The Bullpen Gospels (26 page)

We won the game I pitched in, despite my best efforts to blow it. We also won the next game as well, but if you talked to the starter about it, you’d have thought we lost.

I opted to be Frenchy’s road roomie when he got called up. I was paired with a position player before he arrived, and that’s never as fun as having another pitcher to plot and scheme with. When I got back to the room that night, Frenchy was on his cell phone, not exactly yelling at the person on the other end of the line, but not in perfect agreement with that person either. His face was still wearing the scowl he left the game with when he got pulled, something I understood very well.

He looked at me standing in the doorway, waved at me, then got up and left the room for the sanctum of the hallway. Though I tried to stay out of his business, I caught most of his conversation through the cheap hotel door. Up and down he paced, sometimes barking at the phone, sometimes whimpering. The barks were for his parents, while the whimpering was reserved for his girlfriend. He started today’s game, and it didn’t go as well as he’d have liked it too. Three runs over five innings of work, could’ve been way worse, but he expected perfection. Can’t say that I blame him; he’d been cruising most of the year, pitching like baseball was a video game and he had the cheat code.

Perfectionism is a funny thing. It won’t allow you to cut yourself even the tiniest bit of slack. It will insult you when you fail to achieve it and berate and belittle you until you’re your own worst enemy, an enemy you can never defeat. It’ll make you mad at those who try to tell you positive things. It’ll push people away. In the end, what was once a strong drive to do your best is now a wicked master who’s never satisfied.

I remember the times I did what he was doing now. Hell, I just did it—having a bad outing and then dialing friends and family for someone to dump on. This was the first time I’d been present for someone else doing it. I may not have been the pitching prospect Frenchy was, but I can sure whine like one when I fail.

When his cell phone died, Frenchy came back into the room. He flipped the dead phone onto the couch and collapsed on the cushion next to it. He stared at the floor for a second, then picked up where his battery left off, using me as a captive audience.

“I just don’t understand what my problem is. It’s like I can’t pitch anymore,” he said, staring at the wall as if it were a projector screen where his mind reviewed all the bad he’d done today. “Back in High-A, I was so much better than I am now….” He detailed a list of reasons, assumptions, and best guesses for his failure. Then, he began beating himself, calling himself stupid, worthless, incapable. It was as if he were a lawyer arguing for the death sentence—his own death sentence.

He ended his venting by fishing for compliments. I didn’t bite. He’d just tell me I was wrong for pooh-poohing him anyway. Intent on wallowing, he took my silence as affirmation he was indeed a lost cause, which started the process anew.

I had a lot on my mind today. I needed that outing in front of big decision makers to be good and I didn’t get it. My brother, who I felt would be better off dead, informed me how jaded my view on life was and asked for forgiveness. Now I was listening to a guy who got a win tell me he sucked. I didn’t feel like rehashing it, not from a kid with more talent than myself. “Frenchy,” I interrupted, “listen to me. You’re twenty-one and in Double A. It was a solid start. You pitched fine. We all saw that. But the worst part about your outing was that crap you pulled in the dugout and the stuff happening right here.”

He looked at me quizzically, “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean it’s over, and you are an emotional wreck about it. You are dumping this problem on everyone around you. This is what brings a team down, especially after a win. Your self-pity and negativity will make the boys avoid you, ostracize you. Throwing your glove, throwing a fit in the dugout after giving up runs, marching around mad hours after the game is over—it’s immature, bro. What, you honestly believe you’re above having struggles?”

“No, but—”

“This is a man’s game. You need to act like one.”

Frenchy’s shoulders fell; his head followed. The words struck a chord, and it made me feel guilty for speaking them. Frenchy was my friend, but sometimes friends need to talk to each other that way. Still, having been in his shoes, I knew it’s never fun to hear a friend say you’re whining.

“I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t know, but hey, we all fall short of our mark from time to time. It’s how we handle that fall that makes us the players we are. It’s not all about accomplishments, but how we soldier through disappointments.” And those were some of the best words I’d ever said to another person in baseball, and they were not mine. They were my brother’s, a person who never played a day of baseball in his life.

Frenchy stared at the floor for a second or two. Then his head started to bob, and he said, “You’re right man. You’re right.”

“I have pitched
way
worse than you did today. How about my second inning yesterday? I know that terrible, sick, bad-outing feeling you get when things don’t go right. I know what it’s like when failure burns you up inside. I still deal with it. But I also know now all that negative self-talk is you punishing yourself.”

“Punishing myself?”

“Yeah, sometimes when we fail, we punish ourselves with negative self-talk so we can feel like we paid the price to feel good about ourselves again. But winning and losing doesn’t make us heroes or failures. You can be upset about your imperfections today if you want, but, imperfections are part of this game. Beating yourself up doesn’t make you any better at this sport. It just drains you, and sooner or later you start to believe the voice telling you how bad you are. Sooner or later, you don’t care about anyone else but yourself, and you won’t listen to anyone else no matter how relevant that person’s words are. You become your own enemy, and your words turn into something more than words.

“Take what you can from this and move on. It’s really all you can do. Besides, you’re a lot better than you think you are right now.”

Frenchy leaned back on the couch to let the words settle in. I did the same from my chair.

I spoke to him as much as I did to myself. They weren’t my words, but they were my experiences, boiled down and pieced together like some bullpen gospel. I had taken more than my share of lumps in this game, and while I thought I had nothing to show for it except a string of yawn-inducing numbers, it turns out I did. I had wisdom, something far more valuable.

“That’s some great advice,” Frenchy said, leaning forward again. “Seriously dude, that may be some of the best advice I’ve had in a long time.”

“It may be some of the best advice
I’ve
had in a long time too.”

The next night in the bullpen, in between chats about how Martha Stewart would be the perfect clubbie, a lady about Martha’s age came and petitioned us for a baseball. “There is this cute little girl down behind the dugout who really should get a baseball,” she said. She had enough gold jewelry around her neck to make Mr. T jealous and spoke with an air of refinement.

If Martha Stewart were a clubbie, she would fold our uniforms up like swans, serve us Independence Day–themed cupcakes with sprinkles on top, and make us wear galoshes over our spikes so we didn’t get the clubhouse floor dirty. She wouldn’t beg us for baseballs for cute little mystery kids.

“I’m sorry, we can’t give these balls out,” I replied.

“Oh my, I’m sure you’re not supposed to, but she’s so darling. You really should see her. All the other kids have gotten one, and her precious little shoulders slump in disappointment each time she sees them with one. It’s torture, I must say.”

“I know, I know,” I said, unmoved. “Unfortunately, that’s how it works sometimes. Honestly, though, we really aren’t supposed to give these out.” Nor did I want to give her one, I must say. I’ve heard the darling little kid excuse so many times now I’m convinced the world is completely populated with pageant winners and child actors. If she would have asked me to give her a ball because there’s an ugly, bulldog-looking kid with a tail by the dugout, I might’ve had second thoughts based on originality.

“I understand,
of course
, but she’s not even my child. I just can’t bear to witness her suffering.”

“She’s not your kid?”

“No, but her parents won’t ask, so I thought I’d take it upon myself.”

“That’s just weird, lady. I mean, she just didn’t get a ball; what’s so bad about that? If her parents aren’t concerned, why are you?”

“I will buy a baseball from you if you insist on being so difficult about it,” she said, irritated with us. I guess mostly me—well, all me.

“If you’re going to buy her one, just go to the gift shop.”

“I don’t
want
to buy it. I want you to take this opportunity to make a little child’s dream come true,” she said, nobly, like some knight of baseball injustice.

“But I’m not even going to give it to her. It’s going to go through you. What if it doesn’t get there?”

“Do I look like the kind of person that lies?”

I took my time thinking about it, which made her extremely offended. “Lady, life’s not fair, and sometimes we don’t get what we want. I used to get good grades on my science papers, and when I brought them home to my parents, they’d beat me with a belt. I asked them why, and they’d tell me that ‘because life’s not fair, this is the only way we can teach you, son.’ The way I see it, this little girl has it easy.” That never happened actually—I never got A’s on my science tests.

“Your parents should be ashamed,” she declared.

“I got a whole bag of baseballs now, so they must have done something right.” The lady stared at me in confusion, then threw her hands up and walked away declaring I had a terrible attitude.

An inning later, a mother and her son approached the pen. I pretended to look out at the game, a boring one in which our starter dominated, effortlessly mowing through the Rough Riders. I faked interest in the on-field events, but in my mind I thought about going in to play Halo.

“Hello,” said the mother—another mother and her precious child who deserved a baseball, no doubt. I heard them speaking, but I didn’t immediately react. None of us did. Following the noble lady, a group of obnoxious teens came knocking at the pen and then some frat kids who tried their hand at heckling. Someone threw peanuts at us and called us monkeys in our cage. Then came more good ol’ drunk Texas boys. If we’d have said yes to everyone, we’d be out of balls. As it was, we were already out of patience. I thought the mascot was supposed to handle crowd-control issues, but it occurred to me he didn’t come out for the game today. Then I remembered that the grounds crew looked more cheery than usual…

“Hello,” said the mother again. “I have a little boy here who would really like to meet you.”

The boy jutted out from behind his mother’s leg. Shy blue eyes pressed down, timidly stealing glimpses of me from under the brim of his oversized ball cap. He had thin wisps of blond hair on a pale face and a smile waiting to blossom, if he could only find the courage to let it. If only someone would help him. His mother nudged him forward, but he resisted, comfortable in Mommy’s shadow.

“Hi there,” I said to the boy. I didn’t have to hand out souvenirs, but I could still talk with the boy. My words, however, made him cling to Mommy’s leg like a shy koala.

“Tell him your name,” his mother said, and he did, in a squeak of voice.

I repeated it back to him, adding, “Nice to meet you.”

The strong, silent type, he opted out of the conversation. I left my comfy Rough Riders bullpen chair and went to the railing in pursuit of the boy who had contentedly buried his face in his mother’s leg. “Hey there, buddy. Why so shy?”

He let one eye free. “It’s okay. You can talk to him,” his mother said, trying to encourage him not to suffocate on her kneecap. I steadied myself on the railing, squatting like a catcher, awaiting his attempt. “Tell him how old you are,” his mom coaxed. He didn’t speak, but offered me three tiny digits, instead.

“You’re a slider? That’s what it means when you wiggle your fingers like that. Are you a slider?”

“I’m three,” he said, letting the other eye free.

“Oh” I replied, “you’re
three
. Okay,” I said, holding up my fingers back to him. He giggled and flashed a smile he’d been waiting to offer. He let go of Mommy’s leg and faced me now. I smiled back at him.

We were about to have a good chat about the life and times of three-year-olds when his mother’s hand came down on my own, grabbing my wrist, and pinning it to the railing. My personal space was violated. I looked at the mother to scold her.
Your kid’s cute, but there are dozens of cute kids here every night whose mothers want me to play Santa, and they don’t grab me when I’m in arm’s reach
.

“Thank you for doing this for my son,” she blurted. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with him….” Her eyes began to crack, and drops formed at their edges. Her next words did not come out in the cheery tone she used to coax her son to speak, but fractured, in heartbroken gasps. “He has liver cancer, and it’s terminal….” she mustered. She tried to keep control, but her words came rushing out like water shattering a dam. “He doesn’t even understand what it is, and I don’t know how to…” her head dropped. She passed her hand across her face as she heaved. When she brought it back up, her makeup was smeared. “I’m sorry. It’s just…he’s always wanted to meet baseball players.”

I looked back at the boy smiling at me. He didn’t seem concerned with his mother’s tears. Maybe he was used to them by now, even though he didn’t understand what brought them on. His hat sat loosely over his head. A pale face framing eyes of bright blue hid underneath the bill. His skin, from the little legs that extended from his shorts to the free hand not covered with a tiny baseball glove, was ghostly white in the middle of summer. He was three years old, and he was dying.

I looked at the bag of baseballs. I looked at the boys in their chairs just feet from me. I looked at my jersey, to the field, to anything that could make this situation better. When I glanced back to the mother, she had not looked anywhere else but to me.

“What can I do?” I would gladly give him a ball or anything else I could give away.

“Just be a real person to him,” she said. “That’s all I ask.”

I looked down on the boy. “Wait here.”

I requested the attention of the bullpen, recounted the tale, and pointed to the child. Without a second thought, we scooped the boy up and placed him in the pen with us, in the middle of our pack, surrounded by players. We turned our chairs to face him, begged him to tell us about adventures of his young life, and offered him the gum bucket like a bowl of Halloween candy.

He loved baseball. He also loved cartoons, playing at the playground, and eating candy, which he shoved into his mouth until it was so full he could hardly answer. He liked school and he didn’t like girls. And he was going to start T-ball soon, but he proudly declared that he didn’t need the tee.

“That’s one step ahead of me,” I said. The pen chuckled, the boy smiled.

“Are you going to be a big leaguer when you grow up?”

He nodded his head up and down, unwaveringly certain. We nodded in approval.

He ate almost all our bullpen gum. He tried seeds, but they were too much work to eat, so we taught him how to flick them at fans instead—he liked that. We let him try on our gloves, which swallowed up his hands like beach towels. For an inning or two, he was one of the guys, complete with a pair of pants that went up to his shins and a newfound appreciation for nice legs.

When it was time for us to give the boy back to his mother, before lifting him back over the fence, we produced a baseball and a pen to sign with. Each of us stretched our names across the leather in lovingly crafted scribbles, punctuated at the ends with our numbers. We handed the ball to the boy, pressing it into his tiny hands. His face alight, mouth gaping in awe, he looked up at us in wonder, as if we had handed him a treasure from the heavens.

He spun and stretched his arm with the ball for his mother to see. “Alright!” she said, clapping her hands together. She reached for it to take a closer look, but the boy pulled it back to his chest. It was his baseball. His mother laughed.

“Okay, bud, let’s get you back to Mom.” We hoisted the boy, still tightly gripping his ball, and deposited him on the other side of the fence.

“Did you say thank you?” she asked.

“Thank you!” the boy said, with a big smile.

“You’re welcome, buddy,” said Ox.

“Thank you all so much,” the mother said, her face wet from tears.

“It was our pleasure,” said Rob.

We won that night, but the game did not matter. Wins, losses, and numbers behind them were rendered meaningless by two perfect innings spent in the bullpen. Something else, something bigger than baseball that can’t be recorded took place. Something no one will read about in the box scores. Something only uniforms with real people inside could make happen.

Baseball and life—such funny things that don’t always make sense. Yet, in those moments spent with that child, watching him live in the game in a way none of us who played it could, everything made perfect sense. I’d wondered all year how the power of baseball should be wielded. And now I knew. Baseball doesn’t have any intrinsic power. It only has what people give to it. For some, the man who plays is a superhero, and he can do great things. For some, the man who plays is an obstacle who must get out of the way. Is baseball as important as food, knowledge, care, or a dry pair of boots? Is it as important as some of the things that pass us by in everyday life? I don’t think so. Can it inspire, motivate, and call us to do something greater than ourselves? Absolutely. The burden of the player isn’t to achieve greatness, but to give the feeling of it to everyone he encounters. It was wrong of me even to try to separate life and the game. They were intertwined, meant to be, one affecting the other, one teaching the other, even when the mixture occasionally blows up. It takes a real person, one who understands himself, to use the tool of baseball for something good. For that person, as long as he has a jersey on his back, he has a chance.