The Bullpen Gospels Read online

  “We’ve got one left. Do you know Leroy Davis?”

  “Yeah, I know Leroy. He snores like a semi truck—”

  “It’s the only one left. Him or no suite.”

  “Usually there are more, especially on the first day.”

  “This is the only one left. Yes or no?”

  This may seem trivial, but in reality, it’s pure economics. Players don’t get paid in spring training; we get meal money. We get $20 a day, $120 a week after “clubbies” (clubhouse attendants) take their share. If you eat decent meals, you’ll be broke by the end of the week. Even if you get a doggy bag, you can’t bring it home with no place to store it. No suite means you’ll have to go into your own pocket for food. Fine for a high draft pick, debt for everyone else.

  There was a SuperTarget within walking distance of the hotel. With a suite, I could pick up a Pyrex bowl and buy pasta, soup, milk, and cereal. I’d be set. Spend forty bucks, pocket the rest, and come out of spring training in the black.

  However, I also needed to sleep. Leroy didn’t just snore; he had the septum of a wood chipper. He also has other “unique” tendencies that’ve earned him the nickname Larry the Cable Guy. For one, he looks just like him. For two, he acts just like him. His body is a refinery for dip, grease, domestic beer, and redneck humor. Larry, as we always referred to him, is not a drunk, but he’s consistent. He’s the type of guy who says he likes to have a beer with dinner and then a few for dessert. The more beers he has, the more he transforms into Larry the Cable Guy in looks and demeanor, and the louder his snoring gets.

  He’s a hell of a guy, as nice as a big friendly dog, with a streak of that country boy, do-anything-for-ya hospitality a mile wide. He’s hard not to like, or at least laugh at, but living with him would require ear plugs and a strong tolerance to the smell of dip spit. Yet having lived with worse, I opted for the suite.

  I parked my suitcase in the front part of my new home, where a table, a couch, and a kitchenette were located, but no Larry. In the rear part of the suite, where the beds were, I could hear a television turned to the unmistakable sounds of ESPN’s SportsCenter. Littered across one of the beds was an empty Gatorade bottle containing a brown gravyesque liquid, a can of Kodiak, a Carl’s Junior Bag, and a crumpled up sandwich wrapper. A Western Bacon Six Dollar Burger had been murdered here.

  Like a trained detective, I knew the routine. The modus of minor league meals: get food, eat food, put in dip (the official diuretic of baseball), place hand down pants, watch SportsCenter, take a dump. This would explain why the suite’s bathroom door was shut with the fan whirring from the inside.

  Without disturbing the evidence, I made my way to the bathroom and knocked. No answer. I opened the door and immediately wished I hadn’t. There, splattered all over the porcelain of the toilet bowl was the body of the Six Dollar Burger. The murderer had escaped without flushing.

  It was getting late, and Larry still wasn’t back yet. I was looking forward to seeing him, and reminding him what the little lever on the top of the toilet was for. He was probably out with some of the other boys, having a cold one, or four, to commemorate another spring training in the grind. A few beers would mean snoring, so I made a preemptive strike and dragged one of the mattresses from the bedroom portion of the suite into the living room portion and threw it on the ground—just like Grandma’s. So accustomed was I to sleeping on floors at this point that I didn’t know if I’d even be able to fall asleep without the ambient sounds of pissed elderly women beating on doors.

  Sometime before midnight, Larry blasted the suite’s door open and nearly stepped on my head. “Jesus man, what the hell are you doing on the floor?” My eyes had trouble adjusting to the light from the hall. Larry stood in the doorway, and between my sleep-dilated eyes and the bright backlighting, he looked like a big redneck angel—an angel with a spitter and a goatee.

  “Hey, Larry. Good to see you too.”

  “Good to see you man, but seriously [spit], why in the hell are you out here on the floor?”

  “Well, the rumor is you snore pretty bad. I’m a light sleeper and figured I wouldn’t take any chances.” I smiled at him, sincerely. He looked at me as if I were fucking retarded.

  “Dude, you’re fucking retarded.”

  “I think it’s pretty smart! This way we both sleep fine.”

  “Why didn’t you just buy earplugs? [spit]”

  Why didn’t I just buy earplugs? “Well, Target was sold out. I’ll get some tomorrow,” I said, knowing I was lying.

  “Well, what if I wanna sit out here? Your bed’s takin up all the room!”

  “Don’t give me shit about the bed, not after what you did in the bathroom. I came in today, and it looked like a scene from the Exorcist in there. I had to call maintenance to come and force it down because it scared the maids.”

  “Ha-ha, my bad, rommie,” he said, but you could tell he was proud of his bowels. “I got a phone call from one of my good buddies and forgot all about it.”

  “I don’t see how you could forget an experience like that.”

  “Actually, I thought it was one of my better ones.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Now wait a minute.” He looked at me, suddenly serious possibly offended. “Who said I snored?”

  “Everyone who has ever lived with you.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Everyone, Larry.”

  “Well, hell [spit], then maybe I do!” He stepped over me and went into his room. “Well, I’ll let you get back to sleeping on the kitchen floor, smart guy. Good to see you again!”

  “You too, Larry.”

  Chapter Seven

  The next day, bright and early, I rolled off the mattress and onto the floor. I lumbered into the bathroom to greet the morning with a nice, long whizz, when I remembered I couldn’t. Nothing was clogged or jammed. Rather, today was testing day, and I would need to save the sample for scientific reasons.

  The entirety of testing day is dedicated to getting things stuck in and extracted from my person, along with running for time, being pinched for body fat, and enduring cold, awkward hands while coughing with my pants down. Chief on the list of nuisances is filling a plastic cup under the scrutinizing gaze of Dr. Fondle, whose wonderfully relevant job was to “make sure it comes out of me properly” by standing over my shoulder in a bathroom stall like some lonely trucker.

  White, Padres’ passenger vans would be running players from the hotel to the complex every half hour, on the dot. I took the first one, bright and early, under the pretense that the sooner I got there, the sooner I could get it all over with.

  The familiar scenery of my spring home passed by as the van rolled down the highway to the complex. The desert was in bloom. There had been enough rainfall to turn the rocky hills of the Phoenix landscape green with bursts of brightly colored flowers. The morning was a cool sixty degrees, with soon-to-be extinct rain clouds hovering in the air. It was a beautiful scene. In a month the sun would be back from its winter break to chase the clouds away and turn the landscape a burnt tan.

  When the Padres’ van pulled into the parking lot, nothing had changed. It was as if time stood still in spring training. The cars of the big-league squad were already there. The big-league invitees arrived two weeks ago, their luxurious rides lined up in the choicest parking locations. The remaining spaces, closest to where foul balls landed most frequently, were left for the minors players.

  Our eighteen-passenger taxi halted outside the minor league doors. I got out, produced my ID, and headed to the piss testers. They gave me a cup. My piss-test partner and I went into a toilet stall and did our best imitation of rookie inmate hazing. I closed my eyes and pretended I was Harry Potter casting a spell. “Expelliamus!” I thought.

  During my early days of pro ball, before I’d adjusted to whizzing with random dudes staring at my junk, I couldn’t go no matter how bad I had to. I’d just stand there, holding my wand, trying to talk myself into it. I’
d hum “Eye of the Tiger” to myself. The professional meat gazer would flush the toilet in hopes the sound of running water would help ease the tension and give me some momentum. When that didn’t work, he’d try asking me questions about my hobbies and goals, as if we were speed dating. No questions about my personal interests would diffuse the fact I had my pants down and my shirt around my neck while I held a cup under my twig and berries. I’m glad it went well this time.

  “Well look who it is!” the booming voice of Ox Bundy said. He bumped into me as I was walking down the hallway, zipping my pants up after a job well done.

  “Hey bud, good to see you!” I replied. Ox gave me a playful shove as a greeting. I tried to shove him back, but he was too thick to move, and I ended up bouncing off him like a toddler running into his father’s leg.

  Ox was a fellow pitcher. A boldface, all caps, type-A male. A big, solid, man-boy with a perpetual five o’clock shadow that made his face part Wookie, part lumberjack. He loved hard rock, cheap action movies, and chicks with big boobs. He ate red meat like Pez candies and never stopped to think about what was good for the environment. He was a savage, but a lovable one, and like most guys with tough exteriors, he was a softy deep down—very deep down.

  “How ya been pal?” he asked.

  “I’m good. Happy to be back, I think. You?”

  “Fucking one more year in the grind.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well you look good man. You look strong, strong like bull.” With so much emphasis on shape and strength, this is the one place where it’s cool for guys to compliment each other on their looks. “Your ass looks great this year,” I continued. “You must have decided to get off it once or twice in the off-season.”

  “No, but thanks anyway. You look good too.”

  “Oh, it’s my sexy hair.” I tossed my long, wispy locks.

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “Then it’s my chiseled physique. Let me tell you man, I know it’s in to give Billy Blanks a bad rap, but that Tae Bo crap really works.”

  “No, that’s not it either.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Actually, you look like shit, but I figured since you said I looked good, I’d be nice.”

  “Thanks, pal.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Dirk!” A new voice joined the scene, that of Drew Macias.

  Drew was a perennial center fielder who became my friend during our first full season. He’s one of the few position players with a personality compatible with pitchers. Maybe it’s that position players swing clubs for a living or maybe they’re just born that way, but many of them seem a little too serious and macho to loosen up like the collection of loony tunes that comprises a pitching staff. Drew, on the contrary, had an aura about him of pure fun. He had thick, dark hair that shot out at crazy angles, an infectious laugh, a charismatic personality, and a sense of humor that provided a quick joke or a good retelling of after-hours exploits. His creativity was always in motion, doodling up someone’s caricature, designing some crazy invention, or planning a practical joke. He also knew a fair share of magic tricks that earned him the nickname Drewdini.

  We exchanged a “man hug,” a male-sanctioned, completely heterosexual embrace consisting of a half backslap, a half chest bump, and a three-quarter handshake.

  “Drew, what’s up buddy—wait! Look at you! Is that a big-league uniform?”

  “Yeah, they have me backing up over on the other side.”

  “Nice. Get you a little Big-League Camp action. How was your off-season?”

  “Good, bro. Played some guitar, mastered some new magic tricks, learned ninjitsu.”

  “Sounds productive. You still drawing?”

  “Yeah, you should see the one I did of Bonvechio!”

  “It’s outstanding dude,” Ox said. “Looks just like him, the freckles, bald spot, even the extra ass cheeks.”

  “I’ll show it to you later. How was your off-season?”

  “Worked on my slider, grew my hair out, refrained from killing my grandmother.”

  “Sounds productive.”

  “Not really, I should have done it.”

  “Hey guys, what’s happening?” Another friendly face hit the scene. It seemed there was suddenly a party in front of the bathroom. I’m sure all the excitement made the other guys trying to squeeze out some specimens a little nervous.

  The newest voice was that of Brent Carter. He strolled up to us in a pair of khaki shorts, a polo, and deck shoes, with a friend sporting the same. Though I didn’t know Brent’s friend, he was most likely a pitcher and left-hander, like Brent, as they both had medical tape wrapped around gauze on their right arms, indicating blood extraction. Everyone shook hands and exchanged courtesies. Brent’s friend went by the nickname Frenchy.

  Brent was a Southern Comfort gentleman. His smooth voice had a slight drawl, which, when combined with sir or ma’am, always made him sound respectful. Typically adorned in deck shoes and polos, he looked as if he were perpetually on his way to the golf course. Though he didn’t know the rest of the pack that well, we were good friends from last year, splitting a season together. Initially, we didn’t have much in common, but once we discovered a mutual enjoyment of imitating our pitching coach, the rest was history.

  Frenchy, as it turned out, was drafted from the same college as Brent, which explained their connection. He did not share the accent, though they could have shared wardrobes. This was Frenchy’s first spring training with the club, so the experience was foreign. Most new guys follow an older acquaintance around until they learned the ropes. Brent was playing chaperone, and any friend of Brent’s was a friend of mine. Taller than Brent, Frenchy lurked at the edge of the circle, looking over shoulders and listening to how players who had some time interacted.

  “What tests have y’all done so far?” Brent asked.

  “I’ve done the blood test, and I only did that so I could eat.” This was Ox.

  “What about the piss test?” I asked.

  “I made the mistake of taking a piss when I got up this morning. Now I gotta wait to go again. I’ll do it last.”

  “I wouldn’t expect a ten-year vet like you to make such a rookie mistake.”

  “It’s only been eight years, asshole, I ain’t that old,” Ox barked.

  “I don’t know Ox. How many Advil does it take you to get through the day again?” Drew asked.

  “Kiss my ass, Mr. Big-League Backup.”

  “You should draw a picture of Ox with a cane and a walker, popping Advils, listening to Metallica, and cussing at children.”

  “Save it, cockface. I hope Grady sees that wannabe Jesus hair you got and fines your ass five hundred dollars.”

  “They can fine you that much?” Frenchy asked.

  “I don’t know, but I hope he starts with this guy.” Ox fingered me in the chest with one of his thick, caveman digits.

  “Hey man, if I were Jesus, I’d raise my career from the dead.”

  “Shit, if you were Jesus, you could start with healing me,” Ox said, extending his notoriously cranky right arm out.

  Drew chimed in, “I think healing what’s wrong with you would take a miracle even Jesus couldn’t perform, Ox.”

  Brent and Frenchy both laughed, but stopped abruptly when Grady Fuson himself walked into the locker room. Carrying a clipboard and a coffee cup, he made his way past, stopping to look at us in a detached and uninterested way before unclenching a very sterile “boys” in a voice like a cross between Lou Brown from Major League and Tom Waits.

  We looked back at him like dogs about to get whipped. “Grady,” we harmonized. He locked eyes with me. “Hayhurst, good to see you. Get your fucking hair cut by tomorrow or pay the fine.” Then he walked away.

  “What are the chances?” I said, when I was sure he was out of range.

  “Wear that, fucker!” Ox belched.

  “Why me? Your hair is just as long as mine!” I said to Drew.

  �
�I’m in a big-league uniform. I can do whatever I want.”

  “Immunity,” Brent casually noted, nodding his head casually as if Drew’s uniform were irrefutable law.

  “Great way to start off my spring. Now Grady thinks I’m a rebel.”

  “Have you seen some of the guys in this organization? We gave a kid who bit a bouncer three million dollars and you’re worried about your haircut?”

  “So you think he’ll fine me three million dollars?” I joked.

  “Hope so,” Ox said, angling past me with a stiff shoulder. “I’m gonna try to piss. See you on the other side, boys.”

  Drew patted his pockets. “Wanna borrow my Whizzinator?” A Whizzinator, in case you’ve never seen one, is a fake plastic penis connected to an extraneous bladder where a clean specimen is stored. The Whizzinator slips “inconspicuously” over your own package and makes it seem as if you are really whizzing your own pee. Color options include, Black, Latino, and Flesh. So utterly ridiculous, it has become a joke among most athletes.

  “No thanks, I got my own.”

  “Don’t be surprised if the piss testers act disappointed with your package, Ox. I’m a tough act to follow,” I yelled after him.

  “That’s surprising, considering you sit down to pee.”

  It was good to see friendly faces and joke around, but spring training was no joke. This wasn’t a vacation, and our job wasn’t to come into the office and play nine to five around the watercooler. This was a competition, and starting tomorrow, we’d begin fighting for spots. I may have come here with mixed emotions, but now that I was here, I had a job to win if I wanted to go any further. It was baseball in the driver’s seat from here on. To feel even like I’d a shot at something resembling a future in this game, I needed to make the Double-A squad out of camp, no small feat. After all the laughter, roles would be won, at any cost, even if it meant taking it from the best of friends.