Authors: Dirk Hayhurst
Out of My League (33 page)
Chapter Fifty-nine
I got called into Buddy Black’s office the next morning, I didn’t need my agent or a pitching coach to tell me why. I hadn’t gotten the job done, and now my worst fears were coming to fruition. At least, after I shut the door behind me, Buddy told me he would make the execution quick.
“Have a seat, this won’t take long,” said Buddy.
I sat as instructed and stared nobly back at Buddy like a man about to be shot for taking part in a revolution.
“CY is coming off the DL, which means he’s going to slide back into your spot in the rotation.”
I nodded, all the while thinking,
Bless you, Bud Black, for not telling me I sucked, but simply saying my time was up.
I braced myself for the real words, as they were surely next to come.
Bless you, Bud Black, for not telling me I sucked, but simply saying my time was up.
I braced myself for the real words, as they were surely next to come.
“So, that means we are going to slide you into the pen, back into a role you know.”
“The bullpen?” I asked, trying not to show my surprise.
“Yeah. We probably won’t use you for a day or two because of the innings you had yesterday, but you never know.”
“Of course,” I said, still quite stunned.
“Alright, that’s it. You’ll be in the pen tonight.”
“Thanks, Skipper.” Buddy nodded at me, indicating that I was both welcome and free to go.
My first taste of the bullpen happened well before the start of the night’s game, when I was introduced to my new responsibilities as youngest guy in the pen: the Candy Bag.
Typically bullpen bags come in the form of what is commonly referred to as the pink princess backpack, complete with, but not limited to, frolicking Disney princesses, Dora the Explorer, Barbie, or any other pack embossed with colors and imagery that could induce a screaming fit from a six-year-old girl if Mommy doesn’t buy it for her. These packs are considered high fashion in the world of rookie embarrassment, and though many rookies say they hate wearing the pack because “It’s gay,” they really love it. They are secretly proud because it symbolizes, in a humorous and fun way, that they are now part of the fold.
The Padres, however, did not have a princess backpack. No Jasmine, no Belle, not even Pocahontas. Instead, we had a standard-issue navy ball bag modified for candy by an insert that read
CANDY.
I was let down by it. Without the fun of being the princess pack player, I was just a mule responsible for candy transport.
CANDY.
I was let down by it. Without the fun of being the princess pack player, I was just a mule responsible for candy transport.
The guy who carried the bag before me was also in charge of training me on proper candy bag operation. Hamp, the bag’s previous owner, took me to the dugout supply room and showed me how it worked.
“Guys love these,” he said, cramming pouches of pumpkin seeds into the open bag. “And make sure you get some of these too.” He grabbed some pouches of sunflower seeds in varying flavors. “Guys are going through a real barbeque kick lately, but a little while ago everyone wanted Ranch. You need to pay attention to their eating habits so you have what they want.” He grabbed a few other pouches and wedged them into the bag.
“Why don’t I just put some of everything in the bag?”
“There is not enough room.”
“Why not just get a bigger bag?”
“Welcome to the big leagues,” said Hamp, deflecting the question.
He did have a lot of stuff in the bag. When he was done getting seeds, he pulled separate Ziploc plastic bags from the mother ship candy bag revealing all the goodies stashed within. There was a unique bag for chocolate, brightly colored sugary treats, seeds, and hard candies. Then Hamp pulled out a bag that had cans of dip, lighters, and packs of cigarettes.
The cigarettes caught me off guard. I knew chewing tobacco was as much a staple of the game as peanuts or Cracker Jacks, but smoking it? That didn’t seem right. I envisioned running to the mound, then having to take a breather around second base because of an emphysemic coughing fit.
“Do I have to stock those?” I asked, pointing toward the cigarettes.
“No, you just need to make sure you have this chew.” He pulled a box of chew off the stock shelf, took out a few of the pouches, and stuffed them into the candy bag. “You might also want to pick up a lighter now and again,” he said.
I looked around the stock room for lighters. There were none.
“Where do I get the lighters from?” I asked.
“You buy them.”
“I have to buy stuff for the bag?”
“Yeah. Guys who do the best candy bag pick up stuff. You know, they take pride in it.” He looked at me like he was handing me the keys to my first car and expected me to wash it and tune it or something. I wondered if he knew how hard that would be for me since there were no princesses on the bag.
“Some of the stuff you’ll have to buy,” he continued, “like this.” He pulled out a sleeve of Winterfresh gum. “This is Hoffman’s favorite. He chews a pack of it a game. You’ll have to pick that up. Other stuff you can steal from other locker rooms. Not every locker room we play in stocks the same candy, so keep your eyes peeled for new stuff.”
“Sample the local cuisine, so to speak,” I said.
“Yeah, and eat what they got too,” he said.
“So that’s it? Hoffman eats Winterfresh, don’t overpack, and make sure to raid the opposing pantries?”
“No, then there’s this side of it.” Hamp opened up a side compartment on the bag to reveal the other, more important side of the candy bag. He pulled out single-serving containers of Advil, Tylenol, Excedrin, Pain-Off, and various other pills from decongestants to antacids. There were tubes of nasal clearing hot creams for sore muscles, rubber gloves so players could rub in said creams without fear of lighting their delicate hands on fire, and cough drops for when their emphysema flared up.
Then the real supplies came out: various goops and stick ’ems that some morally sensitive fans would call the use of cheating, while we in the business simply called having an edge. There was good old-fashioned pine tar, the granddaddy of all baseball grip agents that always seemed to leak and cake on everything it came into contact with no matter how well it was sealed. We had a tube of Firm Grip, a scientifically engineered knockoff of pine tar, except when you worked it into your fingers, the harder you pressed the more grip you got. Firm Grip is also a lot easier to apply to those tight spots, like belt loops, hat bills, and the creases of your mitt without making a complete mess of yourself—that, and it doesn’t make your fingers smell like a pine tree.
There was shaving cream, specifically the gel stuff, which, when rubbed into the hands, makes the fingers slightly more tacky without turning them into flypaper-like pine tar or Firm Grip does. The effect of shaving cream doesn’t last as long as the other two, and you can’t store a dollop of it on your person in some secret place while pitching, but it should get you through an inning if applied right.
Finally, there was Coppertone Sunscreen. When rubbed into the skin and mixed with sweat and rosin, this stuff actually forms an SPF-40-caliber Fixodent, which a crafty pitcher can mix on the fly. A touch to the wrist slightly below the mitt for some screen, a wipe of the back of the neck for some sweat, a pat of the rosin bag for the third component, and you’ll have enough tack to make the ball hang from your fingertips. Everyone has their preferred method of adding a grip to a ball, but which one a pitcher chooses depends on his personal feel. My job, aside from providing tasty treats, was to make sure everyone had their respective edge ready and accounted for. It was a major responsibility, a sacred trust, and something that would, as Hamp said, “piss everyone off if you don’t do it right.”
“I got it.” I saluted him.
Hamp pushed the bag into my arms. “That’s it, bro. We meet at the steps and go out to the pen as a group. Heath usually leads us.”
“We go as a group, huh?”
“Yeah, of course. It shows unity.”
Chapter Sixty
I put the bag down in an area close to where Hoffman would sit. Then, I took all the bags inside the main bag that were full of candy and goodies and set them around the main bag. I left the illegal substances in the main bag since they would be in plain view of fans if I didn’t. Finally, I took out Hoffman’s sacred pack of Winterfresh, peeled back the top of the package to make easy access to the sticks inside, then set it delicately on top of the closed main bag like a golden star on top of a tiny tree of bullpen treats. I was proud of the arrangement, like some interior decorator. However, as soon as I stepped away, the rest of the relievers ransacked my arrangement and left the bags scattered, knocking Hoffman’s gum from its throne.
More than anything, I wanted the arrangement to impress Hoffman. I wanted him to see that I was a good rookie and a good steward of junk food. I went back to the pile of bags and tidied things up, replacing the gum to its perch just before Hoffman’s arrival.
The other relievers greeted him by throwing handfuls of sunflower seeds at him, laughing as the seeds showered over him and plinked off the coffee cup he was carrying. I dared not throw any at him, but I did watch his every move, the ease of his stride, the firmness of his gaze. All my life I’d wanted to play on the same team as him, and now, I was. I was in his bullpen. Maybe I’d even pitch in a game that he would come into to save? It was one of those big league moments that left me spinning, wondering if this was really happening.
He arrived at my candy bag. I bit my bottom lip in anticipation of him being impressed by the well-arranged, expertly organized display of calories. He stared hard at the bag, holding his coffee in his left hand.
Was this the best candy-bagging he’d ever seen? Was he going to congratulate me?
Was this the best candy-bagging he’d ever seen? Was he going to congratulate me?
“What the hell is this?” he shouted. Then he picked up some of the bags and emptied their contents on the floor. “What’s all this other crap?” he shouted and started kicking the items across the bullpen floor. “How hard is it to do this job? Who the hell packed this?” He tossed the main bag across the pen where it bounced on the floor and came to a rest near my feet.
Everyone in the pen turned their heads and looked down at me. I couldn’t breathe I was so terrified. I managed to get my shaking down long enough to claim responsibility. “I did it,” I said.
“Gum, seeds, it’s not that hard.” He kicked another bag, spraying more goodies around the floor. “Now pick it up!” he commanded.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said, leaping from my seat like a slave motivated by fear of death. I grabbed the main bag and threw candy into it so vigorously that I missed the bag completely, throwing the candy back on the floor. When I cursed myself and went to retrieve my misses, a collective laughter broke out among the pen. I looked up to see that everyone, including Hoffman was laughing.
“Stop, stop,” said Hoffman. “I’m just kidding.”
Everyone had grins on their faces—everyone except me.
“You’re fine, kid. We’re just playing with you. Here, I’ll help you,” said Hoffman, helping me corral some of the candy.
“The look on your face was priceless,” said one of the guys in the pen. Some of the other guys threw seeds on me as I stood, still in shock.
“I thought he was going to shit himself,” said another.
“You understand, when I saw that you unwrapped my gum, I had to do it.” Hoffman shrugged as he handed me some of the contents he booted. “No one has ever done that before.”
“But, but, you’re sure you’re okay with my bag?”
“It’s fine,” said Hoffman. “It’s great.”
“Okay,” I said as another handful of seeds rained down on me.
A few innings later, Bonnie came by with her camera out. I noticed her waving at me, discreetly at first. When I didn’t respond, she started calling my number. I hopped up and shushed her and came over to the railing to see what she wanted.
“Can you pose for me, so I can get some shots of you?”
I turned around to see if I’d drawn any attention from the other guys on the team. “Honey, it’s my first day out here. I don’t want to do anything stupid.”
“Are you allowed to take pictures?”
“I guess, but if I’m posing for them I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Well, don’t pose, just act natural.”
I stood there tense and rigid as she focused the camera on me.
“Smile.”
“Just take the picture,” I said.
“You’ll be happy I took these when you’re done this season.”
One of the older guys came up from the underground bunker section of the pen to stand next to me. I spun around and nodded to him, windmilling my arm around to make it look like I was stretching out and not getting my picture taken by my fiancée. When he passed, I turned back to face Bonnie, who was holding the camera up, trained on me.
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m videoing, for my parents. Tell them ‘Hi.’ They’ll love it.”
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. St. John,” I whispered.
“I don’t think they’ll be able to hear that over the crowd noise.”
“Himisterandmissesstjohn!”
I snapped. “Okay, that’s enough. Put the camera away, please.”
I snapped. “Okay, that’s enough. Put the camera away, please.”
“Okay, okay.” She smiled and put the camera back into her purse. “I’m glad you’re back out here doing what you know.” As she spoke, other fans had walked over to investigate why I was so close to the fence. With the crowd around, eating and pointing at me, I felt like I was some animal at a really expensive and well-lit zoo.
“Yeah.” I kept shifting around uncomfortably.
“Fifty-Seven! Can I have your autograph?”
“I can’t sign during the game.”
“Will you get Hoffman to come over here for me?”
“Kid, I can’t even get Hoffman to come over here for me.”
“Will you try?”
“No.”
“Honey, do you have to work out after the game or anything?” Bonnie asked.
“I don’t think so. Just meet me at the family lounge.”
“How do I get to the wives’ lounge?” asked one of the fans.
“Jesus, Hay, get her number and take her out to dinner. We got a game going on over here.”
“Isn’t that Hamp?” asked Bonnie. “He knows we’re engaged, right?”
I turned back to Hamp and smiled and put my hand up and gave him the one-more-minute gesture. “Babe, I have to go. I’ll see you at the wives’ lounge, okay?”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I ...” I shifted uneasily, looking at all the faces around me. “
Iloveyoutoo
. Now I’ll see you after.”
Iloveyoutoo
. Now I’ll see you after.”
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