The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [102]
Everyone looked at me funny.
“What?”
Ward opened the gate of the bullpen and walked in with a cup of coffee, as if he needed it. “What’s so funny? What I miss?”
“Ox has a working relationship with the Puffy Taco.”
“Sweet life, Ox.”
“Save it, smiley.”
“Hey! Heeeey!” interrupted a fan yelling down at us. We looked up to face a man holding a plastic beer cup. “Y’all suck!” He was standing on the brim above the fencing, surrounded by his buddies, all of them giggling like chimps.
“Beat it,” Ox said, who turned back to the game.
“What’s the score out there? Oh! Look, y’all are losin’. Y’all are a bunch a losers.”
“Game’s not over yet, pal.”
“Y’all must be the bad players. That’s why they stick you out here, huh? They keep the bad eggs away from the good ones.”
The guy doing the talking looked as if he lived in his parents’ garage. A thirty-something guy who probably raced demolition derby cars for a living and divorced his wife when he found her listening to Justin Timberlake music. He had a grease-stained hat; a pointy, ratlike face; and a hunting-themed T-shirt that said Shooting Deers and Drinking Beers, That’s How I Roll. The guy had to have been several beers deep at this point, and making the most of it.
“Hey look,” Ward started, “it’s the Blue Collar Comedy tour. Tell me a redneck joke!”
“Hey, y’all do anything except sit the bench?” came the retort.
“Haven’t I seen your face on television? Weren’t you on Cops? Taking a break from beatin’ your wife so you can come catch a game?”
“I ain’t married,” the man said proudly.
“No kiddin’?” Ward pretended to be shocked. “A classy fella like you?”
“Yeah, well, y’all are losin’.”
“Yeah, I heard that one already. Get some new material. Hey, which one of you guys is the girl in this relationship. I hear most convicts take turns being the girl, so who’s it gonna be tonight?”
“Fuck you, pal. I ain’t queer.”
“Fuck me? Oh, so you must be the guy tonight?”
The speaker was getting rattled, so one of the other chimps stepped in. His face was pocked up, and he had a Dale Earnheart hat on.
“You must be pretty bad to be down here in the minors,” he started. “How far are you away from making it to the big leagues?”
“About as far away as you are from graduating high school.”
“Shit, I’m smarter than you are.”
“Yeah, you look it. What, you try to shave with a broken bottle? That’s not a smart thing to do, bro.”
“I’m better looking than you, and I got a better job too,” the Dale Earnheart fan protested.
“Seriously bro, you look like your face caught fire and someone put it out with an ice pick, and being the greeter at Walmart is hardly a better job than this.”
“Fuck you, pal,”
The third one stepped in. He was the largest of the three, a beer belly stretching the fabric of his collared shirt. At least it was collared, a feature that gave him an air of sophistication considering his company. “Talk it up buddy. It won’t be funny when you get sent down.”
“What, is it diabetes day at the ballpark?” Ward replied, pretending he had a big gut.
“Ha-ha. Maybe if you spent more time working on your game instead of your insults, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Oh thanks, coach. Hey, I don’t go to McDonald’s and tell you how to flip burgers, so you don’t need to come here and tell me how to do my job. But since we’re giving out advice, maybe you should spend less time eating the product and that shirt wouldn’t be strainin’ to hold your gut back.”
“I might be fat, but at least I ain’t stuck in the minors, losing.”
“Yeah, we might lose tonight. We might win tomorrow. But at least we wake up with a chance to be something, which is more than I can say for you, pal.”
“Shit, I can be anything I want to.”
“Oh, so you want to be like that? Sorry, I didn’t know you were living your dream.”
The trio was not as well prepared as Ward was. They probably thought we would sit there and take it as most players do. Surprise! They took a moment to conference on how to reply. Putting them on the run, Ward wasted no time.
“Hey tubby, did your wife make it home alright