The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [105]
When I started this game, I had a dream of playing in the big leagues. Everyone who signed a contract did. It’s the basic player motivator, and like Randy said, maybe it was time I got back to the basics.
Chapter Thirty-six
When we made it back to San Antonio, I took the advice of Dalton and Pops and passed on living in the team apartments. Having my roof cave in or someone lurking in my window didn’t sound appealing. Instead, I decided to get another host family. It worked so well in Lake Elsinore, why not in San Antonio too?
I got hooked up with an older guy who was out of the house a lot. He let me rent a room dirt cheap and insisted I finish the groceries he couldn’t eat when he left town. Never married, he had all the cool guy toys that single men of means can afford, like big screens and cool trucks. It cost me about $200 a month, everything included, and I got to watch SpongeBob on the fifty-two incher in my underwear during home stands.
The baseball chaplain who found my host dad also found me a car. All I had to do was make a few appearances at his Little League practices in return. That and promise I wouldn’t do anything naughty with a girl in it, and I was fine. He made it sound like I could actually get a girl in it with me, which was very flattering.
Randy’s speech about getting our focus back worked for a little while. We came home and swept Corpus Christi, but the mojo didn’t last. Soon we were dropping the majority of our games in each series we played—Frisco, Springfield, Arkansas, and Midland again. All of them took more from us than we from them, and before we hit the second half, we had fallen from first in our division to last.
If I had to place my finger on a starting point for our downward spiral, I’d have to say the bullpen. The most frustrating thing in baseball is to watch a hard-earned lead slip away, but it seemed to be our specialty. We blew saves with the greatest of ease, making Blade, typically unflinchingly sarcastic and fearless, worry about his future. Then Dalton caught the “blew flu.” His symptoms were walks and wild pitches. He couldn’t keep the ball in the strike zone, and when he did, it got lit. I contracted a mild case of homeritus and nearly gave up back-to-back-to-back home runs if it wasn’t for Drew, who climbed over the centerfield wall to save me. Rob and Ox began bleeding runs, not massive leaks, but enough to cost us W’s.
Then the virus mutated and spread to the hitters. Soon we didn’t have any leads to blow. We didn’t have any runs, hits, or balls in play. I thought the hitters’ limbs would begin to fall off or their bats spontaneously combust. Pops dropped F-bombs like the Enola Gay, though the only real casualty was the equipment in the dugout hallway, as frustrated hitters took cuts on it after striking out. On more than one occasion, hitters tossed our lumber onto the dugout floor, kicking it around and screaming at it to try to wake it up. If you were a fat chick looking to score, this was a very good time of the season for you.
The virus resulted in several amputations. A few guys were released, most notably, Woot. Skip, the legendary designer of our bus boob billboard, was also released, losing his job as the utility man, a moment that left more than just Skip in tears. White Chocolate was lost in the shuffle of utility outfielder. Our shortstop was sent back to High-A, followed shortly by our second baseman. A stud left-handed starter was taken off the forty-man roster, claimed off waivers, and disappeared into another dimension. And Chase Headley, or should I say, Chase the magnificent, went up to play third base in the big leagues.
After a few pieces were removed, some patchwork inside the wound was made. Guys changed roles. Blade lost his job as the closer, and Dalton lost his role as setup man. Some position players auditioned for other spots, and new batting orders were devised. Guys who didn’t see a lot of playing time started seeing more.
We kicked around the Texas League trying to find our new