The Bullpen Gospels (15 page)

When the emergency sessions were held, the prosecutors, who also happened to be roommates of the accused, asked White Chocolate to his face if he was doing anything perverse in his host family’s office. He said no.

“Did you look up porn on your host family’s computer?”

“I haven’t done anything you guys haven’t done.”

“Answer the question, please. Yes or no. Did you look up porn on the host family’s computer?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do after you looked up the porn?”

“I went back to my room.”

“Did you try to do anything else on the computer?”

No answer.

“Did you do anything else on the computer, and need we remind you, you are under oath.”

“No.”

“Did you turn off the computer and exit the room.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t masturbate in the room before you left.”

“Hell no! Come on dude!”

“Did you print anything while you were on the computer?”

“No.”

“No?”

“NO!”

“Your honors, it’s true when White Chocolate says he did not print anything off the computer. The fact of the matter is, he tried and the computer would not print.” The prosecutor turned and gestured to all in a very theatrical manner. “Sometimes computers and printers don’t connect like they should. Chalk it up to Windows. Sometimes the printer receives the instructions to print and saves it in its memory until the computer is restarted and whatever signals were crossed work themselves out.

“As it would happen, just today, we, along with our host mother, went into the office to look something up on the Internet for her.” Chocolate’s head sunk. “When the computer turned on, the printer began printing items stored in its memory. At this time, we would like to submit the following evidence to the court.”

The roommates’ lawyers handed seven printed photos of nude, extra dark chocolate women. Each in an exotic pose: spreading, bending, begging. The lawyers laid the pictures down before the courtroom to the roaring laughter of everyone present. Judges fell on each other laughing. People in the court rolled onto the floor. White Chocolate turned to red chocolate.

“Chocolate, are you serious?” a judge asked.

“It wasn’t me,” he offered.

“Yeah, right. Who else lives there and is obsessed with black women?”

At this point, one of the guys on the team who was black came over to inspect the photos and declared, “I know you like black ladies and all, but damn, Chocolate! At least you could have looked up some good-looking ones. This here is some fucked-up shit!”

“Your honors, I would like the court to know we were present as each photo printed painfully slowly in front of our host mother. She was so embarrassed, we had to escort her from the room. We would like the court to take her pain and suffering into consideration when it rules.”

“Do you have anything to say for yourself White Chocolate?”

“What can I say? I like black women. I didn’t know it would print out like that though. It’s not my fault.”

“You really must have been horny,” one of the judges said. “You printed it out seven times.”

“Five,” another judge corrected. “This one is crawling, that one is doing splits—the other one with the lollipop is a repeat.”

“Got a thing for lollipops, Chocolate?”

“How does the court rule?” a prosecutor asked, pleased with the production.

We convened to discuss the issue. It was an open-and-shut case for our cybercrimes division.

“Chocolate, here is your fine. A buck for each picture you printed out and three bucks for embarrassing yourself and your roommates in front of your host mother. You owe your host mom an apology when you see her again, and you owe your roommates dinner for dragging them into this.”

“I didn’t drag them into this. They were the ones who made a big deal.”

“Chocolate, seriously?” an incredulous roommate of his asked. “You tried to print out hard-core porn in front of our host mom. Why would you even print it out?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to do my thing in her office,” he said, making a lewd gesture.

“Why would you even look it up on her computer?”

“Because, bro, I’m a man. I got needs.” More laughter came from the crowd.

“Chocolate, just don’t say anything. If you keep talking I’m sure the fine will get worse.”

The first case of today’s court, the first court of the season, was against Slappy. Go figure.

The official court reader, Maddog, pulled the complaint from the box and spoke, “Okay, this fine is on Slappy.”

“Guilty!” Slappy yelled, jokingly. The courtroom, which was our locker room with three judging players sitting to one side of it, chuckled.

“Slappy stands accused,” Maddog continued, “of making out with girl at the Diamond Club and then losing her to another guy.”

“What? No, no, no—that’s not something I should be fined for.”

“Hold on Slappy, we have rules here. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, of course.”

“It says on the complaint that the team witnessed this.”

“I’m saying not guilty because I made out with her. Maybe that’s all I wanted to do.”

“But she was ugly, dude. Ugly and fat.”

“That’s not what I’m being charged for, though. I’m being charged for losing her.”

Seth was on his feet and ready to prosecute. “That’s the whole point, Slap. You don’t just make out with ugly chicks because you like kissing them. You have to go all the way. And that’s only because it’s part of busting a slump or something. I mean, unless you like fat, ugly chicks, the only purpose they serve is health related.”

“That’s true, Slap. Fat chicks should be used for medicinal purposes only.”

“It was the beginning of the year, bro. I was just getting warmed up. I’m not in mid season form yet,” Slappy countered.

“That’s no excuse for you to lose her to another guy,” Seth said, pushing the issue.

“Why am I the one getting fined? Buschmann should be getting fined, since he stole her. He went out of his way to take an ugly chick from me! That’s real desperation, stealing a fat chick from a teammate! I’d like to cite the law of Bros before Hos here!”

“I don’t think it applies in this case,” a judge said.

“This is a mockery of justice!” Slappy wailed.

Brent’s hand when up. “If it pleases the court, I think Buschmann should get a credit under his name for stealing Slappy’s girl.”

“That’s bullshit!” Slappy wailed.

“And that’s one dollar, Slap. No swearing in Kangaroo Court—we’re professionals here.” Maddog wrote down a dollar fine for Slap.

“Fine, that’s
bullcrap
,” Slappy rephrased. “What kind of teammate steals another player’s chick, regardless of how nasty she is?”

“Personally,” Frenchy said, “I think she had a chance to upgrade from a bad body reliever to a starter and she took it.”

“Maybe we should give her a credit too,” Brent said.

“That is a veteran move.”

“She’s got a big one,” Rosco said.

“I think the court has heard enough to render a decision.”

Slappy was fined three dollars, one for illegal use of a potential slump buster, one for losing said slump buster to another player, and one for swearing.

“Next fine.” This was for Lunchbox. “For making the comment, ‘It’s a good thing dolphins don’t have hands or they’d probably take over the world.’”

“Did you really say that, Box?” a judge asked.

Lunchbox stared at the court with a dull face of wonder. “What? I was just saying that they’re smart, I think, like the smartest mammals on earth, right? If they had hands, like us, I’ll bet they could challenge us.” Blank expressions as the entire locker room stared back at Lunchbox. “You guys don’t think so? Like, they’d be dangerous if they had fingers and thumbs?”

“Box, you might want to think about appointing a lawyer. Would anyone like to represent Lunchbox?”

Seth shook his head. “I’m not even going to touch that one.”

“What? If they had fingers, they could use guns.”

“Where are dolphins going to get guns, Lunchbox?”

“Submarines.”

Lunchbox was fined one dollar. Someone helped him count it out.

The boys showed up at the park early because of the scheduled bus trip. We were on commuter time. Our destination was High Desert, with service to Modesto following the game. This marked the first day of a four-game road trip.

We changed into our uniforms at the park, halfway at least, not bothering to tuck tops in or put hats on—certainly no spikes. There was no reason to look game ready since we were just going to hop on a bus for the next two hours. Suitcases were packed for the overnight portions; Padres-issued equipment bags were stocked for the day. We, a gang of half-dressed baseball bums, lugged our cases and bags to the curb of the stadium’s parking lot and waited for the arrival of the team bus.

When the bus huffed and puffed into the parking lot, all the future occupants sprang to attention and began forming a line at the presumed point where the bus, or rather the door of the bus, would stop. Everyone jockeyed, shoulder to shoulder, nudging and bumping each other almost in front of the bus itself for a chance at prime seating. As soon as the bus rolled its last inch and its pneumatic brakes exhaled, signaling a full stop, the doors folded open and the gang burst into it like zombies in a cheap horror flick. I got on last. There was no reason for me to rush.

Part of being the oldest guy on the team with higher-level time is I get whatever seat I want, regardless if someone else has it or not. It’s baseball tradition that older guys get the pick of the seating litter, and always has been. I’m not sure where the tradition originated, but it is what it is, and I for one was not going to challenge it.

I walked up the steps to the bus aisle proper and stared down it like Death looking for his next victim. The occupants who had already gotten comfortable held their breath as I made my way down the aisle. Some players pretended to look away, as if I didn’t exist. The age hierarchy of priority seating was law, and it was mine to enforce however I saw fit. I came to a stop in front of the seat I usually take, the one with the few extra inches of precious legroom. It was occupied by Matt Bush.

Bush was the 2004 first pick overall. He was made a millionaire three times over by the draft and wasn’t even twenty yet. However, not even a month into his professional career, he fell out of favor for some stupid stuff he did off the field involving underage drinking and anger. He wasn’t performing as the Padres hoped he would, thus his exploits off the field were his most notable career achievements. Partially the business, partially his own fault, he was under tremendous scrutiny and pressure. I felt sorry for him, actually. Just not sorry enough to let him have the good seat—not this year.

“Beat it, Bush,” I said, like a king throwing the jester from his thrown.

“Come on man, are you serious?” In his defense, no one, regardless of the round they were drafted in, would be happy about this.

“Hell yes, I’m serious. I’m the oldest guy in the Cal League. Now gimme my damn seat!”

Bush rolled his eyes, then retreated to another location. He was definitely irritated, but he didn’t bite me or anything. It felt good to push a first rounder around.

As the time of departure drew near, those players who came late were punished by having to double up with other players for the trip. In order to make their seats seem less inviting, the players already seated spread out as if they had spontaneously gained weight. Some were stretching uncomfortably over the seats, arranging their backpacks, iPods, and magazines in ways that screamed “no room for rent.” Some even pretended to be asleep, hiding under their dark sunglasses.

“I can see your eyes, dude. Just let me sit down and quit faking it.”

“For fuck’s sake, why don’t you just show up on time!”

“It doesn’t matter if I did—there aren’t enough seats for everyone to get his own. Someone was going to double up, so deal with it.”

“Well it didn’t have to be me! God…I hope you get beaned tonight.”

I believe this reaction is why things like seat hierarchies are created.

When everyone is on board, the bus is supposed to go forward—supposed to. Occasionally, some things will occur that alter the normal series of events. Things like breakdowns or late players. Or things like what happened today when the bus driver got on the mic and began talking to us—

Baseball players are not nice, tame animals. Especially not in packs, when they feel safe to bark and snarl and spit thanks to their superior numbers. When the bus driver turned around, the first thing we all noticed was that he was cross-eyed, severely cross-eyed, noticeable even to me sitting in the back. The next thing we noticed, by the excitable way he breathed and groped the bus’s built-in tour-guide microphone, was that he was a baseball fan.

“Uh, hello everyone. I really hope you guys win today. I’ll be cheering you on from the bus. If you play hard, I know you’ll all be winners. Do it for your love of the game and stay positive—”

“Get off the mic!”

“Drive the bus!”

“Turn around.”

“Stop looking at me that way!”

He looked at our team’s manager, who pretended he was asleep.

“Uh.” The bus driver tried to figure out what was happening. He forced out some nervous laughter, wringing off the microphone chord. “You guys are all winners and—”

“Are you a coach or a bus driver?”

“Why are we still here?”

“We pay you to drive.”

“Sit down, Ralph.”

“Turn the air-conditioning on, Steve.”

“Let’s fucking go, Barry.”

“Have a seat, Don.”

“Quit staring at me, Ronald.”

The rattling off of names was done in an attempt to guess the name of the bus driver. It was almost a game to see who could guess his name first, each guess with its own complimentary insult.

“My name’s Tim, and I’ll be—”

“GET OFF THE MIC, TIM!”

Overwhelmed, poor Tim consented. The manager still feigned sleep, but there had to be a smile on his face. Tim put the mic down, and we started applauding him. He didn’t know it, but he was just initiated into the fold. If he did a good job, the guys on the team would treat him like royalty. If he did a bad job, well, he may as well drive this bus off a cliff. We wish we could all be winners, but let’s be honest, the “everyone’s a winner” talk lost its meaning back when fathers stopped buying ice-cream cones after the games for their red-blooded American boys. This is a lifestyle now, not a feel-good exercise. If you are going to work closely to a team, do yourself a favor and check your clueless speeches at the door.

As the bus crept up into the mountains on its way to High Desert, a master plan was hatched. It was partially my fault, since I was the one who brought it up.

“Do you remember what Skip did last year?” Brent asked, sitting up a few rows from me.

Skip did a lot of things, to a lot of women, in a lot of towns. It was hard to pinpoint exactly which incident Brent was referencing. “Which girl?” I asked.

“No, not that. I meant the sign he made for the bus trips.”

Oh yes, that. Skip thought it would be a good idea, a boon for team chemistry and all that, if he solicited those passing us on the highway for free entertainment. He drew up a sign, written on a white trainer’s towel that read Please Show Us Your Boobs. Cheers!

It wasn’t so much that the idea was invented. In fact it was actually rather odd the idea hadn’t come up sooner. I think every minor league team has done it. I’m confident major league teams would do it if they didn’t fly places. Rather, the irony was that so many women obliged.

Car after car of ladies would do double takes at the white towel flown by lustful faces pressed against window glass. Several women would laugh and shake their heads, but a certain sect acted as if it were an audition. They’d steady the wheels with their knees; then they’d flash the bus for a second or two before blushing and laughing hysterically at their inner naughtiness. Once we encountered a very willing caravan full of sorority girls, and on yet another trip, we had so many ladies flash, a couple guys drew up additional numbered signs and acted as judges. Out of decency, we never offered a score below an eight.

“Yeah, I remember,” I yelled back.

“Remember what?” Slappy asked. Brent and I looked at each other. A mischievous smile curled across Brent’s face. I put my hand on my head.

I explained the story to Slappy, and his reaction was immediate. “Do we have a towel?”

“You are such a savage, Slappy.”

“Yeah, like you don’t want me to do it, Tiny.”

“People are going to think we’re perverts.”

“It’s Southern California—they’re probably perverts too.”

I actually tried to talk Slappy out of the idea. It usually ended with a strict scolding from the team manager. But there was no stopping Slappy now that the idea was out in the open—a new crop of players, a new manager, a new highway full of talent. History looked as if it would repeat itself.

Slappy sniffed out a towel, then commandeered a Magic Marker. He wrote out the message while four or five players leered over his shoulder, anxiously observing the inscription of each letter like school kids about to pull a senior prank. As soon as the advertisement was complete, Slappy chose the side of the bus with the most traffic lanes and ran the towel up like the Jolly Roger while his pirates played lookout.

The first car with potential had a cute blonde at the wheel. Some of the players started banging on the window glass, even yelling, as if the girl could hear them—it was probably for the best that she couldn’t. She casually looked over, then did a double take. She mouthed the words of the sign, daringly keeping her eyes on the road. The pirates continued to hoot and bang.

“Is she going to?”

“How the hell do I know? I’m not her.”

“I think she’s going to.”

“I hope so, she’s cute. She looks foreign.”

“Foreign chicks are so hot.”

The cute, foreign, blonde started talking aloud again.

“Who’s she talking to?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there is another chick in there we can’t see. Two, hot, naughty foreign chicks!”

The passenger’s seat folded up, propelling the formerly sleeping form of a male counterpart. He was not happy, and his finger went up to prove it. He was not foreign either as the words he began angrily mouthing were easy to lip-read by such well-trained swearword translators as us.

Of course, this wouldn’t stand with the Lake Elsinore Pirates. We fired back with dozens of choice fingers. The car we were laying sexual siege to countered, defending itself with two middle fingers and a barrage of angry words we couldn’t hear. Nor could the vessel hear us screaming back, though I’m sure they got the gist.

The battle raged until someone on our side put his ass on the window. The car sped away at the sight of it, and the cheeks left a wide smudge on the glass. We were left pants down and boobless, cursing at the one that got away.

Life on the concrete seas is harsh. To survive, you must focus on the next prize, the next car of hot foreign boobies. “Hey guys, we got another one,” came a call from starboard. The boys tucked their fingers in, smoothed their hair back, and pulled their pants up. Faces returned to the glass, except the part with the smudge.

A small car, with tinted windows cracked oh so slightly, rolled up beside us. From the crack in the car’s window, long, wavy lady hair that framed a face mysteriously hidden by large sunglasses could be seen.

The banging and hooting started again. You’d think we were smart enough to know she couldn’t hear us. Or could she? Eyes hidden behind sunglasses coolly turned to peek through the crack in the window. She was looking at us—looking hard, more than looking. The sunglasses lingered longer than a person driving a car should let a gaze remain. She was good.

“Oh, she is totally going to.”

“She’s a vet. Look at that car control.”

The window went down a hair, low enough to see her smile and nothing more. The boys started clapping at her, giving her the thumbs-up, and cheering. Slappy shook the sign like a bull-fighter.

She gave a thumbs-up back, stirring the bus into a frenzy. Next, she put up one finger as if to say “Just a minute boys” and the dark, tinted windows went up.

“Oh my God, this girl is awesome!”

“She’s a professional. I’ll bet she lives for buses like ours!”

A moment later came the yell, “We’ve got action!”

All eyes went starboard. The window came down all the way, with full exposure.

It’s obvious we needed the sign since there was no way for us to scream out through the window glass, though that didn’t seem to stop us from trying. There was no way for the ladies to hear our hoots and cat calling—no way to vocalize our request for high-velocity boobies. A sign on a towel and pantomime was all we had. It made things interesting, even challenging. However, while we were happily up to the task of getting girls to oblige our requests, no one ever stopped to think about how to get them to stop.

Her face was cute, at least the portion that wasn’t hidden behind tinted glass, which turned out to be a very small portion. The rest of her looked like melted candle wax—white, pasty, melted candle wax with two large, drooping pizza dough boobs and pepperoni nipples on an acne-speckled chest.

Dry heaving, coughing, and moaning, the pirates fell back in their seats, hitting the deck as if fat, fleshy, pendulous cannonballs had struck the bus.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I have ever seen.”

“I think I’m gay now. I think I just turned gay because of that.”

“Take the sign down! Take it down before she does anything else!”

Someone’s ass went back up against the glass, but she didn’t leave as the other one did.

Slappy wadded up the towel and threw it at me. “Great idea, Hayhurst. My penis hates you!”