The Bullpen Gospels (6 page)

The next day, bright and early, I rolled off the mattress and onto the floor. I lumbered into the bathroom to greet the morning with a nice, long whizz, when I remembered I couldn’t. Nothing was clogged or jammed. Rather, today was testing day, and I would need to save the sample for scientific reasons.

The entirety of testing day is dedicated to getting things stuck in and extracted from my person, along with running for time, being pinched for body fat, and enduring cold, awkward hands while coughing with my pants down. Chief on the list of nuisances is filling a plastic cup under the scrutinizing gaze of Dr. Fondle, whose wonderfully relevant job was to “make sure it comes out of me properly” by standing over my shoulder in a bathroom stall like some lonely trucker.

White, Padres’ passenger vans would be running players from the hotel to the complex every half hour, on the dot. I took the first one, bright and early, under the pretense that the sooner I got there, the sooner I could get it all over with.

The familiar scenery of my spring home passed by as the van rolled down the highway to the complex. The desert was in bloom. There had been enough rainfall to turn the rocky hills of the Phoenix landscape green with bursts of brightly colored flowers. The morning was a cool sixty degrees, with soon-to-be extinct rain clouds hovering in the air. It was a beautiful scene. In a month the sun would be back from its winter break to chase the clouds away and turn the landscape a burnt tan.

When the Padres’ van pulled into the parking lot, nothing had changed. It was as if time stood still in spring training. The cars of the big-league squad were already there. The big-league invitees arrived two weeks ago, their luxurious rides lined up in the choicest parking locations. The remaining spaces, closest to where foul balls landed most frequently, were left for the minors players.

Our eighteen-passenger taxi halted outside the minor league doors. I got out, produced my ID, and headed to the piss testers. They gave me a cup. My piss-test partner and I went into a toilet stall and did our best imitation of rookie inmate hazing. I closed my eyes and pretended I was Harry Potter casting a spell. “
Expelliamus!
” I thought.

During my early days of pro ball, before I’d adjusted to whizzing with random dudes staring at my junk, I couldn’t go no matter how bad I had to. I’d just stand there, holding my wand, trying to talk myself into it. I’d hum “Eye of the Tiger” to myself. The professional meat gazer would flush the toilet in hopes the sound of running water would help ease the tension and give me some momentum. When that didn’t work, he’d try asking me questions about my hobbies and goals, as if we were speed dating. No questions about my personal interests would diffuse the fact I had my pants down and my shirt around my neck while I held a cup under my twig and berries. I’m glad it went well this time.

“Well look who it is!” the booming voice of Ox Bundy said. He bumped into me as I was walking down the hallway, zipping my pants up after a job well done.

“Hey bud, good to see you!” I replied. Ox gave me a playful shove as a greeting. I tried to shove him back, but he was too thick to move, and I ended up bouncing off him like a toddler running into his father’s leg.

Ox was a fellow pitcher. A boldface, all caps, type-A male. A big, solid, man-boy with a perpetual five o’clock shadow that made his face part Wookie, part lumberjack. He loved hard rock, cheap action movies, and chicks with big boobs. He ate red meat like Pez candies and never stopped to think about what was good for the environment. He was a savage, but a lovable one, and like most guys with tough exteriors, he was a softy deep down—very deep down.

“How ya been pal?” he asked.

“I’m good. Happy to be back, I think. You?”

“Fucking one more year in the grind.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Well you look good man. You look strong,
strong like bull
.” With so much emphasis on shape and strength, this is the one place where it’s cool for guys to compliment each other on their looks. “Your ass looks great this year,” I continued. “You must have decided to get off it once or twice in the off-season.”

“No, but thanks anyway. You look good too.”

“Oh, it’s my sexy hair.” I tossed my long, wispy locks.

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then it’s my chiseled physique. Let me tell you man, I know it’s in to give Billy Blanks a bad rap, but that Tae Bo crap really works.”

“No, that’s not it either.”

“Then what is it?”

“Actually, you look like shit, but I figured since you said I looked good, I’d be nice.”

“Thanks, pal.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Dirk!” A new voice joined the scene, that of Drew Macias.

Drew was a perennial center fielder who became my friend during our first full season. He’s one of the few position players with a personality compatible with pitchers. Maybe it’s that position players swing clubs for a living or maybe they’re just born that way, but many of them seem a little too serious and macho to loosen up like the collection of loony tunes that comprises a pitching staff. Drew, on the contrary, had an aura about him of pure fun. He had thick, dark hair that shot out at crazy angles, an infectious laugh, a charismatic personality, and a sense of humor that provided a quick joke or a good retelling of after-hours exploits. His creativity was always in motion, doodling up someone’s caricature, designing some crazy invention, or planning a practical joke. He also knew a fair share of magic tricks that earned him the nickname Drewdini.

We exchanged a “man hug,” a male-sanctioned, completely heterosexual embrace consisting of a half backslap, a half chest bump, and a three-quarter handshake.

“Drew, what’s up buddy—wait! Look at you! Is that a big-league uniform?”

“Yeah, they have me backing up over on the other side.”

“Nice. Get you a little Big-League Camp action. How was your off-season?”

“Good, bro. Played some guitar, mastered some new magic tricks, learned ninjitsu.”

“Sounds productive. You still drawing?”

“Yeah, you should see the one I did of Bonvechio!”

“It’s outstanding dude,” Ox said. “Looks just like him, the freckles, bald spot, even the extra ass cheeks.”

“I’ll show it to you later. How was your off-season?”

“Worked on my slider, grew my hair out, refrained from killing my grandmother.”

“Sounds productive.”

“Not really, I should have done it.”

“Hey guys, what’s happening?” Another friendly face hit the scene. It seemed there was suddenly a party in front of the bathroom. I’m sure all the excitement made the other guys trying to squeeze out some specimens a little nervous.

The newest voice was that of Brent Carter. He strolled up to us in a pair of khaki shorts, a polo, and deck shoes, with a friend sporting the same. Though I didn’t know Brent’s friend, he was most likely a pitcher and left-hander, like Brent, as they both had medical tape wrapped around gauze on their right arms, indicating blood extraction. Everyone shook hands and exchanged courtesies. Brent’s friend went by the nickname Frenchy.

Brent was a Southern Comfort gentleman. His smooth voice had a slight drawl, which, when combined with sir or ma’am, always made him sound respectful. Typically adorned in deck shoes and polos, he looked as if he were perpetually on his way to the golf course. Though he didn’t know the rest of the pack that well, we were good friends from last year, splitting a season together. Initially, we didn’t have much in common, but once we discovered a mutual enjoyment of imitating our pitching coach, the rest was history.

Frenchy, as it turned out, was drafted from the same college as Brent, which explained their connection. He did not share the accent, though they could have shared wardrobes. This was Frenchy’s first spring training with the club, so the experience was foreign. Most new guys follow an older acquaintance around until they learned the ropes. Brent was playing chaperone, and any friend of Brent’s was a friend of mine. Taller than Brent, Frenchy lurked at the edge of the circle, looking over shoulders and listening to how players who had some time interacted.

“What tests have y’all done so far?” Brent asked.

“I’ve done the blood test, and I only did that so I could eat.” This was Ox.

“What about the piss test?” I asked.

“I made the mistake of taking a piss when I got up this morning. Now I gotta wait to go again. I’ll do it last.”

“I wouldn’t expect a ten-year vet like you to make such a rookie mistake.”

“It’s only been eight years, asshole, I ain’t that old,” Ox barked.

“I don’t know Ox. How many Advil does it take you to get through the day again?” Drew asked.

“Kiss my ass, Mr. Big-League Backup.”

“You should draw a picture of Ox with a cane and a walker, popping Advils, listening to Metallica, and cussing at children.”

“Save it, cockface. I hope Grady sees that wannabe Jesus hair you got and fines your ass five hundred dollars.”

“They can fine you that much?” Frenchy asked.

“I don’t know, but I hope he starts with this guy.” Ox fingered me in the chest with one of his thick, caveman digits.

“Hey man, if I were Jesus, I’d raise my career from the dead.”

“Shit, if you were Jesus, you could start with healing me,” Ox said, extending his notoriously cranky right arm out.

Drew chimed in, “I think healing what’s wrong with you would take a miracle even Jesus couldn’t perform, Ox.”

Brent and Frenchy both laughed, but stopped abruptly when Grady Fuson himself walked into the locker room. Carrying a clipboard and a coffee cup, he made his way past, stopping to look at us in a detached and uninterested way before unclenching a very sterile “boys” in a voice like a cross between Lou Brown from
Major League
and Tom Waits.

We looked back at him like dogs about to get whipped. “Grady,” we harmonized. He locked eyes with me. “Hayhurst, good to see you. Get your fucking hair cut by tomorrow or pay the fine.” Then he walked away.

“What are the chances?” I said, when I was sure he was out of range.

“Wear that, fucker!” Ox belched.

“Why me? Your hair is just as long as mine!” I said to Drew.

“I’m in a big-league uniform. I can do whatever I want.”

“Immunity,” Brent casually noted, nodding his head casually as if Drew’s uniform were irrefutable law.

“Great way to start off my spring. Now Grady thinks I’m a rebel.”

“Have you seen some of the guys in this organization? We gave a kid who bit a bouncer three million dollars and you’re worried about your haircut?”

“So you think he’ll fine me three million dollars?” I joked.

“Hope so,” Ox said, angling past me with a stiff shoulder. “I’m gonna try to piss. See you on the other side, boys.”

Drew patted his pockets. “Wanna borrow my Whizzinator?” A Whizzinator, in case you’ve never seen one, is a fake plastic penis connected to an extraneous bladder where a clean specimen is stored. The Whizzinator slips “inconspicuously” over your own package and makes it seem as if you are really whizzing your own pee. Color options include, Black, Latino, and Flesh. So utterly ridiculous, it has become a joke among most athletes.

“No thanks, I got my own.”

“Don’t be surprised if the piss testers act disappointed with your package, Ox. I’m a tough act to follow,” I yelled after him.

“That’s surprising, considering you sit down to pee.”

It was good to see friendly faces and joke around, but spring training was no joke. This wasn’t a vacation, and our job wasn’t to come into the office and play nine to five around the watercooler. This was a competition, and starting tomorrow, we’d begin fighting for spots. I may have come here with mixed emotions, but now that I was here, I had a job to win if I wanted to go any further. It was baseball in the driver’s seat from here on. To feel even like I’d a shot at something resembling a future in this game, I needed to make the Double-A squad out of camp, no small feat. After all the laughter, roles would be won, at any cost, even if it meant taking it from the best of friends.

“Alright men, let’s bring it in.” Wyatt Earp, so everyone called him, was our high-voiced field coordinator. His order to group up meant our first morning meeting was ready to start. The players stopped loitering by the field six fencing and crowded in on Earp’s command, forming a semicircle around him. He told us to take a seat, which we did Indian style in the morning dew atop manicured Arizona sod. The coaches and trainers remained standing, spread out before us like they were going to read to us like kindergarteners. Today would mark day one of camp, a day of intros and rules.

Earp led things off, reintroducing himself, though he needed no introduction. He was already infamous. He was a decision maker, like Grady, which meant he held our futures in his hands. The slope to the top of the game is so steep, it’s hard to like the folks who decide who makes it there. Statistically speaking, the decisions they make you probably won’t like. You learn fast who they are and pander accordingly.

Though Grady was hard to read, Earp was obviously biased. Everyone who’d been around him for any length of time knew he was obsessed with high numbers on the radar gun. He carried said gun with him everywhere, hence his nickname. Since the vast majority of pitchers didn’t generate the kind of numbers that turned him on, it was generally assumed Earp didn’t like anyone. Even if you pitched a great game, he’d bring up that you weren’t throwing hard enough. He always touted this character trait as honesty, but it was a blunt, unhelpful kind of honesty that made you wish he’d just lie to you for a change.

He gave the floor over to Grady, who choked out a greeting to us in his raspy, two-pack-a-day voice. “Gentlemen, welcome to camp. If you take a look around you’ll notice there are a lot more of you than we have roster spots for. I’m sure I don’t have to explain what that means.”

“Way to kick things off on a hopeful note,” I murmured to Brent, sitting next to me alongside Frenchy.

“Yeah, seriously. There are like a million new faces here this year.”

“I’d like to introduce some of our coaching staff,” Grady continued. He turned to face the line of coaches and trainers behind him. The coaches had on their baseball uniforms. Aside from their uniforms, the one thing they all had in common were stopwatches hanging out of their back pockets. The watches weren’t for timing sprints, but to keep track of groups between station rotations. Everything in spring training ran on a tight schedule. Beyond that, some coaches had fungo bats for hitting ground balls, gloves for fielding, clipboards for clipping. Most of the coaches stood in clumps with their friends, just like we players sat in clumps with ours.

A few decision-making individuals sat on golf carts: the “Brass,” as we called them. You could usually find Grady and Earp sitting comfortably in one. It was easier to make rounds on the complex’s seven fields via cart than it was to hoof it in the hot sun. Over the years, golf carts became a symbol of disdain with the players, since a cart was always occupied by some member of the Brass who didn’t talk to you, but could make or break your career.

Grady asked the coaches and trainers to introduce themselves, which they did, in no particular order. They broke ranks and explained their title and previous year’s coaching locations, then fell back in line. I knew some staff better than others, Randy Ready, Rick Renteria, Wally Whitehurst, Tom Tornincasa, and several others whose names weren’t alliterated. I knew almost all the pitching coaches, including Steve Webber, at whom Brent and I giggled like school kids when he spoke, and Glenn Abbott, who labored to teach me a slider for half a season in Double-A.

The trainers introduced themselves next, followed by some front-office staffers whom we’d most likely never see again after today and ending with the clubbies. It was all very quaint, if not boring, and I spent most of my time picking up loose wads of grass and tossing them on other nearby players, pretending Frenchy was responsible.

Grady ended his portion of the morning with, “We have high expectations for this camp, and your job is to make our decisions at the end of it as hard as possible.”

Earp took the floor again, pulling a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Alright men, let’s go over some rules for camp. First, if you’re late for anything, it’s fifty bucks plus a dollar for each minute after that. If you don’t tie your shoes in the weight room, you’ll be thrown out. Don’t be in there without the proper gear on. Don’t be jack’n around when you are in there….”

I looked over at Frenchy who was trying his best to act as if it were as serious as Earp made it out to be, “Hold on, it gets better,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“The hotel hot tub is not a washing machine,” continued Earp. “Don’t try to wash your laundry in the hotel whirlpool or you’ll pay for it to be cleaned.”

“What? Is he kidding?” Frenchy asked, smiling as if it were one of those jokes speakers mix in just to see if you’re still paying attention.

“No. About two years back, we had a guy in camp who honestly tried to wash his clothes in the hot tub. He took detergent and his dirty drawers and threw them in. I think he was trying to hand wash them when he was busted. They had to drain the whirlpool and clean out the jets. The hotel billed the Padres, and they were pissed.”

“Was this guy retarded?”

“No, but he was from a very undeveloped part of the world.”

“Wow, that’s unbelievable.”

“Oh, just wait—”

“No cooking in the hotel bathrooms. In fact, no cooking in the rooms at all.”

“What does he mean no cooking? If you got a suite, can’t you use your microwave?”

“You got a suite? How the hell did you get a suite? It’s your first year!”

Frenchy shrugged. “So can I cook or not?”

“The microwave is fine,” I resumed. “He’s talking about something that happened when a couple of guys tried to make food in the bathtub. They almost set the place on fire, and the heat melted some of the plastic in the tub.”

“The room caught on fire?”

“No, just part of it.”

“What were they making?”

“Rat, or something. Hell, I don’t know. They were making it in a damn bathtub.”

“Stay off the hotel computer. Every year we have problems with this, so this year we are just banning it from the start. Stay off the hotel computer, or else it’s a two hundred and fifty dollar fine. No excuses.” Earp was referring to the hotel lobby’s computer. There was only one computer in the hotel that guests could use for free. It was located by the front desk, next to the entrance, and was a common gathering site for players to look up things they shouldn’t.

“That won’t last,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Every year, fine or no fine, there are people on it. And every year, someone gets caught looking up porn and leaving the links open for other guests to stumble on. It’s never your standard porn, either. It’s always make-you-gag fetishes with barn animals and stuff. Honestly, I don’t want to know who is looking that stuff up because I gotta shower with the dude. Maybe I already have?”

“Barn animals? That’s disgusting,” Brent said.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Frenchy accused, nudging Brent.

“Yeah, right. Even if I did look at porn, I wouldn’t do it in the hotel lobby, and I wouldn’t look up
that
crap.”

“I’d say that too, if I was doing it, Brent,” I said.

“It’s probably one of you guys,” he countered.

I sighed heavily, “It’s me; I admit it. Nothing like a little barnyard love to get me ready for a day at Padres Spring Training 2007!”

“No beef in the team hotel,” Earp said, not referring to either burgers or barn animals. He was talking about minor league groupies or random encounters at the bar. “You get caught bringing beef back to your room, it’s gonna cost you five hundred dollars. Go to her place instead.”

“Or just do it in the lobby, I guess,” Frenchy said.

“No, seriously, go back to her place because it’s cheaper that way. If you get busted for curfew it’s only two hundred and fifty dollars—half the price.”

“Where’s Hayhurst at?” Earp shouted suddenly.

“Jesus, they caught me!” I said, winking at the boys. I put my hand up.

“Stand up, Hay!” Earp commanded. I got up as ordered and stood awkwardly in front of the entire Padres minor league troupe as well as its coaches, trainers, and staff.

“Did you wear your cup today Hayhurst?”

“Sure did,” I said, knocking on it.

“You ever think about not wearing it anymore?”

“No chance.”

“You can all thank Hayhurst here for a fifty-dollar fine if we catch you not wearing a cup out here. How hard was that line drive that almost knocked your beans off?”

“Ninety-four they said.” There was a collective groan by the audience.

“Damn.” Earp adjusted himself uncomfortably. He laughed in that strained way a person does when confronted by something really painful but still funny. The coaches just shook their heads, obviously believing my choice not to wear a cup was well beyond stupid—which it was.

Earp turned back to us. “Alright, fifty dollars if you don’t wear a cup, got it?”

I sat back down while he was putting the price on the threat. I didn’t want to relive that experience any more than I had to, but thanks to Earp’s callout, I’d be explaining it for the rest of the day. Yes, I got hit in the nuts with a ninety-four miles per hour line drive while not wearing a cup. I just didn’t like the way a cup felt when I pitched, so I didn’t wear one. Never did, not even in college. People would always joke it was going to catch up to me, but I didn’t buy it. Turns out, I was wrong. Now one of my nads has a seam mark on it. It was the worst pain I’d ever felt in my life, ripping through my body like a chainsaw, not letting up for twenty-four hours.

“Did you lose one?” Frenchy asked.

“No, but I was dangerously close. I remember praying I would never think another impure thought if God would just let me keep them!”

“So does everything work down there?”

“I think so. I haven’t tried to have kids yet, but everything seems to function like it’s supposed to.”

“Well, you should be ashamed of yourself, if you ask me,” Brent said.

“Why is that?”

“Promising God no more impure thoughts and then looking up sheep porn on the lobby computer, it’s just wrong.”

“Alright,” Earp said, resuming his lecture. He had folded up his notes and was about to end the meeting but was looking to go out on a bang. “Anyone got any good jokes?” He looked over the crowd, but no one felt courageous. “Lars, I know
you
got something.”

Lars Maynard, a right-handed closer drafted the same year as I was, may best be introduced as the one person in the organization who could walk up to Grady and tell him to go fuck himself without batting an eye. He was, without a doubt, the most interesting person I ever played the game with, and thanks to his eccentric personality, he stood out among peers and coaches. Sometimes it almost seemed as if he were from another world.

To give you an idea of what kind of guy Lars was, you need to know what Tommy John surgery is, which Lars underwent a little over a year before. Named after the pitcher who the surgery was tested on, Tommy John is the reconstruction of the ulnar collateral ligament, or UCL, located in a pitcher’s throwing arm. It’s major surgery requiring holes to be drilled in bones and the harvesting of a replacement ligament sewn through said holes. The goal is to repair the damaged throwing arm and save the career of the pitcher who receives it.

Normal recovery time for the operation is about a year. It takes months to get the necessary range of motion back in your elbow, fighting through layers of scar tissue. But that was just too long for Lars.

After surgery, Lars walked into the doctor’s office for a consultation and he asked the doctor how long it would take to get full mobility back in his arm. The doctor told him the usual, months of rehab. Lars asked why, a question most people would hold off on, content to take the doctor’s word, considering their arm just had holes drilled in it. But Lars had done a lot of homework on the surgery before he went under the knife—a lot. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon to catch Lars reading books on pharmacology or medical journals in the locker room.

The doctor explained the process of recovery—how breaking up all the scar tissue is excruciating and how the body has to go about it slowly to build up its tolerance. Lars looked the doctor in the face and bluntly asked, “Pain is the only thing? There are no other repercussions?”

“The kind of pain I’m talking about is enough of a repercussion.”

“So, I could get it back now if I could take the pain?”

The doctor laughed. “Sure, but you don’t want to do that.”

Lars stood up right then and there, pulled off his sling, placed his arm in the frame of the office door, and jerked his arm straight. He swooned and passed out. When he came to, despite the chastisement of his doctor, he could extend his arm straight.

Of course, this story didn’t shock me that much. Before he had Tommy John, he chose to have open-back surgery with no anesthetic. He said that, at the time, he believed experiencing the farthest reaches of pain would serve to expand his ability to appreciate life more fully. It was part of his metaphysical period, in which he also got high and traced his out-of-body experiences in spiral patterns, hoping to capture thoughts created by brain activity usually operating in the subconscious.

You can’t see the scar on his back. It’s covered by a tattoo of Atlas, the mythological god who carried the world on his own back. The variation depicted on Lars’s body was slightly different though because his Atlas let the world fall and splatter all over the ground like an egg and is walking away from it. When I asked Lars what it meant, he said, “Atlas is basically saying, I don’t give a fuck about the world, and I’m going to do my own thing.”

Lars and I actually lived together for part of a season. A very nice, well-adjusted, Catholic host family with three kids, a cat, and a dog put us up. Lars, despite all my expectations, did not kill any of them. In fact, they loved him. He was a charmer and a gentleman, and never missed a chance to TiVo
Grey’s Anatomy
. To Lars, there were no set ways to do things, no rules of operation, no expectations but his own.