The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [103]
“Y’all still suck, stupid Yankees,” they said, a final parting shot as they disbanded.
Ward looked at us and started laughing. “Did he just call us Yankees? Hey! Heeeeey,” he called back, “don’t drink too much, since I wouldn’t want you to be too drunk for your Klan meeting.” The group continued walking.
“Yankees? Really?” Blade shook his head. “This is the only state I know where people will make fun of you because you aren’t from it. Like people here think they are hands down better than you because they are from Texas.”
“Those were some fine examples, let me tell you.”
“Consider where we are. It’s Midland, Texas, where the hottest thing to do is take your sister on a date to the mall food court,” Rob said.
“Well I hate this place,” Ward said with a smile. “Manrique’s family steals my PSP, Eddie makes fun of my teeth, and the guys from Deliverance tell me I’m a loser. I just don’t know how much more I can take, bro.”
Chapter Thirty-five
We didn’t find any spiders that night, but we did rack up another loss. Including the game I pitched in, that made three in a row since my arrival. Sometimes players correlate new faces with losses, but the team didn’t connect my arrival to its bad luck. In fact, it didn’t seem as if the boys cared too much about the results, content to enjoy each other’s company and have a good time at the park. After the third loss, Randy pulled the team together for a meeting before the next game’s stretch, to make a preemptive strike.
He walked out of his office and stood in the middle of the locker room, his uniform pants on, tailored to stop at his shins, and an old T-shirt that looked like it dated from his playing days. He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and cleared his throat.
“At this level, I’m a teacher, but I’m also an evaluator,” he said, prefacing his remarks while unfolding the paper to reveal some notes written in shorthand. “So, I’m going to take my experience in the game and address some things I’m seeing.
“I’m not saying we are a bad club, fellas, but right now I think we are a little snakebit. I don’t like the smell of things, or where they’re going. We had a good April, with fifteen wins and nine losses, and here we are in May at 3–6.” He glanced over the notes, letting the room fill with silence again, then looked back up at us.
“Look, I think we need to have a certain amount of discipline in order to play consistent baseball. We’re gonna lose some games, but how we go about it is what I’m smelling. I’m sniffin’ around here and I’m starting to see, come game time, we aren’t ready to play. Guys aren’t taking preparation seriously, and that’s a reflection on me. I pride myself on getting you guys as much information for the game as I can, so I expect you to put in your work and be prepared. Take your ground balls, get your cuts in, get your mind right, and be ready to go all nine, from the first pitch to the last. I don’t think we are getting our priorities in order, so…”
Randy laid down a few new rules curtailing time allowed for shenanigans like Xboxes and scooter racing. Then he placed a limit on card playing and television watching before game time.
“Look, the partying, the nightlife, I don’t care if you’re doing that stuff as long as you are doing your job. I know it’s gonna happen, some guys can operate while doing it. However, I will say this: no matter how good you are, you will not be as consistent a professional baseball player if you are a consistent partier, especially not if you are in here loud talking about it while I’m sniffin’ around.” He let the last part hang for a while, looking around the room. Some guys shifted uneasily. I hadn’t been around long enough to know