The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [115]
“Okay,” he said, “this first guy has a real long swing. I think we can get in on him, so let’s start off there and work away.”
“You’re the boss, Mort. Just tell me what you want and where,” I said, a tad cockily.
“Okay, let’s go with your two seamer, then.”
“Oh, you want Mr. Nasty then, huh?” I said, now fully cocky.
“Mr. What?”
“Mr. Nasty, the old bat eater.”
“Uh…whatever.”
“You got it baby.” I bobbed my head up and down.
He flipped his mask back down over his skullcap, packed his mitt, and retreated to the dish. I dug in on the mound.
Indeed, the first hitter was tall, long armed, and equipped with a formidable piece of lumber. He extended his hands out over the plate for a few mock swings—excellent plate coverage, as promised. Mort, squatting behind the dish with the umpire hovering over his back, flashed a single digit, then swirled it as if he was stirring coffee—a two seamer. I had no objections, nodded my head, and took my hand to the ball cradled in my glove.
I wasn’t rushed to get ready to face this hitter; I wasn’t tired from the previous inning; and I wasn’t even working against arm fatigue. Everything was in my favor, as good as I could ask for. I had my best stuff in an optimal scenario, making for a perfect audition. This encore inning was my chance to impress. I wound, kicked, and snapped my best two seamer into flight, aiming to jam the hitter just as I did in the windswept plains in High Desert. The long-armed, jammable guy with the slow bat turned on my boring bat eater and crushed it well over the left field fence, over the railing that separated the parking lot from the field, and into the darkness of the world outside the game.
I stood on the mound kicking dirt as Long Arms jogged around me, excited, party-themed music blaring over the stadium’s speakers. A volley of fireworks shot up and boomed above us, crackling back to earth in the night sky. Fans roared, some took the opportunity to scream out how much I suck. Mort stood behind the plate with his mask in one hand and a shrug on his shoulders. The umpire handed him a ball, which he tossed out to me about the time Long Arms crossed the plate and clapped hands with his compadres. As he walked into the dugout, I realized he was the guy standing next to Juice’s girl in the outfield during the previous day. I suddenly wished Juice had ripped his long, home-run-hitting arms off.
One pitch, that’s all it was, and I told myself not to worry about it. Everyone gives up home runs, and a home run on the first pitch is a fluke, you know that. Recover and then focus on the next pitch, that’s the key, that’s what shows a true competitor. I tried to manufacture a stable bridge of internal propaganda to take me from a negative to a positive. I could strike out the side and look great now, maybe even better than I would have otherwise looked without the run, the dark stroke of a solo shot serving to bring out the bold, bright, punch outs I’d soon record.
The next hitter singled to left; then I threw a wild pitch, granting him second. Then I gave up a double and he scored. Goddamn it! I screamed internally. Suddenly, my inner arrogant voice was crucifying me. What the fuck are you doing? You are blowing this big chance! I scrambled around the mound, full of anxiety trying to pull out bad thoughts, but there were just too many of them. Just when I thought I’d could still salvage it, was too late.
Randy called time out and made his way from the dugout to the mound, one hand extended to the bullpen. My night was over. I cast my eyes to the stands, in an attempt to search out what those great decision makers thought, hoping to read a face or an expression. KT chatted idly on his cell phone; Grady dragged a pen across a notebook. I could feel the words he penned, words I had no idea about but safely assumed as bad, branding me again. A whole year of numerical success was now a paragraph of doubt based on eyewitness failure.
In a game of getting people to like you, I had missed a prime opportunity,