The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [106]
We started to give up on each other. Then the season seemed to slow down to a painful crawl. I would sneak into the clubhouse, eat chips and salsa, and play web boggle with the clubbie to pass the time between outings. The travel seemed to take longer, and we got grumpier. Yet, just before the feeling got so bleak that we wrote the season off, some new faces came up.
With so many players going here, there, and home, we had spots open. Fellas from the cast of characters in Lake Elsinore came up. Frenchy and Tiny were both promoted and filled in holes in the starting rotation. Anto, the stud first-round-hitting standout, came up to play second and raked at the plate. Chase, who was never meant to be a permanent solution in the bigs, came back to the oohs and ahhs of his Double-A mortals. Edwin Moreno, aka “El Gato,” a soft-spoken Latin teddy bear with a bazooka for an arm, was acquired and fell into the role of closer.
Inspired by the fresh infusion of talent, some guys started to recover. Blade’s fever broke and so did Dalton’s. Soon the turbo sinker/slider pen was back in fighting shape, contrasted with the addition of the poo-throwing smoke and trickery of Stubbs, the balding lefty. Ox was cured after picking out a new Godsmack song to exit the pen to.
New fielders, new pitching, new rules, and new results all worked to stop the bleeding and even producer a win or two. Then a few wins became multiple. Then we began to catch fire. We hadn’t gelled yet, but it was easy to see we had all the makings of a tremendous team.
Just as things seem to go bad in a viral way, teams can get infected by a positive bug. We started coming back to win games. We held leads. We trusted each other to be successful. We expected victory. It probably sounded arrogant, and maybe it was, but when all our cylinders were firing, we were the best team on the field. I guess being a good team was just a matter of belief and consistency. If we kept the flame fanned, we would have a chance to get back into the race for the playoffs—maybe.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Despite our team troubles and a few lumps of my own, I pitched strongly. I don’t know whether it was my sweet new ride or my bachelor pad, but I was the poster child for consistency. I gave up a few runs here and there, but I was nothing like the old Dirk who lingered in the pen for weeks at a time before the coaches found enough courage to throw him out there. I noticed I was having success in every role I was put in. I didn’t ask any questions about why things were going so well, but I didn’t have to. Sooner or later, people start asking them for you.
A week or two into the second half, Abby began pulling pitchers into his office to have little discussions with them about their seasons thus far. He closed the door behind some of them, and left it open for others. When it was my turn, he called me in saying, “Hey, Hay, why don’t ya come on in here for a second?” I obeyed, entering the room. He did not shut the door, but gestured for me to take a seat. I plopped on a chair he had next to his desk while he began pulling cards that looked like miniature spread sheets out of a stack. He produced one with my name written across the top.
He looked over it as if he was reviewing my resume, his glasses sitting low on his nose, staring at the numbers while taking big breaths. He folded his legs, leaned back into his seat, and then shifted his gaze from the card to me.
“What’s on the sheet?”
“Yer numbers for the year. I like to keep