Authors: Dirk Hayhurst
Out of My League (34 page)
Chapter Sixty-one
Because of my start, I had a few days off to soak up life in the pen. I watched Hoffman the most, when he was out there, that is. He was a creature of routine. He showed up at the same time every game, ate the same gum, sat in the same place, and left during the same innings to go into the training room, where he did more preparation for a potential close situation. When he was around, everyone seemed better behaved, like a teacher was in the classroom.
The thing about older players is they have so much clout in the social structure of the game that younger players fear to disturb their rituals. They tend to give them wide berths, and assume they have discovered some special recipe for success. This, combined with my rookie status, made me fearful of talking to Hoffman, even though there was no other person in the organization I wanted to talk to more than him. From time to time, I tried to work up the courage to sit down next to him, but I had no idea what to say.
When Hoffman left the pen, I realized how quiet it was. Hamp sat at the end of it, flicking seeds into the audience. Bentley went down into the bullpen’s private bunker and smoked with some of the other guys. Heath sat next to the pen’s coach, Akerfelds, and talked about the game. Other guys stretched and wandered, but there was very little chatter. It was a serious place and, like in the dugout, I sat at the end of the bench, keeping my mouth shut lest I somehow disrupt the focus.
When I did talk, my words always seemed to be sifted through a filter of, “Why is this rookie talking?” and, “Does he say things worthy of the big leagues?” Looking at myself through someone else’s eyes had become a habit. In fact, asking questions about how I was supposed to behave was usually my main lead in to any conversation since it was the one thing everyone seemed to have an opinion on. I discovered that almost everything I did was being watched: how I handled myself around the locker room, body language during the game, reactions to comments. I guess I knew stuff like this was monitored, veterans in Triple A did it on occasion, but how intensified it was up here startled me. Furthermore, all the information was conflicting. Some of the older guys liked rookies who carried themselves with confidence; others thought that a confident swagger screamed “comfortable.” Some wanted rookies to shut up and stay out of the way while others wanted rookies to be proactive in the learning process. Oddly, if you got caught pleasing one veteran in plain view of another, you ran the risk of being labeled defiant. It was almost as if no matter what you did, you ran the risk of making an enemy since everyone thought of themselves as special and to be obeyed.
The one thing that was universally accepted by veterans was good play. Performing well earned you privileges socially. This, too, was something found in the minors but intensified in the big leagues. However, since I had not performed well, I had no privileges. I found myself wanting to pitch if only to gain a chance to break free of the cone of silence I was in. In the meantime, I did my best to walk the social tightrope of being a rookie in the big leagues, balancing the opinions that veterans had on how I should behave, no matter how conflicting.
After our home stand, we headed to LA to play the Dodgers. Since it was only a two-hour drive, those of us not driving expensive, customized cars went by bus. As the team bus pulled out, so did Bonnie, leaving for home again. I was actually glad she was heading back. It was hard for me to focus on her and keep track of all the things I was supposed to be doing now that I was in the Show. With all the work I was doing to keep up rookie pretenses and appeasing the veterans, chaperoning her was becoming a distraction.
The hotel in Los Angeles was by far the best hotel I’d ever stayed in in my life. My room had twin, marble walk-in showers; a hot tub; a king-size bed with down pillows; and a sitting room with three couches and a solid oak desk. If this was my room, I couldn’t imagine what Hoffman or Peavy stayed in. I actually wondered if someone on the team found out about my room, whether they would be upset because a rookie got such a nice one.
The Dodgers’ ballpark, on the other hand, was a dump. The insides of the place were in dire need of renovating. The locker room was cramped and training room small. I think the clubhouse staff knew this because their service was amazing, as if to make up for the subpar facilities. They provided everything imaginable, from an unlimited supply of Dodger dogs to a computer geek who could turn your laptop into a mobile entertainment center. However, as good as they were, there was nothing they could do to make up for the Dodger fans.
Some fan bases are more aggressive than others. It’s well known that Phillies fans are some of the meanest on earth. The Bronx houses that typical New York bravado, and Boston has a good reputation for verbally punishing anyone who dares challenge their Sox. But the fans at LA were nothing to scoff at. From the minute they started filing in for batting practice until the completion of the game, they were on us.
“Hey Fifty-Seven, nice career numbers. Whose dick did you suck to get up here?”
“Hey, Hayhurst, I hope you pitch tonight so we can get an easy win.”
“Hayhurst, give me a ball, you fucking douche.”
“Hey, Hayhurst, I got your Dodger dog right here!”
The Dodgers’ pen, situated in right field, was exposed to fans above us on both the left and the right. Since the Dodgers were in contention for the play-offs, the seats were stuffed with Dodger blue. Fans yelled down at us from above, screaming how we sucked. When we tuned them out, bags of trash came sailing down on top of us. Then cups of beer were dumped over, sending us to find cover in the pen’s tiny bunker. Fights intermittently broke out in the stadium—it was actually more fun to watch the police haul away fans who were duking it out than it was to watch the game, since when the police stepped in to keep the peace, they got showered with beer from the upper levels too.
We got beat the first game. Maddux, formerly of the Padres, used his powers against us to best Chris Young, my replacement. The Dodger fans made sure to rub it in as we walked off the field. Then, after they told us how bad we were, they asked us for balls. When we said no, they went back to telling us we sucked.
When I came into the locker room the next day, I noticed there were a few new nameplates above lockers. It was September now, and some familiar faces had been called up to join us. Frenchy, Anto, Luke, Chip, and Kip had all come up. Kip, Frenchy, and Anto walked into the locker room with the same dumbstruck expression I had when I was in their shoes, while Luke and Chip slipped back into a more tried-and-true routine. I was happy to see them all, more happy than I could possibly express through congratulation. It was almost as if I wanted to hold hands with them and run off giggling to some remote corner and say, “Oh my gosh, I missed you so much.” Instead, when the coast was clear, I whispered inquiries about how they were doing.
“I didn’t expect this to happen,” said Frenchy. “I can’t believe it.”
“Neither did I,” I said. “I still can’t.”
“Hey man, don’t let me do anything stupid,” said Frenchy.
“I don’t know if I can help you there, I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time myself. We lose a lot and I think guys are a little edgy because of it. Just keep your head down. That’s what I do.”
“Right,” said Frenchy.
“What about me?” asked Anto.
“I don’t know, dude. The position players seem pretty easygoing, I guess.”
“Yeah, you pitchers are like a bunch of princesses. You guys love drama.”
“Save it, Anto,” said Frenchy.
“He may actually be right,” I said.
“Told you,” said Anto.
“But most of them are the same guys from Portland,” Frenchy pointed out.
“Yes and no,” I said. “They’re the same people, but they act different now. Some of them act real arrogant for some reason.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Which reminds me, get used to the phrase,
‘Welcome to the big leagues’.”
I went on to tell them about the beer bag, the trick bus they were forbidden to ride, the eyewash expectations, and the coaches who were approachable and the ones who weren’t. “Beyond that, just try to blend in.”
They both bobbed their heads up and down and went off to get suited up.
Moments later, I greeted Chip and Luke. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, bro. Good to be back,” said Chip.
“So, status report,” said Luke.
“I like the paychecks, I like the plane rides, and I like the hotels. I’m just trying to prove I can stick.”
“It’s tough,” said Luke. “That’s why sticking is always talked about with such reverence.”
“Yeah, but I’m back in the pen now, back doing what I know.”
“You know what they say about rationalizing,” said Luke, implying I’d have to follow through.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think it’s a stretch to say I wasn’t ready to start, right?”
“It was a great opportunity, though,” Chip said.
“I’ve still got opportunities left. Besides, now that I’ve got Luke up here to throw to, I’ll be way more successful. And I got you here to advise me. The dream team is assembled once more, I can’t fail!”
Chapter Sixty-two
I don’t know how the idea got in my head, but as I sat in the pen during the second game, monitoring the bags of candy to make sure of perfect alignment, I started to envision what it would mean for me if I was the team’s Dodger killer. Sure, I stunk against the Giants and the Rockies, but who were they anyway? The Dodgers were like the West Coast’s version of the Yankees this year. They were running away with the NL West. If I could shut them down, maybe I could redeem myself. What if I turned out to be awesome against the powerhouse teams? I began to rationalize how ridiculous it was for them to even have me try and start after spending all year relieving. I was out of my element in the rotation, but a good relief outing against these superstars might get me back on the road to vindication.
I got a chance to prove my theory nearly as soon as I’d thought it up. In the bottom of the fourth inning, Baek was getting beat up and the call came for me to bail him out. I avoided raining trash and beer long enough to get hot. Time was called, Bud was out of the dugout, he gestured to the pen, the umpire turned and pointed, the gate opened, and out I sprinted, Dirk Hayhurst, Dodger killer.
I hit the game mound with a man on first and third. Bud handed me the game ball and the fielders dispersed. One out, that was all I needed.
Russell Martin stepped in. What did I know about him other than he was a catcher and French-Canadian? Nothing. But I didn’t need to know anything; he was just another out to the Dodger killer.
Martin and I locked horns and soon I’d worked him into a payoff pitch scenario. With Baek’s runs still on, I decided to go with my quickstep. Since that day in the batting cage so many months ago, I’d started using it in situations where I needed a little something extra to throw a batter off my trail. It was part of my bag of tricks now, and I’d gotten quite a few outs with it in key situations. This was one of them: James Loney on first, Andre Ethier on third, and an all-star catcher at the plate—shutting down this inning would look great on my résumé.
I came set, held, held, held, and then, the jabbing daggerlike step that had caught so many hitters off guard in Portland. I hurled a fastball and, with an equally quick stroke, Martin’s bat slashed it into shallow left for a single that scored Ethier.
That wasn’t supposed to happen; that
never
happened! I could feel the despair part of me starting to creep in but I fought it off. The ball wasn’t hit
that
well, I told myself. I could still get out of this without too much damage. I could still be the Dodger killer. And besides, that was Baek’s run, not mine. He shouldn’t have let them on in the first place. This was about me.
never
happened! I could feel the despair part of me starting to creep in but I fought it off. The ball wasn’t hit
that
well, I told myself. I could still get out of this without too much damage. I could still be the Dodger killer. And besides, that was Baek’s run, not mine. He shouldn’t have let them on in the first place. This was about me.
Casey Blake stepped in next and I got him to pop out on an inside fastball to end the inning. I congratulated myself on getting out of an inning with minimal damage, and not giving up any of my own runs. The Dodger crowd yelled at me as I entered the dugout, but I ignored them. I had to keep my focus, keep my positive attitude up because I was probably going out for the next inning. I took my hat off, set my glove down, and grabbed a towel, all the while facing the bench. When I finally turned to face the field again, there was Balsley, boring a hole in me with his glare.
“What the fuck was that?” he said with the most emotion I’d heard from him since my arrival.
I didn’t know what he was referring to. I thought about my pitch selection and what I’d thrown Blake to make him pop out. My clueless face did all the talking.
“That gimmick bullshit may work down in the minors but it doesn’t fly here.”
“The quickstep? I wanted to throw off his timing,” I stammered.
“If you can’t locate, it doesn’t matter what you do to his timing. You fucked around and left that pitch up. I don’t ever want to see you do that shit again. This is the fucking big leagues. If you want to do that shit you can go back to Triple A. Do you understand me?”
“I ... I ... I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say.
“You’re sorry?” he scoffed. “Say that to Baek, they’re his runs.” His stare was too firm for me to match, and I dropped my head.
“You’re done. Bentley’s got the next inning. Get the fuck out of here.”
The rest of my night was spent in silence. Balsley’s chewing of my ass was loud and public enough to widen the cone of silence around me, even to my freshly promoted friends. After the game, Bonnie called me three or four times as I sat in my posh hotel room, thinking about the event. I’d been roughed up pretty good during my short career as a big leaguer, but nothing stung quite as bad as Balsley’s comments. I wondered if his words were by design, if he was testing me, or if he just plain hated me. I was starting to hate him, but such a hate was fruitless since he was the big league coach while I was just me.
Bonnie’s name and number showed up again on my phone’s caller ID, but I did not answer. I didn’t want to talk to her about it. I didn’t want to relive it and listen to her make excuses for me. When the phone stopped ringing, I checked the message she left. “Glad you had a good outing tonight!” she said cheerily. “I’ll bet you’re pumped to be succeeding out of the pen! I told you you would. Have fun tonight, big leaguer, I lov—” That was all I listened to before I deleted the message and closed the phone.
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