The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [116]
When the inning changed, Drew came in, patted me on the shoulder, and said, “Short memory, dude.” It’s something the best relievers have, but unfortunately, the Brass, who only see you pitch once or twice a year, do not.
Chapter Forty-two
I spent a lot of the night angry, frustrated, and paranoid about my career and what was being written about it. I felt it clear as day because for so much of the year I had let it go. Feeling its return was like being wrapped up in the nostalgic confines of a straitjacket. I blew a great opportunity, and I knew it. It stewed inside me, sickening me. I needed to get it out of my system, but I had no one to unload on. I learned a long time ago teammates don’t want to hear you whine. They have their own issues to deal with, and they know nothing, no words, no medicine will make the cold bite of failure heal faster. I think it’s one reason why so many players tip brews, to help relax, to help forget, to celebrate a better time, or to talk of the of ones to come.
My mother was up. She worked nights and didn’t get off till after midnight. I could call her and talk about the issue. Who knows what she’d tell me, but it was better than talking to myself. I certainly didn’t have anything nice to say.
Standing outside the Frisco hotel in the cool night air, I scrolled to her name in my cell phone, then dialed. The phone rang a couple of times before she picked up.
“Hey, babe! Wow, what’s the date? I thought you’d lost our number,” she answered. The sound of late-night cable television dribbled in the background.
“Hey, Mom.”
“What’s up? How are you?”
I sighed. “I pitched like shit tonight.”
“Oh, well, that sucks.”
“Yeah, I did it in front of the Brass, the decision makers.”
“Well, how bad was it?”
“Home run, single, wild pitch, double, ’nother run. I didn’t even get an out.” I had already forgotten any positives.
“Ouch.”
“Yeah…I’m terrible. It’s nights like tonight when I feel like I’m only ever going to be mediocre.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “I was reading online, and it said you were doing pretty well.”
“Well I was, and I think I made the Brass take notice, but I had this opportunity to—”
“Hey, can you hold on?” she interrupted. “Your brother wants the phone.”
“What?” I said, slightly irritated at the mention of my brother and his demands.
“Just hold on….” She put the phone to her chest, but I could hear muffled conversation between my brother and mother.
“You know, just once I’d like to talk about something that’s going on in my world without him getting in the way,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if anyone was listening or if anyone ever did for that matter. It wouldn’t take much to promote me from irritated to pissed off.
“Alright, hold on!” I heard her strain. Then to me, “Your brother wants to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“I can’t tell you; he has to do it.”
“What am I, the principal?”
“Just hear him, okay?”
“Fine.” My mom transferred the phone to my brother.
“Hey,” came his rough, tarry voice.
“What do you want?”
“Did Mom talk to you?”
“She told me you wanted to speak to me, that’s all.”
Some shifting of the phone, background noise fading away, a sound of a door opening and closing, and then the faint fuzzing of wind over the receiver. “Look, I uh…” He took a deep breath and started up again, “I’ve been going to some meetings, some AA meetings and…Well, I’ve been sober for a few months now and my sponsor told me I should call up the people I’ve hurt, you know, while I was drinking and apologize. He said it was part of the process.”
“Apologize?”
“Well, ask for their forgiveness.”
I’ll admit, I’m afraid of my brother. I thought of him as a monster and talked to him only when I absolutely