The Bullpen Gospels (16 page)

The area around the High Desert stadium is not among the most picturesque locations in baseball. There is a beautiful view of snowcapped mountains during certain times of the year, but the immediate view is far from captivating. It looks like a former testing ground for atomic bombs—flat, barren, windswept land with a burned out feel to it. There isn’t much development near the stadium either, giving it a remote feel sitting lonesome off a bumpy stretch of road on the outskirts of Victorville, California.

The place depresses me. Something about long stretches of flat, cold, windy deserts just feels sad. Then there is the high altitude. They don’t call the place High Desert for nothing. The stadium is the minor league equivalent to Coors Field. Couple the elevation with the wind, and it’s easy to understand why the park hosts so many games in the ten-run range. The unceasing high-altitude jet streams act like a tractor beam, simply sucking fly balls over the fence. If you aren’t depressed when you get there, you will be after you watch your ERA increase in altitude.

At night the temperature drops substantially. The park’s bullpen, which is nothing more than a single slat of wood forming a bench only four relievers can sit on at a time, offers no shelter from the elements when the sun sets. The wind picks up and the cold air cuts through our spandex outfits as if we weren’t wearing anything at all.

Though not the oldest in the league, the park is not a very comfortable experience for the away club. The locker room is nearly the size of a semitruck trailer. Lockers line the sides of it, with folding tables in the center. The confines are so tight, when pre-game food is put out, players have to sit wedged inside their locker cavities to make room for others to get through. Poorly ventilated, fly stripping hangs over the meals, coated with the dead insects like a decaying chandelier.

There’s no training room. The trainer’s table and equipment are also crammed into the locker room, as are all the coaches, the manager, and his desk. There is a soda machine, which would only make sense, and the manger’s desk sits next to the toilets and showers to make room for it. Sure, his shoulder is getting brushed against by naked guys who just took a dump, but on the bright side, he’s only an arm’s reach away from a Dr Pepper.

When the bus pulled into the parking lot and the boys began to filter out I languished at the end. I watched the guys exit noticing how the wind grabbed their coats when they stepped out. The unseen force, a constant at this park, smeared their hair and pulled it across their faces. It was gusting, straight out toward the outfield.

Getting off this bus was a gut check for me. I couldn’t believe I was here, again. It’s amazing how nice parks make you feel proud of your career, whereas garbage ones make you wish it was over. I got off, grabbed my equipment, and fought the gale into the locker room. I picked a locker away from the high-traffic areas ensuring that I spent as little time forced in my locker as possible. Apparently, there were not enough seats to go around today. Some of the plastic chairs were broken to begin with, the backs snapped off or kicked through, no doubt the aftermath of a pitcher releasing his frustrations. Some were destroyed altogether, accounting for the lack of supply. I changed standing up.

At game time, I found myself sitting in the makeshift away-team bullpen with Pickles, Rosco, Slappy, and Maddog. The temperature had dropped significantly, forcing us to layer up, going as far as to scavenge batting gloves to use as winter gloves. We sat down the right field line, huddled in a pack like Eskimos.

“We need something to take our minds off this weather. This is miserable.”

“Yeah, we need to get a good conversation going here. Anyone got any good shit to talk about?” Rosco asked.

I thought for a second about some of the things I would talk about in the past dead times like this. I once read this book of superstring theory, black holes, and quantum mechanics—seriously. I thought I needed a crash course in something smart to test how many brain cells baseball had killed.

I thought about bringing up some of the wild topics it covered. Stuff like time travel, alternate dimensions, and gravity wells. But Slappy, a black hole of a different variety, was the first to speak. “Okay, I’ve got one. What if you meet a girl, like the hottest girl you’ve ever met—like a Jessica Simpson, but hotter. And she’s all over you, right?”

“This happens to me all the time,” Maddog said, rubbing his knuckles on his jersey.

“Well, women are only human, Maddog.”

“Anyways, she’s all over you, and she takes you home and you’re messing around.” Slappy started making messing around movements, which I won’t describe right now.

“Right, right. I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down,” Rosco said.

“She stops before it gets too serious, and tells you she needs to go freshen up. She goes into the bathroom, strips down butt naked, comes back out, and
boom
—she’s got a penis.”

“What do you mean boom? Like it just appears there?”

“No, she’s had it the whole time.”

“Like she owns one, like a toy?”

“No, it’s hers. It’s on her.”

“So she’s a dude, like a superhot, Jessica Simpsonesque tranny?”

“No, she’s a hermaphrodite. She’s both.”

“She’s both?”

“Yeah. She’s packing both.”

“So she’s the hottest chick that’s also a man I’ve ever made out with.”

“Ever? Do you do this frequently?” I asked.

“Come on dude, I’m being theoretical.”

“Of course, of course. Who am I to stand in the way of science?”

“Yes,” Slappy continued, “she’s a hermo, and she’s ready to go the rest of the way with you. My question is, Do you still do her even though she’s got a penis?”

The boys did not respond immediately. Rather, as if they were in math class and asked to solve for
x
, their faces shifted to deep thought. “Wow, good question.”

Did I hear that right? Good question? Not, Where do you come up with this stuff? Or what the hell is wrong with you? Or you need to pick higher-quality websites. Or do you think you could just plain stay off the Internet altogether?

“Are we really having this conversation right now?” I asked. “I mean, is this a real-world situation we need to plan for?”

“I’m just trying to spark some conversation.”

“You never know what kind of beef Slappy will bring home,” Maddog said.

“Why is it always me that gets ridiculed?” protested Slappy. Everyone turned and stared at him. “Okay, I
know
why it’s always me, actually, but it’s not like I’m the only one here. You slept with a married chick in rookie ball, Maddog.”

“I was drunk so it didn’t count,” Maddog replied, giving a wry smile.

“No, no, no, it counts—you can’t just say it—”

“Wait,” Rosco interrupted. “How drunk am I when I’m with this chick?”

Slappy looked at Maddog. “You can’t be so drunk
it doesn’t count
,” Slappy mocked.

“Yeah, because that would just make this situation
too
ridiculous,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Let’s say you have to be stone sober.” The council on hermaphrodite sexual relations all grunted, effectively ratifying the amendment, and the conversation continued.

“I don’t know if I could do it if I’m stone sober.”

“So it’s a no for you, then?”

“Not necessarily.” Rosco went back to the drawing board in his mind. “Hotter than Jessica Simpson, but has a dong…Hmmmm…”

“What if you don’t think Jessica Simpson is that hot?” Pickles offered.

“How can you not think Jessica Simpson is hot?” bellowed the council, producing a reaction of instant outrage, which made me wonder how we could be totally on board with a subject like man on man-woman relations but be livid when the hotness of a certain blond-haired pop star is brought into question?

“She’s hot, but I just don’t think she’s the hottest.”

“Well, then pick your fantasy girl and add a wiener. It’s a simple equation.”

“So it could be Angelina Jolie?”

“With a wiener.”

“Okay, good,” Pickles said, smiling contentedly.

“How big is the penis?” Rosco resumed.

“In regards to—?”

“Well is it bigger than mine?”

“No, yours is definitely bigger.”

“Okay, so I’m still the king of the bedroom. That’s good to know.” Pickles and Rosco exchanged high fives, declaring, “Big ones!”

“Yeah, she’s got a very feminine penis,” Slappy continued.

“Could you explain that for me? Could you explain
feminine penis
?” I asked.

“Sure,” Slappy said. “It’s small and cute.”

“Cute?”

“Yeah, and it’s been accessorized.”

“Accessorized?”

“Yeah, like the tip has lipstick on it, and there are two little earrings on the balls and stuff. Maybe she’s got a little pink sweater for it or something.”

At this point, all I could do was stare at Slappy.

“What?” Slappy stared back, innocently.

“Do I have to see it while I’m doing her?” Rosco asked.

Slappy disengaged from the accessorized penis talk. “No, you don’t have to see it. You might feel it, but you don’t have to see it.”

“If we are under covers and I’m behind her, I should be okay, right?”

“I think so.”

Rosco nodded his head. “Okay, alright, I’m in.”

“Hey hey, alright!” The council passed out high fives at the decision, passing the bill. Later, the council also ruled all women with penises should declare their arms before taking a man home because it’s discourteous. Honesty is the best policy, after all.

“Okay, I’ve got another one. If you were abducted by the Taliban and they told you they would kill you if you didn’t, which guy on the team would you have sex with.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I exhaled.

“What? It’s life or death. This could really happen, man. Terrorists are some serious shit!”

“They’d go to all the trouble of kidnapping a team just so they could make them—Why am I even arguing this?” I turned my head down to the dugout, checking out of the conversation and catching up on the game. The backup catcher, Lisk, was jogging down toward us. His equipment was on, skullcap on his head with a mitt in one hand and a mask in the other. Behind his running form, standing on the lip of the dugout steps, was Webby waving at the pen. A quick glance to the field revealed runs driven in with a few more on base awaiting a ride home. Brent was in a jam.

In the lower levels, most bullpens don’t have phones. This one was lucky to have a mound. Unable to call down instructions, the pitching coaches use hand signals symbolizing each respective pitcher. Mine was the A-frame shape Webby was currently signing to the pen.

“Sorry to leave your life-changing conversation boys, but it looks like I have to go to work.” I tore off my clothes like Superman and bounded to the mound.

Slappy and Pickles hopped up as well. They didn’t have to warm up, but assumed the roles of bodyguards while I warmed with Lisk. The bullpen was set up so that the catcher’s back was to the field when he warmed a reliever. A hitter could line a ball foul and strike him while he caught. Slappy jogged down and stood next to Lisk, defending his back side. Pickles stayed by me.

Though Brent was pumping in strikes, doing his best to grind out the start, the batters were finding holes. He wasn’t getting knocked out of the yard, rather, being bled out slowly, single after single. I wanted to believe he’d make it through the inning, but the bases were loaded now and the hook would come soon if he didn’t get lucky and roll a pair.

I warmed as fast as I could without mindlessly firing, but the cold makes it harder to get the touch of the ball and your arm feels like a blunt club, not the precision instrument you’re used to. I’d be Brent’s replacement, probably inheriting a few base runners when I came in if he didn’t find a way out first. If I was going to help him out of this mess, I needed to be precise, I needed to be hot and ready.

Another single was rapped out to center, two runners scored. When the dust settled, Webby was standing on the lip of the dugout. Looking down toward the pen, he took his hat off, the universal sign for Is he ready?

“You ready?” Slappy asked.

Of course I’m not ready, it’s freezing and I’ve throw ten pitches!
“Yeah, I’m good,” I replied.

Slappy took his hat off to signal back. Our manager called time and went out to retrieve Brent.

There’s a surge of adrenaline a reliever feels before he enters a game. A quick jog to a pile of dirt under the lights, and the cold, barren, windswept desert is now your battlefield. You versus the guy with a stick, both trying to carve out a living. Numbers will be accumulated, stats added, careers evaluated in that merciless piecemeal fashion baseball is famous for. All of it, humming along in the background whether you’re loose and ready or not.

The first batter singled off me and two more of Brent’s runs scored. While it may be frustrating to give up my own runs, I absolutely hate giving up other pitchers’ runs—especially those of friends. I covered my face with my mitt and fired off nine or ten F-bombs in response to the single. I got the next hitter to pop out, but the damage was done. I hand delivered Brent’s runs. Some friend I was.

The team ran me out for the sixth, and I promptly punched out the first hitter I faced. The second hitter, the leadoff man, earned another single. I found myself facing the meat of the order with a runner on, one out, and the two hole stepping in.

It’s natural to watch a batter enter the box, because a lot can be learned from observing his setup. Stance, hands, weight, plate proximity—each gives a clue to the type of hitter you’re facing. In the case of this hitter, it was none of the above. He was peeking at the signs. Not blatantly gawking, but his eyes were definitely wandering back to Sanchy’s hands as he telegraphed pitches.

I stepped off.
Maybe it was a fluke?
I thought, pacing about the mound. I licked my hand, smacked the rosin bag, and reset myself on the rubber. This time I watched the batter and paid no attention to Sanchy at all.