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Authors: Dirk Hayhurst

Out of My League (41 page)

BOOK: Out of My League
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Epilogue
Laughter was brewing in the spring training meeting room as George Poulis, the Toronto Blue Jays big league trainer, shuffled up to the podium in the front. It was his turn on the introductions merry-go-round, and something about what he was going to say had several of the veteran guys snickering like devious school kids. I didn’t know George very well yet. I didn’t know anyone in the room well yet. It was only my second day with the club, and other than the Jays’ affinity for Greeks, I was still getting immersed in the culture, figuring out important things like inside jokes and unexplained giggles.
Of course the guys I was sitting among looked like a ball team, just like the kind you’d find in any other spring training facility this time of year. Just like the kind I left behind in San Diego. There were a few big names, a few small names, and a few no names. We wore Majestic brand pants, tailored to fit us perfectly, complete with a few personal modifications that would assuredly get us fined if this were minor league camp. Free Phiten necklaces coiled around our necks and imbued us with their mystic powers while equally free sponsor-paid shoes of all makes and models housed our precious feet. Dip cans of every flavor were passed around like party favors, and complimentary Red Bulls were slugged with abandon. Some players brought their expensive gloves to the meeting and were still bending the newness out of them. Others talked rapidly about some embarrassing nightlife story, former teammates, or the roads that brought them here. Travis Snider, for example, talked about what he ate last night to the newly acquired former Pirate, Jose Bautista. Ricky Romero compared designer cleats with fellow pitcher Brandon League. Jessie Litsch fell all over himself as Sean Marcum ripped on Jessie Carlson. And then there was the great Roy Halladay, who sat in uninterrupted silence, content to observe.
Along the right side of the meeting room, coaches congregated with front office faces and trainers. They came in after all the players were accounted for and introduced themselves to us in an orderly fashion, stepping out of line long enough to state their names and roles. Dave Steib and Pat Henkin, two legendary Jays pitchers, were in attendance under the guise of guest coaches whom, we were told, “we should all take the opportunity to glean wisdom from.” Steib, however, did his best to dispel the prestige of his presence by saying the only reason he kept coming back was the free food.
The coaching staff wore Jays windbreakers or fleece sweatshirts with Jays logos stitched in. Most had on Jays hats, with color-coordinated sunglasses resting atop the bill like polarized tiaras. The office personnel wore more professional attire: ties, suits, and the like. The training staff wore their customary khaki, and the meatheads, of course, sported the latest space-age workout shorts with shirts that read, INTENSITY! tucked into them.
As new as spring training for another team in another state in another league was, it all seemed familiar. It was remarkable how similarly the fraternity of baseball players indoctrinated its subjects regardless of the employer. We all spoke the same abrasive, sarcastic, ballplayer language. We all understood the inflection used to mask a compliment in a put-down. We all knew the value and place of service time. Baseball is a unique world, but once you experience it firsthand, there is no mistaking how it operates, and this group of new teammates, sitting around joking and goofing off and treating each other with the highest amount of respect a player can give to another, which is to say, no respect at all, were just like so many teammates I’d known before.
“Tell us about the grapes, George,” came a heckle from an older player.
George had just finished introducing himself and his complement of trainers. He did so in an extra respectful and genuine way, which, of course, made him a prime target for us savages, who wanted nothing more than to corrupt him.
“Alright, real quick, guys,” said George, getting suddenly serious. “Our goal is to keep you healthy. No lost playing time. That means we don’t want guys getting sick by spreading germs. But ...” George seemed to blush at the topic he was about to explain to us, which made the players quite happy. “I followed a player into the bathroom the other day. He went to use the toilet while I took a leak at the urinal. When I finished up, I went to wash my hands, but he”—George started shaking his head in disgust—“he just shut the stall door and walked out! He didn’t wash his hands!
“So I followed him down the hallway, and he turns into the cafeteria and starts eating grapes from the fruit bowl with his bare hands! He’s got”—his voice got softer, like he was going to say a bad word—“fecal matter on his hands! Now, that fecal matter is on the grapes. Sure enough, other guys come into the place and are eating his fecal matter! You know how many guys go through the cafeteria eating his fecal matter? ” George let the questions hang in the air as if the notion of it should scare us like a fire-and-brimstone sermon.
“Don’t eat the grapes, boys. There’s shit on the grapes!” someone shouted.
“Why didn’t you say something to him, George? You just let the bastard shit on our grapes?”
“It was probably Carlson,” came the booming voice of BJ Ryan.
“No way, dude. That’s disgusting,” protested Carlson, who cringed as BJ slapped a massive paw on his shoulder and shook him like a sapling.
George seemed to shrug off the heckles and disruption. The fact that the story was known by older players suggested this was not as recent a tale as George was making it out be, and I’m sure the heckling wasn’t a new thing either. It’s amazing what becomes tradition for a team.
“So, you’ll notice,” continued George, “there are hand sanitizer stations set up all around the facility. There is no excuse not to clean your hands. So, uh, let’s just be considerate of one another and we can all stay healthy this year.”
George was offered a playfully mocking round of applause for his plea on public health as he walked away from the center of the room.
In George’s place, a very powerful individual came to address us, and on his approach the humor subsided. Cito Gaston now stood before us, prepared to give his 2009 inaugural spring training address.
There was a podium at the front of the room that Cito gripped using both hands. He looked up at us casually but did not introduce himself—he was our manager, and that was all we really needed to know.
Cito spoke in easy, relaxed tones about how the team had talent, just as much as any of the other big name, major market, extravagantly compensated clubs we’d be going up against. He said he expected us to hold our own this season, even shine when the opportunity presented itself. He said several other things that make for good, inspirational starts to another year in the grind, but it was the words he used at the end of this talk that stuck with me the most.
“We’re here for you, so if you need something extra, you let one of us know. If you want to talk about something, my door is always open, Okay? Even when it’s closed, it’s open.”
We all nodded our heads like diligent students.
“We got a few off days this spring, and we’re going to do everything we can to make sure we take them. You guys who have family coming into town and need a day to spend time with them, let me know and we’ll try and work something out. I know it’s important to spend time with your family during this game. When the game is over, and it’s going to be for all of us, they’re what you’ll have left. So spend the time with them you need to, it’s important. You may not see it now, but you will.”
As Cito spoke, I looked around the room, scanning the faces of my new family. The Blue Jays wanted me here. In fact, they claimed me because they saw something in me when I thought everyone in baseball could care less. That, and, ironically, because Balsley gave them a glowing recommendation on my potential. Ultimately, the Jays believed I had something worth taking a chance on, and so they brought me to my first big league camp to prove it.
“We work hard here, but we also have a good time.” Cito looked around the room at the faces he would construct his next team from. “I look forward to a successful season with you. That’s all I have.” On that, he released us, and the motley crew of would-be 2009 Blue Jays walked from the room, joking and laughing and talking about fecal matter as we went, ready for another season of chasing dreams and turning them into realities.
 
Because of contract language and roster changes, I couldn’t make the team out of camp that year. My invite was more of an audition than a real chance, but it was one I made the most of. I pitched so well in my first big league camp invite that Cito, after calling me up in May from Triple-A Las Vegas, said to the press that he wished he could have broken camp with me on the team. It was a major league compliment from a major league legend, and I did my best to prove myself worthy of it, going on to post a 2.78 ERA in my half season of big league service time as a Jay. Sure, a half a season didn’t make me an All-Star, or an icon, or get my jersey retired. But it did let me provide a home for Bonnie, buy a car for my parents, and grant me the confidence to believe that I was no longer out of my league.
CITADEL PRESS BOOKS are published by
 
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New York, NY 10018
 
Copyright © 2012 Dirk Hayhurst
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
 
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ISBN: 978-0-8065-3553-1
BOOK: Out of My League
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