The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [114]
If there was one person to impress in the organization, one person superior to all others, it was KT. He spent almost all his time with the big-league team and rarely appeared in our part of reality.
The room didn’t quiet down, but the jovial, relaxed tone began to escape as KT walked about the place, shaking hands with a few individuals, like Chase, and greeting others. He walked right past me as if I didn’t exist, and for all intents and purposes, I didn’t. I looked at Ox, whom he also didn’t bother to acknowledge, and said, “I have not spoken to that man one time in my entire career here.”
“Don’t sweat it. He doesn’t talk to a lot of guys. I think I’ve met him once.”
“I just don’t understand why he wouldn’t at least say hello or just point and say my name like Grady. I don’t think he even knows my name.”
“You have to make guys in his situation know your name. It’s too easy for them to ignore you.”
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do this year, Ox? I’ve tried to put up the best numbers I can.”
“Numbers and reports are one thing, bub. There’s no substitute for firsthand impressions.” With that, Ox slapped me on the back and went off to punch Manrique. He was right though, there is no substitute for seeing someone get the job done firsthand. If I pitched well while KT was here, if I could make him remember my name, it could take my career from nonprospect to prospect.
Chapter Forty-one
From my perch in the pen, I searched the stands behind the backstop trying to pick out exactly where the king of the Brass was sitting. He had to be dead center, picking apart the game and all its little details, writing them down in notes to be used in the real-life fantasy draft of the Padres of the future.
That night I got my turn to pitch, as I hoped I would. I clip-clopped down the steps of the bullpen and hit the right field grass on a jog heading in to finish the seventh. When I made it to the mound, I kicked some clay out from where my stride foot lands, licked my fingers, and smacked the rosin bag.
My audition started out well. I K’d the first guy swinging. I felt pretty badass about it because I did it when it mattered with the right people watching. You can always say a pitcher is lucky when he gets hitters to mis-hit a ball, but there is no arguing that K’s are impressive. At least I felt impressive, which was a mistake because it went to my head.
I tried to look elite on the mound, as if I could manufacture some ace-style mound presence. I hear about how big leaguers have a swagger to them, and I tried my best to produce it, even though I wasn’t sure what it was. I think I flexed my bicep while pretending to look at the ball.
Knowing this was a big opportunity, I felt like I was on some baseball pageant, and instead of asking me about my personal interests in baking and world peace, they asked me to get hitters out, not let anyone score, and look pretty doing it. I gave up a single to one of the league’s hottest hitters, and I felt my tiara and scepter start to slip away, but recovered by popping the next hitter out. I escaped the inning, no runs scored.
Escape was not what I wanted, however; I wanted impressive, stellar, and, above all, memorable. The Brass could write this inning up anyway they wanted, that I got lucky or that I made my pitches. I needed something unquestionably good.
Randy sent me out for the next inning. I didn’t expect to return because I wasn’t the typical eighth-inning guy, but I was glad for another chance to prove myself. I trotted out to the mound like some purebred racehorse. When I finished my warm-up pitches, my catcher, a tall blond giant of a guy, walked out to me to discuss my sign preference for a runner on second. “Second sign, shake first?” he asked.
“Yeah, that’s fine.” In spring training we do some other outs-plus-one-oriented bullcrap because the coaches demand