priorities when you show up on their team. My advice: always appease those who have direct power to punish.

When I strolled into the office of the Missions manager, my hair had grown back down to my shoulders, popping out under my hat like the straw from a scarecrow’s hat. I had a strong five o’clock shadow going and didn’t even bother with a collared shirt. My eyes were bloodshot and my glasses were dirty. The manager, Randy Ready, stared at me as if I just walked in from the street to beg for change.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I offered.

Randy eyed me. “Jesus, Hayhurst, you’re takin’ the law into your own hands looking like that.”

“I was going to get my hair cut today, but I got called up and it ruined my plan. Honest.” I’ve said truer things.

“Oh yeah, sure you were, right? How convenient is that, huh? Couldn’t get your hair cut because a promotion got in the way.” He laughed, openly skeptical.

I wasn’t going to slip anything past Randy, least of all some limp excuse for weeks of haircut neglect. Randy understood baseball life too well. He knew all the trick plays and heard every excuse. The stuff he’s seen during his time in the game makes my tales seem like nursery rhymes.

I’ve played under him before, and I know from experience he operates under the principle that with success comes leniency. It’s a long season, and a good manager knows when to pick his battles. If a player does his job and keeps his nose clean, he’ll make sure the police look the other way. On the other hand, if he sniffs out that guys are going through the motions, spending too much time thinking about things like hair, and not taking extra reps to ensure victories, he’ll make sure the law is followed to the letter. He has his priorities, chief of which is developing winners. Somewhere down at the bottom is looking trendy.

I respected Randy for his desire to win, his views on professionalism, and, of course, his power to punish. I also respected him for other reasons. Some managers pushed the panic button when teams started to drop games. Randy always kept his cool. He never screamed at players, and he didn’t have to. The ease with which he could tell a player how it was, what failure meant, and what he’d be forced to do if it continued were more sobering than high-volume verbal ballistics could ever be. True, he did get loud now and again, though he usually aimed it at an on-field official, getting him tossed like some form of baseball exorcism.

Abby, the Missions’ pitching coach, sat on the far side of Randy’s office. He stared at me in pretend shock, then took his turn welcoming me to the club with, “My God Hay, you look like Harry Potter. Tell me he don’t look like Harry Potter?” he said, gesturing to Randy while shaking his head. Randy smirked and offered a laugh that was more of a decorative exhale than anything. “You ain’t gonna cast a spell on me are ya?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll get it cut.”

“Oh yeah, you will,” Randy said. I had done nothing to help his team this year, therefore I had earned no leniency.

“Shit, you’re looking like one of them fairy book people,” Abby continued, again with the face of shock.

Things were not always what they seemed with Abby. Though his country drawl and old-fashioned disposition evoked a dimwitted Southern stereotype, he was anything but. He made a habit of rednecking up his speech, fumbling words and phrases, just to see if we’d catch it. He’d act surprised when the team called him out for it, like a teacher would feign shock when kindergartners corrected her for something she purposefully botched. He used it as a defense when he got in trouble, like when he’d cut in on boarding lines during team flights and aviation officials would reprimand him. He’d act as if he didn’t know any better, airplanes were magical creations, and he was just a country boy after all. He’d never apologize, however, when he got that exit row seat.

Acting wasn’t the only thing Abby knew. He was well acquainted with pitching and the numbers behind it. He kept track of everything a pitcher did on the mound, meticulously breaking down counts, averages, and ratios—analyzing, comparing, dissecting. All the backwoods Arkansas BS was a front. He was like the Columbo of pitching coaches, rambling his way into genius by pretending to be confused.

Thanks to his rich character, Abby had so many nicknames from his loving core of pitchers, it was hard to keep track of them all. Some called him Big Chicken because he looked like Foghorn Leghorn and spoke with the same inflection. Some called him Top Heavy because he had a boiler and a big head teetering on spindly legs. Some called him choice curse words. Well, Ox called him choice curse words, but he called everyone choice curse words. Most of us just called him Abby.

Rounding out the trio was Rick Poppollina, or Pops, as we called him. He was the Missions’ hitting coach. A fiery Italian from Chicago, Pops had a firecracker personality that could go from zero to
go fuck yourself!
in four seconds flat. Pops was a player favorite. He spoke with a rough Chicago accent, and while Abby’s methods were more subtle, Pops fixed people with a few good whacks of the bat. The more fired up he got about guys not hitting, the more he would replace the adjectives in his hitting critiques with cuss words. The players loved it. His intensity was great, infectious even, not to mention there was just something so amusing about swearwords said in a tough
Chitalian
.

“Hay, you need to get that mess cleaned up, fuh-uck.” Though his tone was unmistakably condemning, he was smiling when he said it. He always let it be known when he was kidding. But if you didn’t know it, you could tell he was angry by how long he held his
F
sounds at the beginning of his
F
bombs. Ff-uck is happy. Ffffuck—not happy.

“Good to see you too, Pops.” He leaned forward in his chair and shook my hand.

Everyone had been met, which prompted Randy to move things along. “Alright, Hay, get yourself some threads. Get cleaned up. The boys will be here anytime now. Probably won’t throw you in there tonight,” he said, in reference to the game, “but, you never know.” With that, he turned away from me and back to business. That was my cue to exit the office.

The next stop on my trip was Eddie’s office. Eddie Tomagatchi was the team’s trainer. His “office” wasn’t really an office, though it did have a desk in it. It also had two training tables, a refrigerator, various boxes of cereal, one box of oatmeal cream pies, a giant drum of puffed cheese balls, trainer’s tape, a jar of butt paste, hot tubs, a hot dog rotisserie, and a greasy George Foreman grill. His office tripled as the visitors’ training room, cafeteria, and lounge. It was common for Eddie to work on a player’s tender elbow while hot dogs tumbled end over end on the rotisserie behind him.

Minor league trainers don’t simply tend to players physical needs, they handle all manner of things from broken bones to babysitting, like a cross between combat medics and third-grade teachers. They handle paperwork, travel arrangements, language barriers, and meal money, and they do it all in conditions similar to a Cambodian war zone. If there is one member of a minor league team who earns his paycheck, it’s the team’s trainer.

Eddie was one of the best. Coolheaded, quick-witted, and good with an ultrasound wand, he could get you loose, patch you up, and trade insults with you in his sleep. Not every trainer fits in well with the team, but the best ones were those who the players could trust for help on both sides of the lines. Eddie cared about his boys and wasn’t above acting like one every now and then. Players knew who good trainers were, and it was generally circulated that Eddie, if players’ opinion had anything to do with it, should be in the big leagues.

I walked into Eddie’s office and coughed to make myself known.

“Hey, Hay, how are you?” he asked, looking up from a stack of papers. If Pops spoke in rough tones, Eddie spoke in short, chopped ones denoting his Japanese Hawaiian heritage.

“I’m good, buddy. Good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too. Everything feeling okay? Your arm good? No issues?”

“No, everything is fine, pal. I feel good. Happy to be back up here.”

“Do you have your folder?”

I fished out my team medical history folder and handed it over to Eddie. He flipped through it casually. I’m not sure what trainers look for. I can’t read those things anyway.

“I have travel money for you. I’m sure you’ll want that,” he said, looking up at me again.

“Oh heck, yes! That’s why you’re my favorite person here, Eddie. We’ve only just said hello, and you’re giving me money.”

Eddie produced a sign-in sheet containing printed names and their correlating signatures for each player currently on the team. My name was not on the sheet, so Eddie wrote it in for me and I signed. He handed me a bank envelope with a few twenties inside. It’s the minor league equivalent of passing Go.