The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [112]
Drew dug into the box and pulled out a folded-up paper. “This is to Manrique from team. Max fine for having the worst smelling…uh, can I say ass?”
“Yeah, if you’re reading, it’s legal.”
“Worst smelling ass on the team.”
“How do you plead Manrique?”
“No guilty. Is not my fault I’ave bad gas.”
“Yes, it is. You eat all the stuff you know you shouldn’t eat, and then you don’t even try to be considerate about it once you start ripping,” the prosecution responded.
“What you mean? I eat what you eat—same spreads.”
“No, you don’t. You come in here with your carne asada with extra beans every other day. If there is a Mexican place in the area, you’ll sniff it out.”
“What you want me to do? I’m Mexican. I eat Mexican food.”
“Well, take some Beano for Christ sake! Make an adjustment.”
“Valid point,” Handsome Rob said.
“It’s not like I’m trying to fart on you.” Manrique threw his hands up, as if innocent.
“Actually,” I said, raising my hand. “That’s not entirely true.” Earlier in the season, I was passed out on the bus during a long trip home from Arkansas. I had finally fallen asleep after fighting to get comfortable with the bus seats for what seemed like hours. I went under with my head careened back, sucking air like some old man who passes out in church services. Manrique thought it would be funny if he climbed onto the seat backs, dropped his pants, and laid a bare-ass Mexican food fart right into my open mouth. I woke up dry heaving. It was so ripe, I thought we’d crashed into a manure truck.
As soon as I contradicted Manrique, everyone in the room started to laugh. Kangaroo Court with this team was a treat. It was unfortunate we didn’t do it earlier in the year as it always proved to be a good bonding moment. But with so much travel, movement, and adversity, it was difficult to fit it in. Now that the team was coming around, making a race for the playoffs, we felt comfortable enough to loosen up. Sure, we’d collect some fine money for a trip to the bar, but we were bonding.
“Dirk offers another valid point.”
“Yeah, every time I tell you I’m going to kick your face in about your stinky butt leakage, you giggle about it. You know what you’re up to. Max fine. Hell, I’d double max fine, if I could.”
“I agree,” Rob said. “Max fine.”
“Yeah, I’m tired of smelling you, too,” Brett said. “Max fine.”
Manrique threw his hands up again. “Fine, but I am going to fart twice as much now on purpose.”
“I’m going to beat you twice as hard!” Ox retorted.
“Okay, next offense,” Rob said, moving things along.
Drew fished another fine out of the fine box. “This is to Chase Headley for referring to himself in the third person. Witness: team. Suggested fine: double max.”
“Whoa now, that’s ridiculous. I’ve never referred to myself in the third person.”
“Yes, you did, Chase. I heard you,” a witness shouted. “I heard you say it after you got back from the big leagues that ‘Chase Headley is only one man’.”
“I’ve never said anything like that.”
Another position player spoke up. “I heard you say that if you were in the big leagues, you would have hit that ball into the upper, upper deck. ‘But here,’—the witness made quotations with his hands—‘Chase Headley has to understand the balls aren’t as good, and Chase Headley will have to settle for standard home runs.’”
“Whatever. You guys are just making stuff up.” And they were, but the crowd was laughing and Chase was the only person on the team to make it to the big leagues from inside the organization. He was a shoo-in for Texas League Player of the Year and was having a phenomenal season—no way we could let that go his head. He also got a big-league paycheck, whereas the rest of us had to be content with our minor league pittance. We couldn’t let him hog it all to himself.
“I heard him do it too,” I said. “I heard him say that ‘Chase Headley knows what the fans want and Chase Headley will deliver.’”
“Wow, Chase, you can take the player