Authors: Dirk Hayhurst

Out of My League (35 page)

BOOK: Out of My League

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Chapter Sixty-three

A week passed. I stopped answering my phone as much as I used to. Since I got called up, people had been coming out of the woodwork to tell me they’d been following my career since it started, even if I didn’t know about it until now. They’d ask leading questions like, “It must feel awesome to be up there?” and, “I can’t imagine what you must feel like every day?” I used to enjoy taking the calls, but now, knowing what they wanted to hear me say was so different from what I felt, I stopped picking up. Even Bonnie’s voice was beginning to grate on me. Our conversations were much shorter and one-sided with my answers coming in empty yes’s and no’s.

Since my outing against the Dodgers, Dirk Hayhurst, the mighty Dodger killer, had only pitched once—against the Dodgers again, ironically, this time at home. I recorded a single strikeout, my first clean outing of the year. I felt good about it, if only slightly, and I did my best to fan that positive feeling into something I could stand on, even if it was only one batter.

The day after the outing, Anto, Frenchy, and I stood next to each other on the dugout fencing, waiting for team stretch to start, talking about our time in the big leagues up to this point. More rookies had come aboard, including waiver pickups, and some of the crew from the Double A team, like Mike Ekstrom and Drew Macias. They were all joining a team that was playing for nothing, and while this lack of direction didn’t matter to any of the new faces when viewed through the lens of finally reaching the Bigs and the paycheck it granted, when the euphoria wore off, the reality of playing for a team whose only goal was not losing one hundred games before the season’s end set in. The basement dwelling had taken its toll on the older players, who, in turn, took out their frustration on the younger ones.

There were a lot of egos so big in the big leagues, it was a good thing the stadiums were so massive and cavernous or there would be no way they’d fit in the parks. They’d habitually analyzed why the team was losing, declaring their reasoning like sermons to us rookies who had no choice but to act as their captive audience. Everything they did or said was expected to be revered because it was done and said in the big leagues, the billion-dollar industry that had generated the very history we’d tried all our lives to be a part of. It was becoming obvious that just because certain players were more successful and recognizable didn’t mean they were good teammates, communicators, or people. Yet, as it had always been, it was pointless to bring that part of the baseball life into the equation because, after all, they were gods, and we were nothing because we’d done nothing valuable on a team that could do nothing valuable.

It ate me up inside. I’d never felt more weak and pathetic in my whole career. I felt like a whiner, and maybe I was, but the experience was painful in a way I couldn’t overcome. My days now consisted of watching over my shoulder and never-ending sycophancy in between embarrassing myself on national television.

“I have no idea how I am supposed to act at this point,” said Frenchy. “It’s like if I pitch bad and I look upset about it, I get yelled at because this is the big leagues and I’m supposed to be happy. Then, if I pitch good, and I’m happy about it, I get yelled at because I’m happy and the team is losing and I shouldn’t be carrying myself around the locker room like I’m ‘the man’ while the team is losing. Yesterday, I sat on the couch and got yelled at because I didn’t have enough time to sit on the couch yet. Today I got yelled at for acting timid when I’m a starter and I should be a team leader.” He held his hands out wide as if lost, then tucked them in quickly in fear that someone might yell at him about it.

“I got a hit in my first at bat and the hitting coach told me I’ll never hit up here with the swing I have, after I just got a hit,” said Anto. “Day one in the Bigs and I’m already getting overhauled. I don’t friggin’ understand it. Now I feel like I don’t know what I should do at the friggin’ plate ’cause I don’t want to piss the hitting coach off.”

“Yesterday,” continued an exasperated Frenchy, “someone asked me if I was going to watch videotape and I said no, because I was nervous and already overthinking myself and didn’t want anything else swimming in my head. The veteran asked me if I thought I was too good to learn something. I said no, of course not, so I go in and start watching video to make him happy, video I’m not even paying attention to, and then, one of the older guys comes in and throws me out for getting in his way!”

“That’s friggin’ hilarious,” said Anto.

“No, it’s not,” pleaded Frenchy. “Everyone thinks I’m arrogant now and I didn’t do anything. They all evaluate my body language and my actions, and then they think they can tell me how to act when they don’t know me at all.” Frenchy turned to Anto. “Besides, what’s wrong with what got you here?”

“I don’t know. But he’s the big league hitting coach. I’m going to do what he tells me.”

I could relate to everything and yet it meant nothing. There was one truth that trumped it all and I repeated, “Yeah, it’s strange. It sucks, but this is the only league that matters. If we can’t find a way to get it done, we don’t belong here,” I said vacantly.

“Fine,” said Frenchy. “If I get my ass kicked out there,
then
I don’t belong here. But not because some asshole has more time than me and says I’m not acting like he thinks I should.”

“If that’s the case, I don’t belong here,” I said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m better at kissing ass and handling the candy bag then I am at pitching.”

“Come on, man, you belong. You pitched the hell out of it in triple A.”

“That doesn’t matter anymore. This isn’t Triple A. It’s all about what you do up here. It’s always been about that.”

“Well, you had a good outing last night.”

“I faced one batter.”

“Dude, stop, you’re going to figure it out. You have to stay positive.”

“Jesus, you want me to leave so you two can make out?” asked Anto.

“The difference between me and you guys,” I said to Anto and Frenchy, “is that you’re prospects and they want you here. This is an audition for me, and I’m blowing it. It’s like a test to see if I’m the real deal and so far I’ve failed it. And don’t tell me to do whatever I did to get myself here, because it’s impossible to do the same things you did in Triple A up here. Everything is different.”

“Remember how many times you’ve had to hold my hand when I felt bad these last two years?” asked Frenchy. “Well, I’m not going to let you bail on yourself now. Plenty of time left to make up for it. You’ve done good out of the pen. String a few more together and you’ll be fine.”

“If you two start kissing,” Anto said, shaking his head, “I’m going to vomit right here. I got a weak stomach.”

Chapter Sixty-four

I got the call again that night. It was getting easier to manage the big league stadium factor now that I’d made a few trips to the mound. I wasn’t comfortable by any stretch, but I did make it through the eighth inning without much trouble, which gave me some confidence that I was improving. I felt like I’d found my command again. I felt like I’d remembered my delivery. Maybe it was calmer nerves. Maybe it was Frenchy’s pep talk. Whatever it was, I didn’t dwell on the issue. After punching out the next two hitters in the following inning, I got back on the mound ready to face Andre Ethier and finish my first real appearance as Dirk Hayhurst, San Diego Padre.

I knew what Ethier was capable of, the year he was having, and, most importantly, who was on deck behind him. It’s funny how so many threads of life can intersect on a baseball field. In this forgettable game, one where the home team cheered more for the Dodgers than their Padres, one that I was allowed to pitch in because we were losing by a jagged number, so much of my life hung in the balance. Baseball revolves around what a player is able to repeat: throwing balls or strikes, getting hits or making outs, wins and losses, success and failure. I finally had a chance to repeat success. I could finally tune out the crowd long enough to hear my teammates cheering. I could even hear Balsley, a voice I would never be able to tune out, telling me to keep it up.

Pumping in strikes like the Dirk of old, I got Ethier to swing at a hook. I aimed it for the bottom of the zone, a plate topper that would look like a fat, juicy strike leaving my hand but fall deceptively short of hittable. When done right, bats are drawn to it like a tractor beam and Ethier’s bat was no exception. He made contact with the top tenth of the ball, enough to send it sputtering on the ground between Adrian Gonzales at first and myself.

It was a “tweener,” a groundball so slow and awkwardly placed it commits both the pitcher and the first baseman. I chased the ball, but, realizing I wouldn’t get to it in time, broke off and headed toward the bag ready to take Adrian’s throw. Ethier was right behind me, bolting down the line, unwilling to concede the at bat as a failure. Adrian, unwilling to concede it as a success, scooped and flicked the ball to me in stride. I stuck out my glove while breaking down to hit the bag, and in the rumbling of my footsteps and Ethier’s, I lost the ball for a split second. It deflected off my mitt, hit the dirt, and Ethier crossed the bag safe.

There was a collective groan from the audience, which only served to punctuate the one in my soul. I’d worked on that play roughly a million times in my life. It was a play that pitchers made so many times they universally hated practicing it for its monotony. It’s the one play coaches tell us we will never get beat by because we work too hard to make sure we don’t ... and I just did. Now, as a punishment for my crime of poor coordination, I would have to face Manny Ramirez.

I returned to the mound with the weight of my own self-loathing fresh upon my shoulders while one of baseball’s all-time great sluggers, not to mention one of this season’s hottest, strode to the plate with the carefree bounce the world had come to know him for. His pants were so baggy he looked like one of MC Hammer’s backup dancers. In fact, the way his uniform billowed around him, he looked more like a gray trash bag with dreadlocks and a Dodgers’ cap than a uniformed player. This was all part of his charm, and the roar of his fans nearly blew me off the mound. They kept chanting his name, screaming how much they loved him while tugging at shirts that bore his name—some even wore fake dreadlocks in imitation.

I stared him down from my elevated position. I told myself he was nobody special, that he was just another player. I told myself to not be intimidated by his legacy, or his horde of screaming worshipers. I told myself he was a clown, that he made the game look bad with all his antics, and that I would put him in his place by getting him out quickly and quietly. Then, as I watched the third pitch of the at bat sail over the right field fence, I told myself I hated the game of baseball, the big leagues, and Manny Ramirez.

Chapter Sixty-five

My cell phone rang, waking me up. I rolled over in my king-size bed at the Gaslamp Marriott and fumbled for the ringing, buzzing nuisance without taking my head out from under the pillow. When I finally grabbed hold of the phone, it stopped ringing and the line was dead. I sighed heavily and sank back into my mattress.

It was nearly noon and my head hurt. After I came out of the game last night, I went into the lockers to sulk. I didn’t bother icing or doing rehab exercises; I just sat there in my own hell. A couple of the guys on the team patted me on the back and told me Manny had done that to a lot of pitchers in his career, but it was no consolation. It wasn’t the home run, it was the play before the home run, and the outings before that. It was the slow but steady slipping shut of my window of opportunity in the Bigs. It was me constantly finding a way to blow it. I couldn’t be further from the Dirk who turned down the All-Star game if I tried.

Jilly and Hoffman bought spread for us that night. I didn’t understand why they needed to buy us food since post-game big league spreads were like gourmet meals, but I couldn’t complain about what they bought. They had the crew from a local restaurant come in to our locker room and cook steaks, chicken, lobster, crab, fish—even a full sushi bar where we could order as much of any kind of sushi we wanted. As awesome as it was, I continued brooding through the experience.

That was when a couple of veteran guys insisted that I drown my sorrows with them in sake. After obediently guzzling shot after shot, the short walk back to the hotel became a long and winding one.

The missed calls section of my phone revealed my mother was the wake-up caller. She knew I was usually in bed till noon during the season, so whatever she was calling about must have been important. She’d left a message, but I decided to skip it and just call her back. She answered immediately and wasted no time in breaking the good news.

“I saw you on SportsCenter last night!”

“What?”

“You were on television. You made the ESPN highlight reel. Haven’t you watched it yet? Oh no, you probably haven’t because of the time change.”

“What did they show?” I sat up, my voice grave.

“The home run to Manny. They showed it over and over again. I can’t remember what number it was for him, but they kept saying it. He hit it good too. What did you throw him?”

“Oh fuck me,” I said, and slammed back into the pillows.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean ‘what’s wrong?’ I gave up a bomb to Manny fucking Ramirez and it’s all over SportsCenter, that’s what. Jesus, Mom, isn’t it obvious?”

“Well, no, I thought you’d be happy. You always talked about wanting to make it on SportsCenter. Now you can say you have.”

“I didn’t want it to happen like this!”

She stuttered at what to say next, and I thought for a second she might have understood where I was coming from, but then her voice changed as if she’d stumbled on to some final truth. “I think you’re looking at this the wrong way, Dirk. Think of how many people would love to say they gave up a home run to Manny.”

“Just stop talking.”

“What? Why? Everyone here was excited. All my friends have been watching ESPN since you got called up, and when they saw you, it was like a party around the neighborhood.”

“Shut up, Mom.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up, I’m your mother.”

“Shut up, Mom!” I screamed at her.

She did shut up, and in her silence I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. I was close enough to the elevators that I could hear them whirring up and down through the building. I could hear traffic bustling along the street. And faintly, ever so faintly, I could hear the sound of people I’d never even met from all around the country awing over what a blast Manny hit off me.

“My head hurts,” I said.

“Why?”

“ ’Cause I’m dehydrated, ’cause I’m tired, ’cause the words coming out of your mouth make it hurt.”

“Well, I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Big Leaguer.”

“What did you just call me?”

“Mr. Big Leaguer,” she said again. “You know, your brother might be a drunk, but at least I can talk to him.”

“Oh, for the love of God, now I’m the bad guy? This isn’t a conversation. This is you missing the point of something, like you always do, and instead of asking where you messed up, you’re mad at me for not going along with it.”

“You just can’t enjoy the moment so you take it out on me.”

“This isn’t a party, this is my job. When I don’t get the results I need, this is what happens, Mom: nationally televised embarrassment. Every time I go out there the stakes are at their highest. I’m playing to keep my dream job, and every time I blow it I run the risk of losing it forever.”

“Well, I’m not embarrassed,” said Mom.

“You’re not the one out there getting your ass kicked.”

“It’s just a home run, Dirk. You’ve given up plenty of them.”

“I really hate you sometimes, you know that?”

“He said he hates me, Sam,” she said, shouting over her shoulder. Then, back to me, “Your father says you’re not bending over when you pitch. He says it’s the same problem you always had back in high school.”

“Tell him I said to mind his own fucking business and go smoke another cigarette.”

“He said you should mind your own business, Sam,” my mother repeated. Then, back to me again, “Your father said he’s not the one giving up homers to Manny.”

“Tell him I said to go—”

“You tell him,” interrupted my mom. “If you two want to be nasty, you can be nasty together.”

“I don’t want to talk to Dad,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone! I want to forget about this whole thing.”

“Well, you can’t, it’s always going to be around. You just have to get over it.”

“I know that, Mom! Don’t you think I know that? Do you think this is my first time playing this game?”

“Geez-Louise, does Bonnie know you’re like this when you pitch bad?”

“What?” Her citation of Bonnie took me off guard.

“Does Bonnie know what kind of person you turn into when you pitch bad?”

“I don’t turn into any
kind
of person when I pitch bad.”

“Oh yes, you do,” she said with a laugh. “Oh Lord, do you ever.”

“No, I don’t! I turn into this person when I talk to you.”

“Well, they say boys treat their wives like they treat their mothers.”

If you were outside my room’s window, you would have seen me throw my pillow against the glass and scream at it like I was insane.

“Calm down,” said my mother. “I was just calling to tell you I was proud.”

I buried my head in my hand, breathing heavily. “Okay, Mom,” I said, collecting myself, “you saw me on SportsCenter. You’re proud. I validate that. Are you happy now? Can I get off the phone now?”

“Your car got crushed by a tree last night.”

“What?” I balked at the abrupt change of subject.

“Yes, we had a huge windstorm last night and it toppled a tree onto your car. The car looks like a bun around a tree-shaped hot dog. It’s ruined.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, Dirk, I’m serious. It’s totaled. You’re going to have to find another car when you get back.”

“What the ... How?” I pulled the phone from my face and looked at it as if it were some direct line to hell. “Mom, what made you think now was the time to tell me that?”

“Well, I thought it would help you take your mind off last’s night’s outing.”

“Oh yes, great plan, I’ve completely forgotten about it. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hung up.

BOOK: Out of My League

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